Page 38 of Savage Prince
It’s not like I could truly forget the number, even though I’ve long since deleted it. Then again, it’s not like Elijah Devereux has probably started answering his phone on the regular. Some things never change.
Gravel crunches under my Bronco’s tires as I brake and make the right-hand turn down the dirt road that leads me to a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Moss blankets the oldNo Trespassingsigns, but Elijah has added a few new ones.
We Don’t Call911.Beneath the metal sign hangs an old AK-47.
Classy, Eli. Also, very truthful. Out here, people don’t trust the police as much as they trust their own guns and ammo.
Authority is always met with suspicion, and it’s much easier to get rid of a body in the swamp than to explain to the sheriff what happened after the fact.
The gators in these parts are well fed, and not just by fish.
Shockingly, the chain-link fence is partially open. Though, I suppose it is early on a Saturday morning, which means that folks around here are working on their cars and might need parts from the local scrap yard.
Devereux Recycling, formerly Devereux Junk, is where I welded that piece that sold for fifty thousand dollars.
Looking at the rows of cars with busted windshields and flat tires, it’s hard to believe this place is even worth that much. But it is. Elijah has made damn sure of it.
I drive through the fence and note the dogs in the kennel alongside the trailer where, if things haven’t changed that much, Elijah still lives. The lights in the trailer are off, but that doesn’t mean anything. He could be anywhere. Elijah doesn’t exactly follow the rules of polite society, including when one should sleep versus be awake.
The dogs stand at attention, salivating as they watch me drive by, and there’s no way in hell I’d want to face one of them out in the open. I doubt they remember me, if they’re even the same pair of Cane Corsos I remember from a few years back. Mean as hell, but twice as loyal.
Once upon a time, the dogs that ran free through here at night listened to me when I gave orders. But I’m not that girl anymore, even though a sense of belonging grips me as I drive farther.
The rays of the brilliant sunrise glint off the partially stripped cars for as far as the eye can see as I maneuver my Bronco toward the big multicolored metal building about a hundred yards away.
Strangely enough, I’m still more comfortable in scrap yards and around chopped cars than I am at charity events toasting with champagne. It’s the hard truth I’ve been trying to whitewash from my life, but I guess your soul always knows where it comes from.
I’m definitely tripping a few different early-warning systems as I drive through, even though it seems like this place is deserted.
Elijah is too paranoid not to know everything that’s happening on his property at any given time. He also doesn’t care if people call him a conspiracy theorist or a crazy motherfucker. Basically, he’s never given a single damn what people think of him. Something I wish I’ve been able to embrace.
Instead, for me, I equate people liking me with caring about me. And if they don’t care about me, somehow that makes me worthless. I’ve had enough feelings of worthlessness drilled into my psyche for years that I’m not sure I’ll ever shake it.
And all of that worthlessness comes from out here, where the scent of decay is more homey than apple pie.
Finally, I reach the metal building and find the massive overhead doors are down, but that doesn’t mean a whole lot either. I park my Bronco and throw the emergency brake. I’m not sure why, but if he gets it into his head to try to tow my car out of here, it’ll at least make it a touch more difficult. Not much, considering how good Elijah is with a slim jim, but it’s something.
This is the kind of people I come from. The kind who can steal a car in less than sixty seconds, and with fewer incidents than in that Nicolas Cage movie.
I wait for a few minutes, wondering if the door will open or someone is going to come out with a shotgun, but it doesn’t happen.
Elijah must be up and about, at least I assume, based on the faint whiff of hot metal in the air. I shut the door quietly and practically tiptoe to the overhang of the building before gripping the silver handle and easing the door open.
He’s waiting for me with an angle grinder in his right hand. “And here I’d given up hope on you ever showing your face here again.”
“How’d you know it was me?”
“I got more cameras than Fort Knox, but your exhaust gave you away first. You’ve still got a leak.” He shoves his safety glasses up into his sandy-blond hair. “Should’ve let me fix it when I offered.”
“I was—”
“Too busy. I remember. You’re too busy for a lot of things, Tempe. Including anyone that doesn’t fit with your new life.”
The stab of guilt slices clean through me like my brother’s buck knife through a gator’s hide, but I cover it with defensiveness.
“Excuse me for trying to make something of myself.”
His navy gaze turns dark, almost black. “I thought you already were something, but I guess I was wrong.”
