“Do you ever shut up?” she said, annoyed.
“Yeah, I do this thing when I pass out where my mouth stops running,” I said.
“No, actually it doesn’t. Yesterday you were commentating like you were an announcer over some sort of competition,” she huffed.
“Probably American Ninja Warrior, always thought I’d be good at that.” I adjusted so it didn’t feel like I would crack my tailbone under my own weight. “Well, now that the pleasantries are out of the way, are you finally going to tell me your name?”
“Names aren’t important,” she said.
“Sure they are. My name is Samuel Clearwater, but my friends call me Preppy,” I said, although I was pretty sure I’d already introduced myself to this annoying bitch. “If you’re not going to tell me your name you can at least describe your tits to me. Bra and nipple size if you please.”
There was a brief pause. “He’s not going to kill you, you know.”
“That’s…disap-pointing?” I said, although it came out as a question. I didn’t want to die, but being tortured every single day wasn’t exactly on my bucket list either.
“Chop believes in taking lives,” she said, stating the obvious.
“I kind of got that. He been hitting you in the head?”
“No, you don’t get it. There is more power in taking lives than there is in ending them. By keeping us alive and trapped down here like rats, he dictates how we live and if and when we die. And if a situation arises where he can use us, he’ll toss our gaunt bodies at the feet of whoever he’s trying to intimidate by showing them how much power he really has.”
“That sounds like a lot of work.”
“I think you had it wrong when you told him that you’re more fucked up than him,” she said with a sad sigh. “Pray. Meditate. Concentrate on what life was like before you came here, because Samuel,” she paused. “Because you’re never going to see that life again.”
I didn’t argue with her. Not just because she’d been there for years and I thought arguing with her would be a waste of energy, but because somewhere deep inside I knew she was right.
She went silent shortly after that, and I assumed she fell asleep in whatever hole she was placed in. Without a lot left to keep my mind from torture and death, I closed my eyes and used the simple meditation breathing technique that Mirna had taught me. I took a few deep breaths, well, as deep as I could without choking to death, and I tried to focus on what my life looked like before I was shot. I was happy-ish. I had family. I had respect. What I didn’t have. Was HER. Even when I pictured the cast of characters in my life, King, Doe, Bear, and Grace there was someone else standing further off in the distance, overshadowing the people standing right in front of me.
She was overlooking the bay with her back to me. Her dark hair blowing around in the wind. She turned around to face me just as I got close, her dark eyes softening when she saw me, her smile tugging at the corners of her plump lips. When she spoke it made my heart beat faster and I drifted off into a state of semi-consciousness, surrounded by her words echoing in every corner of my brain over and over again on an endless loop of regret.
Keep me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
PREPPY
When the doorbell rang I thought it was Billy, who was supposed to be dropping off some fresh blue crab before I headed out to see Dre. I wanted to take her mind off Mirna and what better way to do that than a nice homemade crab dinner, followed by my face between her legs, and my tongue deep inside her pussy, for an undetermined amount of time?
When I opened the door, it wasn’t Billy. It wasn’t even a man. A woman stood on my porch, She had shoulder length bleach-blond hair and she smelled of hairspray. Her glossy lips were painted bright pink. She stared up at me with big golden eyes like she was waiting for me to say something. “You’re the one that knocked on my door, lady,” I said, wondering what the fuck was keeping Billy. The woman adjusted the short sleeved jacket of her white pant suite, gold bangle bracelets slid up and down on her wrist when she moved, clinking together loudly.
When she didn’t say anything and continued to stare up at me, I raised the volume of my voice and spoke slowly, “Can I help you?” I wasn’t even sure if she’d blinked. I knew I was a sight to behold but god-fucking-damn lady, I had places to be. Over her shoulder was a shiny white Cadillac SUV. The front window was tinted dark so I couldn’t see anyone in it, but I could hear the engine running.
The sunlight glinted off of the humungous rock on her left hand and I flinched when the beam of light shot me directly in the fucking eye. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, moving her hand behind her back. “And yes, yes you can help me. Although, the reason I’m here is because I didn’t help you.”
“But let me guess, Jesus can help me?” I asked, leaning up against the door frame. “’Cause I gotta tell you, lady, that you should stop before you even start ’cause you’re waisting your time with me. It don’t matter what kind of god you’re selling today, I’m not buying it. I don’t need to go to church to know I’m a sinner and whatever god up there that might exist is fully aware of who I am and hasn’t struck me down just yet. So the way I see it, me and God have a good thing going and you know how that saying goes, don’t fix it, if it ain’t broken.”
I went to close the door and call Billy to see when I could expect him, when the woman’s hand shot out and grabbed onto it before it could click shut. “Samuel! Wait!” she shouted, and that’s when the recognition slammed into me head first.
It couldn’t be.
But it was.
I opened the door again, taking another look at the woman in front of me. “Mom?”
“Yes, Samuel,” she said with a small smile. Happy I recognized her. “It’s me.”
I’d been angry a time or two in my life. I’d been confused. I’d been hurt. But I’d never been more murderously irate than I was right then. I balled my fists. The heat of my sudden rage threatened to boil me alive. “Get the fuck off my property,” I hissed, taking a step out onto the porch. She had no choice but to drop down to the first step or be trampled. I glared down at her with all the hate that had been festering in my soul for years. “I thought you were dead.”
“I’m not,” she said, her hands shaking.
“Shame.”
“I…I deserve that,” she said, glancing back at the SUV where an older man in a sport coat got out of the car and buttoned his jacket. “Mitch, it’s okay. We’re just talking,” she called out to him.
“No, we’re not. Leave. NOW!” I demanded.
“That’s my husband, Mitch,” my mom said, pointing back to the man.