Page 20 of Vile Bastards
Actually, once we leave Prescott and head down Marcola Road, we cross right over it. Even with a bridge underneath us, even though I don’t look out the window, I know it’s there.
I shudder all over.
“I feel pathetic and weak.”
“You are nothing of the sort,” Bohnes assures me, glancing briefly in my direction. “You’re human. I know that’s hard to believe. I, too, struggle with the sentiment.” I turn to look at him, but he isn’t smiling. He isn’t joking. “Just accept that most people in your position would be enervated, sobbing messes, quivering in bed, popping pills, and searching for therapists. If the worst that happens is that you cry or have a panic attack, it’s a win.”
I don’t have a response to that.
I turn to look out the window as we pass by fields and copses of trees. In the back of my mind, I can’t help but think about Lemon and the house that Aspen bought for her. What’s going to happen to it? Why that house? Why that spot?
I’d think—based on both Lemon’s and Aspen’s personalities—that a condo in the middle of downtown Eugene would suit them better. A mansion on McKenzie View. A house in the West Hills. Any or all of the above. Mostly, just not an old house with acreage and trees. That’s basically the opposite of anything Lemon would ever want.
I reach out and turn on the radio—KMZI 66.6, what the fuck else did you think I was going to listen to?
Wolfman is on, and he’s in the middle of a rant (KMZI hosts do little else but rant). I close my eyes and prop my chin on a fist, letting his familiar voice wash over me. At this point, the sounds of the DJs’ voices are like lullabies to me.
“Can you believe it? The foot found in the ocean off the coast of Florence has officially been linked to Ash Kelly, the black sheep of Mayor Kelly’s family. What are the odds of that? My bet is that one of Mayor Kelly’s many, many rivals took out their personal revenge on his son. Either that, or one of the people involved in the copious lawsuits that have been lobbed at Ash Kelly over the years finally got tired of waiting for justice.
“On top of all this, the mayor is latched onto the idea of pushing out the urban growth boundary by several miles, cutting into agricultural and forested lands just outside our little slice of hell known as the southside.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of having Prescott crapped on. Now, we’re set to lose two parks, and a shitload of green space to make room for more hideous Archer Realty developments. How does this benefit those of us who’ve survived in the city’s slums for generations?
“Here’s the answer to that: it doesn’t.”
Bohnes shuts the radio off, and I open my eyes to look over at him.
“You don’t need to be worrying about that tonight,” he explains, but something’s just occurred to me. I wonder if that house—Lemon’s house, that is—is outside the UGB? What if it was? What if this has something to do with her death? I might be reaching here, but it’s a possibility.
I don’t mention it to Bohnes just then. Instead, I’m watching as we turn on the curvy gravel road that leads to Alexei’s temporary abode. From what I hear, he woke up in the hospital, tore the IVs from his arms and left a blood trail straight down the hallway and out the door.
Bohnes spirited him away before any of his mobster buddies could find him.
We park in front of the warehouse, Bohnes shuts the car off, and then we sit there in the dark and quiet together for a moment.
“This is a hair more involved than we anticipated at the beginning.”
“It really is, isn’t it?” I ask, and then I’m opening the door and crunching across the icy gravel toward the door.
Alexei opens it before I get a chance to knock, and his eyes, they flare with … something? But he turns away too quickly for me to get a read on it, and I follow him in. I feel the urge to reach up and yank at the neck of my hoodie; I’m sweating and I don’t know why. Cause you’re wearing way too many freaking layers, eh Scar?
But nah. It’s Alexei. His looks, his presence, his actions.
“I hear you saved my life.” It’s meant to come out snarky, all Scarlett Force TM, and all that. Signature. On-brand. Instead, it’s more like a strangled whisper.
Alexei is standing before me dressed in elbow-length gloves, a white t-shirt that clings to a lean, sweat-soaked chest and sculpted abs, and blue denim that’s painted over his strong legs. He’s breathing fairly hard, and the entire place smells of bleach. It’s quite clear based on the state of the warehouse that he’s been cleaning. The corrugated metal walls shine, the shower door is absurdly streak-free, and the countertop on the lone bank of cabinets is clean enough to fuck on.
