"Hold up," Roper barked, stopping Jenner in his tracks. "Crow's got the right idea. You wanna hear something to help keep you warm at night, Jenny?"
Jenner opened his mouth but closed it without speaking, knowing that the question was rhetorical. He glanced down at the three men around the table, their shit-eating grins causing acid to bubble in his gut. He hated them. He hated all of them. He wanted to see them burned alive.
"We finally got a fix on your boy," Roper said, sliding into a empty seat and taking another slug of his beer. He kept that sip in his mouth, at least. "The big stupid one. The one who offed our Rig. He's got some fight with some shithead. Thinks he's gonna waltz in there, one-two and done."
Now, Roper looked up at Jenner, his eyes cold and steely and hateful. Jenner fought back the urge to return that hate twofold. It wouldn't do him any favors, he knew. Roper leaned forward, a grin on his gnarled face.
"But he don't know," Roper said, his voice a sadistic sing-song. "He don't know that his opponent is willing to fight dirty for a big enough paycheck. That's right, Jenny. We're gonna have that boy skewered in the first round. He's gonna fall right on his gypsy ass, and he's never gettin' up again."
Jenner's mind raced. This is it, he thought. This is what I need. He kept his face set, impassive, while inside his heart raced and his blood rushed.
"Why do you think I care?" he said. "I told you once and I told you a thousand times, I wasn't on their side. I was always on your side."
Roper snarled, drank from the bottle. When he pulled it away, a thin line of foam remained on his upper lip. He licked it off before speaking again.
"I don't care if you care, Jenny," Roper growled. "You're a shit-licking, two-faced, pussy-ass motherfucker either way. Just remember, whatever we do to him, we can do to you … double. I wanna see your whole damn troop wiped off the face of this earth. Every last gypsy scum is gonna taste our shit before I'm dead."
Jenner blanched, fought the emotions Roper's words incited.
"And you're gonna be the last one to go, Jenny," Roper went on. "We're gonna give you a parade of bodies to look at before we let you eat dirt. Gonna pick off the big guys one by one, and then we're gonna start on all your slutty, diseased women and your snot-nosed, inbred kiddies."
Jenner's hands fisted slightly; he quickly released them, but Roper noticed, and smiled at the reaction he was getting. Slowly, the man rose and leaned closer to Jenner.
"You got a mother, Jenny? Of course you do. Everyone's got a mother. I bet you miss her, don't you? When we're through, you can lick her nasty twat all you want down in hell," Roper said. Jenner felt bile rising in his throat, waged civil war with his own instincts to keep calm. The table had grown poignantly silent, and Jenner glanced down; all eyes were on him, the smirks and smiles gone.
Roper sat back down with a audible thump, eyed Jenner carefully. He swallowed the rest of his beer.
"Why don't you go get me another one, gypsy?" he said, twirling the empty bottle on its base. "Make yourself fuckin' useful."
Jenner turned, relieved to be excused from the tension. He heard conversation start up behind him, but didn't have the nerve to try and listen. His mind was too occupied by the throbbing, drumming blood in his ears as rage flooded through him. Behind the bar, he allowed himself to look at Roper while he uncapped the beer. Roper wasn't looking back.
I'm going to make you pay, Jenner thought. I'm going to make you pay so hard you'll still be in debt when you meet the devil.
19
As they pulled up to the hotel, Tricia looked at Damon, curious.
"No camping tonight?" she asked, cocking her head.
"No, no more until Miami," he said. "I sleep well outside, but it's not the best for my back."
"Ooh," Tricia teased. "Old man with back problems, huh?"
He smiled at her, but it was a tight smile. Okay, so age jokes are off-limits, Tricia thought, filing the thought away. She put away the book she'd found in the backseat, a collection of poems by Jack Gilbert. Some of the lines sounded extremely familiar, but she couldn't imagine herself ever having coming across them before. When she asked Damon, he gave her a cryptic smile and told her she'd probably dreamed them.
