After I get my shoes tied, I check my pockets, making sure I have everything before I leave. Rocky’s perched on a chair directly across from the kitchen counter, a liquor bottle in hand. The fridge stands open illuminating the small space and I notice there’s next to nothing inside.
I flick my eyes back to hers. She watches me with quiet examination as she raises the bottle to her still swollen lips and drinks deeply. I do some quick math in my head and figure I owe her about three hundred dollars for the hours she’s put in so far at the gym.
I clear my throat and fish my wallet out of my back pocket—careful to avoid looking at Livie’s picture as I open it. I only have about eighty in cash, but I slip it out and place it on the table in front of her.
“I haven’t added you to the payroll,” I say. “Until then, I’ll have to pay you in cash. I’m a couple hundred short right now, but I’ll get the rest to you in the morning.”
Rocky drops her eyes to the cash, staring at it like it offends her in some way, before moving her gaze up to me.
“Don’t do that.”
I feel my eyebrows draw together in confusion. “Do what?” I ask. I close my wallet and tuck it back into my jeans.
“Pity me.”
“I don’t—”
“You looked into my empty fridge and then handed me money. Just because I sucked your dick doesn’t mean you owe me.”
“Don’t do that,” I counter. “I do owe you, because you work for me. Don’t cheapen whatever the hell this is between us. Don’t act like I’m throwing money at you for sexual services rendered. And don’t act like I’m just using you for sex.”
She laughs softly, her dark eyes holding mine. “Aren’t you though? Isn’t that what we’re both doing? Using sex—using each other to forget?”
We are. I know we are. But I don’t think it’s as bleak or as black and white as she makes it sound. Isn’t she the one who said people are more complex than that?
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. I leave the money where it lies and walk out the door.
***
I stare at Morrison’s house. I count the windows and doors, making note of each possible exit. There’s only one car in the driveway, but there could be another in the garage. His Facebook relationship status said, “It’s complicated.”
I have no idea what that means.
He doesn’t have children. At least, that’s the conclusion I made based on his lack of family photos. And isn’t that what you do when you have kids? Post pictures of every accomplishment the kid makes. Show off new outfits representing the current holiday. And mark achievements, such as first steps, first day of school, first tooth lost.
Morrison has pictures of a cat.
I just need to figure out if he lives alone. “It’s complicated” could mean a hundred different things.
In my time sitting in my car across the street from his house, I’ve noticed a few details that could be important later. Like the fact there are three newspapers on his stoop, but the mailbox stands open, empty. And the way all the lights are out in the house except for the blue flicker of a TV in a back room. And the slightly opened window in the same room, though it’s easily thirty degrees tonight.
Just minor details, but I store them in my memory anyway.
And then I just sit here, watching. I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to think.
What I’d like to do is knock on Morrison’s door, look him in the eye, and explain I’m here to kill him.
Eight
Rocky
I’m still learning how to deal with who I am now after what happened to me. I do whatever works best at the moment. Whatever it takes to get by. That doesn’t mean I’m often happy about my actions after. I live with so much regret it’s overwhelming at times.
Today, as I watch the light filter through my blinds with the sunrise, I worry about what’s transpiring between Link and me. Something is happening and it scares me.
I’m tired. So tired. I can’t remember the last time I slept well.
I get ready for the day, but instead of going to work like I’m supposed to, I sit on the couch and stare at the floor where Link and I laid last night. At the exact spot where something changed for me. And I wonder why I don’t feel any regret.
This lack of repentance is almost as overwhelming.
I slide off the couch onto my knees and I press my hand into the carpet.
I like Link. I like him a lot. The idea is foreign, and honestly, a little unwelcome.
I don’t want to like him. Because what good can possibly come from it? What can liking Linken Elliot do for me?