Page 72 of Dreadful
I tilt my head, looking him over. Every answer strips away one layer only to uncover another one underneath. The trick is figuring out which ones are truth.
“Do you always stay for two weeks when someone invites you over?”
His mouth pulls into a sleazy little smirk. “Let's just say your ma wouldn't let me leave.” He waggles his eyebrows.
I stare at him until the smirk dies on its own. “Why didn't you leave Coco's room last night?”
He lifts his shoulders as much as the restraints allow. “She told me to stay put.”
“All that noise? Gunshots, breaking glass, the whole fucking house going dark. You weren't curious?”
He sniffs and looks over his shoulder toward the window. “Nah. Killed the cat and all that.”
A low hum vibrates in my throat.
“Or maybe you knew it was gonna happen.” I tap the gun against my thigh a few times. “You talking to the MC?”
His attention snaps back to me. “Which one?”
I hold his stare. “You tell me.”
Troy exhales hard and tries to roll his neck, but the angle of the chair doesn't give him much room. “Look, kid. I didn't talk to anyone about anything.”
“And I should just—what? Take your word for it?”
“I've known your ma for over two decades,” he says with a scoff. “You think this is the first time I've seen some fucked-up shit with her? I've been in the thick of it with her.”
Finally, a reaction from him. I tuck his reaction away. “Then why are you here?”
His brows pull together. “We already covered this.”
“No. You told me you’re fucking my mother.” I casually point the gun at him with a shrug. “I asked why you’re still here.”
Something flickers across his face before he masks it with a scowl.
There you are, Troy.
He arches his neck back, chin jutting out as something that looks a hell of a lot like pride pulls his mouth tight. “Coco asked me to stay.”
“And you always do what Coco asks?”
A humorless laugh slips out of him. “You're here, aren't you?”
Well, fuck me.
Silence bleeds out between us as we look at one another. The motel air conditioner rattles beneath the window, kicking out air that smells like mildew and old cigarettes.
I gesture with the gun around the room. “Shitty place to go, man.”
His gaze drops to the plastic beneath him, indifference tugging at one side of his mouth. “There are worse places.”
"Do you want to die?"
"Not especially."
I sigh, expectation wrapping around my throat. Apparently we're doing this the hard way.
My fist connects with his mouth, but I pull the punch before I can do any real damage. His head snaps sideways anyway, the chair legs scraping against the carpet.
