HARDCORE: Storm MC(82)

Fernando shrugged and rode his skateboard down the street, stopping for a jump in front of every other house.



On the other hand, at least the kid was more polite to me than Cain probably will be, Missy thought wryly.



She stepped up onto the porch and peered in through the front window. Through the smudged and dusty glass, she could see Cain lying on the couch, watching TV. He was still wearing the bloody clothes he'd had on last night.



Missy tapped on the pane with her fingernail and Cain jumped, his eyes wide. His good arm reached for a .357 revolver resting on the table in front of him, but he relaxed when he saw who it was.



“What is it?” he called out. His voice sounded thick and sluggish, and Missy remembered the medications he was on.



“I'm coming in, okay?” Missy called back.



Cain hesitated for a moment, and she could see in his eyes that company was the last thing he wanted right now.



Tough break, asshole, Missy thought sourly. I'm not exactly thrilled to be here either. But we'll both just have to make the most of it, won't we?



He finally nodded reluctantly and moved to get up. “No, stay there,” Missy called, waving him back down. “I've got a key.”



Cain didn't look too happy about that, but he gestured for her to come in and settled back on the couch.



Missy reached under the door mat, picked up the key, and entered. She looked around, trying to keep her face neutral despite the squalid surroundings.



It was immediately obvious that even when he had two working arms, Cain never cleaned. The hardwood floors were thick with dust and tracked-in grit, and heavy clusters of cobwebs hung from the corners and walls in many places, like the tattered remains of gray curtains. There were no shelves or decorations, and the only furniture in the living room was the couch, an old leather easy chair with the stuffing oozing from a dozen different holes, and a small folding table with the television set on it.



Worst of all, there was a rotten smell hanging in the air. When Missy glanced toward the small kitchen, she saw the source—there were dishes stacked high in the sink, and the muck crusted on them looked like it had been there for weeks. A pair of small folding chairs stood next to a table that was covered with stains.



Hunter, if you think I'm even setting foot in that kitchen, let alone doing those filthy dishes to cook for him, you've got another thing coming, Missy thought. I'd rather put my hand in boiling water and then staple it to a fucking cactus than let it touch those things.



“Wow,” she said, trying to breathe through her mouth. “You don't do a lot of entertaining, huh?”



“Yeah, and that's how I prefer it, actually,” Cain replied, “so what the fuck are you doing here? If you came to score some pills, sorry, but you heard what the doc said. You'll have to get your fix elsewhere.”



“That shouldn't be a problem,” Missy said. “Off the top of my head, I'm guessing there are about nine different crack houses I could go to that would be cleaner than this place. Smell better, too.”



“Good,” Cain answered, “then go find one and leave me the hell alone.”



“I would if I could, believe me,” said Missy, “but Hunter sent me to look in on you.”



“Now you have. Thanks. You can go now. You can even tell Hunter you saw me doing jumping jacks and breakdancing, if you think that'll keep him from sending you again.”



“Wow, where is all of this sudden negativity coming from?” Missy shot back sarcastically. “I mean, just a few hours ago, you were just so friendly and charming, and now...”



“Fuck off. How's that for charming?”



Missy sighed. “Okay. Let's take a deep breath and start over. I'm sorry I insulted your house. You have a beautiful house. I'm surprised it hasn't gotten a spread in Better Homes & Gardens. Is that better? Now cool your jets, sit back, and relax. Unfortunately, I'm not going anywhere, at least for the moment. Hunter wants me here looking after you, so that's that.”



“Looking after me?” Cain balked. “What the fuck is that even supposed to mean? I'm a goddamn adult. I can look after myself.”



“Can you?” Missy asked. “Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you can't even change your shirt on your own.”



“Maybe I like my shirt where it is,” Cain spat. “Maybe I don't go to pieces every time I get a little blood on me.”



“Yeah, you're wearing it on purpose,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I'm sure. But if you decide you'd rather be wearing a fresh one that doesn't look and smell like a slaughterhouse rag, ask me nicely and I'll help you change into one.”