They were just outside of Charleston, South Carolina. They had driven through the city already; Tricia was bemused by the almost-too-nice scene there, an antebellum swagger inviting a nostalgia the viewer couldn't possibly feel. Damon pointed out a restaurant he wanted to take her to while they were in town.
"Husk? What kind of restaurant name is that?" she asked. "It looks fancy."
"It is fancy," Damon said with a smile. "I hope you brought a nice dress."
Tricia hid her blush by looking out the window.
"I still think ‘Spaghett About It' is a better restaurant name," she said, turning back to him when she felt her cheeks had returned to normal. Damon laughed.
"Our house special tonight is ‘penne for your thoughts'," he said, flashing her with that contagious smile.
"We can split an order of ‘one cannoli hope' for dessert," she offered back. They both groaned, letting it devolve into laughter.
"We should be put in jail for this shit," Tricia said, shaking her head with a smile still broadcast over her cheeks. "These puns are criminal. You're a bad influence."
"The worst," Damon agreed, rolling down his window. The air outside was dry and hot. Tricia followed suit, letting the breeze catch her hair. "But I've heard girls have a thing for the bad boys."
He winked at her and she laughed again, feeling a now-familiar flush through her body. Soon enough, they pulled up to a chain hotel and Damon parked, leaving her with the keys so she could use the air conditioner if it got too hot. Tricia took the chance to stretch her legs and saw, behind the lobby, the shimmering blue of a pool.
Perfect, she thought, stretching with the sun on her cheeks. There were times that she could forget that she and Damon had any destination at all, that there were any secrets between them. There were times she could imagine that they were on a honeymoon of sorts, even though the idea made her a bit ashamed of herself. It was silly.
There was something between her and Damon; something sexual, of course, but also something deeper. But she wasn't the kind of girl who wondered how many kids she'd have with a guy as soon as they started dating. Still, the easy, relaxed nature of their days, the constant change of scenery, the feeling of freedom that came from being together and knowing they would soon be somewhere new and exciting …
Her moment in the sun came to an end as Damon reappeared dangling a key on a ring.
"They still use old-fashioned keys here," he said, sliding behind the steering wheel.
"Charming," Tricia mused.
The room itself was basic, with two double beds. The carpet was mauve. The bedspreads were thin and almost crispy, patterned in a noxious, "Saved By the Bell" geometry. The paintings on the wall were yard sale-worthy landscapes. It smelled like a hotel room. It reminded Tricia of nothing at all except other hotel rooms. She loved it.
Putting her bag down, she moved to the curtains covering one wall and pulled them half-open. They were on the shady side of the building, and the windows overlooked the pool. Three men were down there, two sitting together and one apart. The single man had an open cooler. The water glistened in the sun, too blue and very inviting.
When Tricia turned, she saw that Damon had picked one of the beds for himself, sitting on it and leaning back slightly. She plopped herself down on the other one, looking at the clock. It was just past 3.
"What time is dinner?" she asked.
"7:30," he answered. "I made a reservation."
Again, Tricia felt a nervousness, a redness in her cheeks that had nothing to do with sun exposure. It was a date, wasn't it? Everything about what she and Damon did seemed backwards. Usually, you went on a date before you hopped in a car with a guy, before he gave you an orgasm that rocked your whole world, before you felt comfortable sharing a hotel room with him; even one with two beds.
"I think I'm going to swim," she said, lifting herself off the bed. "Come with?"
He shook his head.
"Didn't bring my trunks," he said. She bit back a smile. Damon would look exceptionally good in a pair of swim trunks. "I can't believe you brought your bikini."
"Bikini?" Tricia scoffed. "No, I'm a strictly one-piece sort of girl. And of course I brought it. I'm a girl. We always bring everything."
"Shame," Damon said, glancing up at her. For a moment, she wasn't sure what he meant; why would it be a shame that she over packed? Then she realized, and she couldn't bite back the smile any longer. She was enjoying this prolonged flirtation a lot more than she should have. Damon offered a very particular sort of sweet torture, and she loved it. He offered tastes, just nibbles, and each one melted in her mouth, left her wanting more.