From the outside, the place was even worse than Rose had expected. The entrance to the long dirt driveway was hidden by pines and kudzu, and she drove right by it on the first pass. Once she was finally on it, her wheels spun, kicking up gravel and wet red mud from the recent rain. Good thing her Tercel had already seen its better day.
She winced at the sound of dogs barking as she made the sharp turn that led to the double-wide trailer. She hated dogs, having been run up a tree by one as a kid. But if there was one truth of the South, it was that where there were red dirt roads and trailers, there were dogs, and usually more than one. In this case, there were several kennels full of them, all pitbulls she was willing to bet.
No, actually, Rose wasn't willing to bet anything. Betting had gotten her into this mess in the first place. She gritted her teeth and parked as close to the lopsided wooden deck as she could, hoping to minimize her walk through the red mud.
Just a few hours of house-cleaning in questionable company,
she told herself,
and this will all be over.
She turned off the car, tossed her keys in her pink-and-white striped satchel, and took a deep breath, reminding herself how much she loved her Uncle Jack. It had recently come to light that he had a bit of a gambling problem, but Rose was willing to wave it off as the stress of her grandmother's recent passing. Grandma had been Rose's legal guardian since age four, but Uncle Jack had been Grandma's baby boy until the day she died, and he'd taken her death hard.
Rose was just glad they still had each other. Uncle Jack was a jolly man, and he'd always been good to her. She should be happy to help him out. He'd even been the one to insist that she go to the local branch of the university full time instead of trying to juggle work and school; and since he was a construction manager, he made enough to support them both while she studied. As long as he stayed away from the pool tables and poker machines and scratch-off tickets. And dog fights, too, from the looks of this man's yard.
Sighing in resignation, she opened the door and stuck one foot gingerly out to test the wetness of the ground outside. She immediately regretted it. A pitbull, possibly white-furred but now orange with dirt, came out of nowhere, growling and snapping at her exposed heel. With a shriek, she drew her leg back and slammed the door. Now what was she supposed to do?
She no sooner had the thought when the storm door burst open on the deck.
"Get yer ass up here, you mangy old bitch!" yelled a huge figure from the door.
Rose had assumed the owner would be as revolting as his property, and she was not mistaken. He was tall, stout, and barrel-chested, and older than her Uncle Jack. The top of his head was bald, but a long, gray beard compensated for what he was missing up top. He chewed on a cigar and wore an army-green wifebeater, but the garment didn't fully cover his paunch. His faded work pants hung too low on his hips, an obvious result of not fitting around his waistline, and she was sure he'd be showing some serious plumber's butt from behind.
It was clear she was in for a long afternoon.
"And you get yer ass on up here, too, little lady!" he called, waving her in. "Dogs ain't gonna hurt ya, not with me here. Come on, get on inside 'fore it starts rainin' again."
Rose grabbed her satchel and eased herself out into the mud, her sneakers squelching as she tiptoed across what passed for his front yard. The dog at his side whined impatiently, and the ones in the kennels went nuts. She could practically
hear
their teeth in their furious barking, and the chain-link kennel walls rattled and screeched under their attack.
"And kick them shoes off here," the old man was saying over the noise. "Ain't no sense in trackin' mud through my kitchen."
They couldn't agree more on that account, since she would be mopping said kitchen within the hour. She hoped he wasn't the type to have dead cockroach carcasses lying along the baseboards, but she felt she already knew the answer to that one.
She toed out of her sneakers, keeping one eye on the restless dog at his side. Then she chanced a glance inside to find the interior was dated but relatively tidy. Of course, 'tidy' didn't mean 'not dirty'. Her own bedroom at home was a testament to that.
"Well, don't just stand there, darlin'," he barked at her. "Come on in."
He didn't move out of the way, though. He held the dog's broken chain in one hand and held the storm door open for her with the other, so that she had to squeeze between his big belly and the doorjamb, the pitbull sniffing her crotch the whole time. She blushed as her breasts brushed against the old man's paunch.
"Thatta girl," he said with a chuckle. He let the dog go and swatted it outside with a smack to its rear end. Then he closed and locked the door and turned to give her a predictable leer. "You know why you're here, I reckon?" He puffed on his cigar, his eyes freely roaming over her.
Rose crossed her arms over her chest, for all the good it did her. She was very petite — only five feet tall and barely a hundred pounds — but her breasts were a full C-cup, and her arms did little to cover them, only pushed them together. She suddenly wished she hadn't put her long, strawberry blonde hair up in a ponytail. That would have afforded some extra coverage from his lecherous stare. But she couldn't see the point in cleaning house with her hair down. "My Uncle Jack sent me," she said, looking anywhere but at the redneck barbarian in front of her. "He said he owed you some money, and you'd agreed to let me work it off for him."
"That I did," he said with a big grin. "You're a pretty little thing, ain't ya? You sure you're related to Jack Stevens?"
"Yes, sir. He's..." Rose swallowed nervously, wishing he'd stop checking her out. "He's my uncle. My mom's brother. But I never really knew my mom." Why was she telling him all that? She clamped her mouth shut.
"Aww, ain't that a shame," he replied. "Your Uncle Jack's not so lucky, you know." He took the cigar from his mouth with big, fat fingers and started walking towards her, licking his lips. "Guess that makes me the lucky one, eh?"
"Um... I guess so." Rose walked backwards away from him until she felt the edge of the kitchen table hit her bottom. "So... should I get started then?"
"Oho!" he exclaimed. He reached down and around her, and Rose froze, but he was only putting his cigar out in the ashtray behind her. Still, once it was out, he didn't offer to move away. He smelled like stale smoke and coffee that had been sitting on the warmer too long. At least he didn't smell of alcohol. "You're an eager one, eh? I like that. I figured you might want a beer first, though." He gave her a wink. "You're gonna need something to take the edge off, if you know what I mean."
"I don't think that would be a good idea," Rose said. She tried to lean away from him, but the table was right behind her, and he had her trapped. "I want to make sure I do a good job."
