Blood on the Bayou by Stacey Jay Page A

diseased gums and rotted teeth and I try not to shudder. “She didn’t want us messing with her baby. The day you moved in down the street, she was up in here with that bulldog face of hers warning us to stay away from you. Said she was going to bringdown the wrath of hellfire upon our place in the sun if we didn’t keep you safe.”
    “But she ain’t here anymore,” Nigel says, a shade meaner than I’d like. “Guess we can be as bad as we want to be.”
    I look to Eli—the only one of the Kings who seems like a decent excuse for a human being—but he has his face in his chili, slurping up the sauce at the bottom of his bowl. No help coming from there. Guess he’s done offering me good-natured warnings. I grit my teeth and think uncharitable things about him and men in power in general. They always turn a blind eye when the going gets tough.
    “Nah. We love our little Lee. She’s good to us.” Stan hugs me closer, pressing me against his sweat-soaked fat rolls. I can feel the stink of him seeping into my skin and want to shove him away. But I don’t. I have to watch myself. Closely.
    That feeling of potential danger is stronger now. It lifts the hairs on the back of my neck, crawls skeeter feet along my arms. It’s the feminine instinct kicking in, reminding me that I’m the smaller, weaker member of the species. Modern society tells women we have equality with men—and some women never have cause not to believe it—but in moments like these, when you’re a woman alone and a man’s good nature is the only thing keeping you safe and you know his “good nature” isn’t that good, the fear kicks in. These are the times when the threat alone keeps you quiet and submissive and in your place.
    A place Marcy didn’t want me to be. So much sothat she came to the dump to make sure these men never gave me a reason to be afraid. It makes me love her even more, and I swear to myself that I won’t betray her to Hitch or anyone else.
    I stand, throwing off Stan’s arm. “Thanks for the chili.”
    “You didn’t eat none.”
    “I’m not into rat.” I grab my purse and the bottle that still has a few inches of amber liquid at the bottom. I’m done drinking, but I want the Kings to know they don’t get to keep my leftovers anymore. The bastards.
    “It’s not rat. It’s pig,” Nigel says. “And we know you like them. That pig boyfriend of yours was over at your place just last night.”
    “But he don’t sleep there no more.” Harlan speaks up for the first time, in a soft voice that, despite the heat, makes me shiver. I’ve always thought of Harlan as the sweet, slow, silent type. But he doesn’t sound sweet now. He sounds eager. Hopeful. About things I know I don’t want him to be hopeful about.
    My feet tingle, itching to run. Instead, I take a slow step back and then another, resisting the urge. If I run, I’ll never be able to stop. I’ll have to run by this stretch of road every day and these hard-eyed men with their stink and their mean will know they’ve won.
    “No, he doesn’t.” Nigel shifts his belly and loops his hands together underneath. “Maybe she don’t like pig, either.”
    “Or maybe pigs don’t like her.” The man next to Harlan—Jake or Juke or something that starts witha J —smiles, showcasing a mouth full of black spotted teeth.
    “Could be.” Nigel clucks his tongue. “That ain’t good, girl. This ain’t a good town for people on the wrong side of the pigs.”
    “Seems like you rats do okay.” I sound tougher than I’m feeling.
    “We pay for our safety,” Eli says, speaking up for the first time since the vibe in the yard started going sour.
    He’s got to be kidding. Cane and Abe wouldn’t take graft from the Junkyard Kings. They’re not crooked. The internal affairs investigation found nothing. They were led astray by false evidence when they arrested Fernando, not taking the law into their own hands. And they’re certainly not strong-arming people