into paying for their safety.
“You’ve been paying for yours, too.” Eli plunks his bowl onto the ground by his feet. There’s red sauce in his beard, but it doesn’t make him look silly. He’s too intense to be silly. “You stop paying, and you’ll learn things you don’t want to learn.”
“And maybe I’ll be the one to teach you,” Nigel says. “I’d like to—”
“Shut your mouth,” Eli orders. Nigel does. Immediately. Which makes me wonder just how mean Eli is underneath the relatively pleasant facade.
Pretty mean, I’m guessing, to keep this bunch in line. Pretty damned mean, and I’ve been pretty stupid to think I live in an idyllic small town where everyone loves one another and gets along and me and thecrazy homeless guys are BFFs because I bring them booze. Maybe I’ve only been “getting along” because I had Marcy and Cane on my side. Maybe, now that I don’t, things will change. Maybe I won’t feel as driven to protect the people of Donaldsonville. Maybe it will be okay to leave them to the Invisibles and get the fuck out of town.
Deedee. Sweet, weird little Deedee with her fuzzy braids and her skinny arms wrapped around my waist and all the need in her eyes. There’s no excuse to abandon her. Especially if D’Ville is even less child friendly than I’ve thought.
“Go home, Annabelle,” Eli says. “We don’t have anything else for you.”
“Nothing else you’re willing to give, anyway,” I say, still doing a decent impression of not being intimidated. “That’s fine, Eli. But you’re not the only one with information. Remember that when things start happening that you don’t understand. Maybe then we can have a real conversation.”
Eli doesn’t nod or raise his eyebrows or look in any way interested in my bluff that’s not a bluff but might as well be.
Fine. Asshole .
I take another step back and mumble “Whatever,” under my breath before turning and picking my way back through the mountain range of trash, gripping the glass handle of the whiskey bottle tight, refusing to look over my shoulder. I won’t show fear, even if every nerve ending in my body is sending out run-for-it flares that sizzle as they shoot up my spine.
I keep a slow, steady pace as I weave around a huddle of half-crushed trucks and a tower of old office furniture one of the Kings must have used to play blocks. There’s no other explanation for why every rusted desk in the junkyard is gathered in one location. I stop and stare at the tower for a long moment, looking for a weak spot, thinking about pulling one of the desks out and sending it crashing down just to be childishly vindictive. I’ve had enough whiskey for that to seem like a good idea. But I’ve also had enough whiskey to be too tired to bother.
“Fuck you, desks.” I flip off the tower. It’s easier to be angry at a bunch of inanimate objects than bitter and sad and confused by my failed attempt at information gathering.
It wasn’t a failed attempt. You learned that Marcy killed her dad and her kid, Cane and Abe might be crooked, and the Junkyard Kings are dangerous assholes who find it amusing to scare the shit out of the hand that’s fed them. Or drunk them. Or whatever.
And Eli knows something about that cave—that it’s dangerous, bad news—but won’t spill the details.
“So many good things.” I weave on my feet as I twist the cap off the whiskey.
Another drink is starting to sound like a good idea. A few more swigs and maybe I’ll be able to stumble home and pass out instead of looking for Tucker or answers or thinking about all the scary stuff that’s gone down today. It will all still be here tomorrow at 6:00 a.m. When I’ll have to drag my ass out of bed and tell Hitch I’m a failure. It’s okay to forget.
It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay. I repeat the mantra as I tip the bottle back with both hands and chug cheap whiskey.
It only burns a bit. I’m good at chugging things. It was
“You’ve been paying for yours, too.” Eli plunks his bowl onto the ground by his feet. There’s red sauce in his beard, but it doesn’t make him look silly. He’s too intense to be silly. “You stop paying, and you’ll learn things you don’t want to learn.”
“And maybe I’ll be the one to teach you,” Nigel says. “I’d like to—”
“Shut your mouth,” Eli orders. Nigel does. Immediately. Which makes me wonder just how mean Eli is underneath the relatively pleasant facade.
Pretty mean, I’m guessing, to keep this bunch in line. Pretty damned mean, and I’ve been pretty stupid to think I live in an idyllic small town where everyone loves one another and gets along and me and thecrazy homeless guys are BFFs because I bring them booze. Maybe I’ve only been “getting along” because I had Marcy and Cane on my side. Maybe, now that I don’t, things will change. Maybe I won’t feel as driven to protect the people of Donaldsonville. Maybe it will be okay to leave them to the Invisibles and get the fuck out of town.
Deedee. Sweet, weird little Deedee with her fuzzy braids and her skinny arms wrapped around my waist and all the need in her eyes. There’s no excuse to abandon her. Especially if D’Ville is even less child friendly than I’ve thought.
“Go home, Annabelle,” Eli says. “We don’t have anything else for you.”
“Nothing else you’re willing to give, anyway,” I say, still doing a decent impression of not being intimidated. “That’s fine, Eli. But you’re not the only one with information. Remember that when things start happening that you don’t understand. Maybe then we can have a real conversation.”
Eli doesn’t nod or raise his eyebrows or look in any way interested in my bluff that’s not a bluff but might as well be.
Fine. Asshole .
I take another step back and mumble “Whatever,” under my breath before turning and picking my way back through the mountain range of trash, gripping the glass handle of the whiskey bottle tight, refusing to look over my shoulder. I won’t show fear, even if every nerve ending in my body is sending out run-for-it flares that sizzle as they shoot up my spine.
I keep a slow, steady pace as I weave around a huddle of half-crushed trucks and a tower of old office furniture one of the Kings must have used to play blocks. There’s no other explanation for why every rusted desk in the junkyard is gathered in one location. I stop and stare at the tower for a long moment, looking for a weak spot, thinking about pulling one of the desks out and sending it crashing down just to be childishly vindictive. I’ve had enough whiskey for that to seem like a good idea. But I’ve also had enough whiskey to be too tired to bother.
“Fuck you, desks.” I flip off the tower. It’s easier to be angry at a bunch of inanimate objects than bitter and sad and confused by my failed attempt at information gathering.
It wasn’t a failed attempt. You learned that Marcy killed her dad and her kid, Cane and Abe might be crooked, and the Junkyard Kings are dangerous assholes who find it amusing to scare the shit out of the hand that’s fed them. Or drunk them. Or whatever.
And Eli knows something about that cave—that it’s dangerous, bad news—but won’t spill the details.
“So many good things.” I weave on my feet as I twist the cap off the whiskey.
Another drink is starting to sound like a good idea. A few more swigs and maybe I’ll be able to stumble home and pass out instead of looking for Tucker or answers or thinking about all the scary stuff that’s gone down today. It will all still be here tomorrow at 6:00 a.m. When I’ll have to drag my ass out of bed and tell Hitch I’m a failure. It’s okay to forget.
It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay. I repeat the mantra as I tip the bottle back with both hands and chug cheap whiskey.
It only burns a bit. I’m good at chugging things. It was
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