DIRTY LAUNDRY

Charlotte, in her mid-thirties, wore a flowered spaghetti-strap shirt, cut-off jeans, and scuffed brown cowboy boots. Her black hair, tied in a loose bun, whipped in the wind as she guided her forest-green Suzuki King quad. Tires crunched over the gravel of a desolate gas station. The yellow trailer rattled and clanged loudly behind her. She steered into the lot, where a small, sun-bleached sign reading Debby's Laundromat hung beside the gas station.

Inside, the washing machines sat open, only one dryer humming. Charlotte dropped the trash bags of soiled clothes into the machines and grabbed the soap. Once the machines were full, she pulled out a $20 bill and headed into the gas station. When the door opened, the smell of warm pizza dough wafted out.

Her friend Martha, behind the deli counter, looked up. “Hey, Charlotte! How are you? How’s the kids?”

“They’re great. Shyanne’s volleyball captain. Bryce is well… being a normal teenage boy. Eats like a horse,” Charlotte said, tossing a quick grin over her shoulder as she grabbed a Dr. Pepper from the fridge.

Martha laughed. “Ah, my boys were like that! All four of them!”

Charlotte nodded to Darcy at the register. “I’ll need quarters too, Darcy. Laundry day.”

Darcy handed over two rolls of quarters. “Here you go, dear. Have a great day.”

“Gotta go, Martha! I have to get this laundry done before the kids get home.”

Outside, six Harleys roared up. Riders dismounted, helmets still on. One woman, red lipstick and a cat-eyed gaze, swept past Charlotte’s King quad before entering the store with a partner, chuckling under their breath.

Charlotte’s fingers tightened around the rolls of quarters. Just get the laundry done. Don’t worry about how it looks.

She stepped inside the laundromat, dropping coins as she reached inside the roll. The quarters clinked across the tile floor, echoing sharply in the quiet space.

Suddenly, a gunshot cracked the air.

Charlotte hit the floor, hammering heart, sliding beneath a counter. Her body shook and her hands trembled as she fumbled for her phone tucked in her bra. A loud ringing filled her ears but she bore down past it.

“911, what's your emergency?”

“There’s a robbery out here in Holbrook. I'm at Debby’s Laundromat…”

Her breath came in short, shallow gasps as glass shattered next door and Martha screamed.

“There's about six bikers here… they have guns. Please… get Hamilton over here.”

She hung up, ears straining for every shuffle and thud. Her pulse pounded as she crawled toward the back of the laundromat, her muscles tense. Hoping the bikers wouldn't discover her, she froze as she heard shattering glass from next door.

A crunch of gravel sounded outside. Shadows shifted against the laundry doors. Charlotte's heart dropped.

Suddenly, Sheriff Hamilton appeared in the doorway, gun raised.

“Charlotte. Get out of here – now.”

“Call for backup, you idiot! Don’t be a hero!” Charlotte hissed, pressing her back to the wall underneath the counter.

Immediately, Hamilton made the report on his radio before entering the laundromat. “I’m saving your ass, and you’re ungrateful? Why haven’t you called me back?”

“You’re bringing this up now?”

“Charlotte! Our daughter’s birthday was last week!”

More Harleys arrived. Hamilton shoved a dryer against the door to barricade it.

“We have to get Martha and Darcy out of here,” Charlotte whispered, rising slowly as she tossed her quarters into another dryer to mask their footsteps.

“Back here.”

Slipping through a back door, Charlotte moved past the electrical boxes toward the staff room. Martha’s weeping drifted from the door leading back to the gas station.

She mouthed, ‘There,’ pointing to the door.

Hamilton pulled her back into the electrical closet as he pulled out his radio to get an ETA of reinforcements.

“We don't have time, Hamilton! I heard a gunshot and Martha screaming and crying. If one of those bastards shot one of them you best believe I have a strap, officer. Legally carried.”

Hamilton gave a micro smirk before reflecting back to the logistics of the situation. “Bare minimum, we have some time before reinforcements arrive. We need to make sure they don't know we're here or they will bolt. If they did hurt Martha or Darcy, I don't want them to escape.”

“Where's your squad car, Sheriff?”

“Parked at the Senior Center.”

Charlotte tip-toed back into the staff room and saw a bathroom attached. Quietly, she opened drawers and cabinets, to gather medical supplies, then returned to Hamilton to show him what she had found.

“We need to get Martha and Darcy at least in here so we can stop any bleeding.”

“I don't know how we're going to do that without being detected, Charlotte.”

“We need to try, Hamilton, they're my friends. They've done a lot for me and the kids. Please.” Her voice strained on the last word, as though it hurt.

Hamilton stared inside Charlotte’s empathetic doe-like, hazel eyes. One of her eyes was greener than the other, but each held a strong intensity of emotion. Hamilton felt himself breathe sharply as his chest tightened. “Find the light switch, we need to turn off the lights in here.”

Turning off the staff room light, Charlotte crouched. Wincing, sweat beading down her brow, as she barely cracked the door open. The chaos of shuffling boots and barking orders carried from the front, piquing Charlotte’s adrenaline.

Martha sat on the floor nearby, Darcy in her lap. Blood stained Darcy’s shoulder. Her eyes drifted in and out of consciousness. Charlotte tried to signal Martha, but the buckle of a biker’s boot gleamed near the doorway.

Startled, Charlotte shrank back into the darkness. Hamilton stepped forward, snaking his arm through the top shelf behind merchandise. His gun slipped past two boxes of cigarettes and pressed against the biker’s neck.

“Make a sound, or I shoot. Step aside. Comply, and you won’t go to jail tonight.”

The biker stiffened, glancing rapidly around, then stepped back. Charlotte motioned for Martha to help move Darcy as quietly as possible. As soon as Martha lifted her, Darcy let out a small cry.

A nearby biker, packing up merchandise, froze. His eyes flicked toward his brother, then to the shelf, realizing it was a hidden door behind the register. Hamilton pressed his advantage, badge flashing behind the shelf, gun still trained.

Before the other biker could react, sirens and flashing pierced the chaos. The frustrated biker sighed, raising up his hands. The rest of the gang attempted to mount their bikes, but within minutes the entire police department swarmed.

***

Hamilton shook his head as he approached Charlotte, who leaned against her quad, arms crossed. Lights flashed across her face.

“Barbara said you lost your job. Your car’s been down for almost four months. Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“I… thought I could handle it,” she admitted, shrugging.

“You could’ve called.”

Charlotte laughed softly. She swung her leg over the quad and revved the engine. The sound cut through the chaos.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Vivian Montgomery is a writer based in California and a mother pursuing a bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing at Full Sail University. Her work focuses on character-driven storytelling and immersive worldbuilding. “Dirty Laundry” is her first published story.