Pay to the order of Rogers County Jail: $423.52
When Cain doesn't respond, I keep talking. "Do you know what day we get paid?"
He sits down. Does that mean he's staying?
"You don't talk much, do you?"
Cain looks at me, and a warm current rushes down my spine. He looks like a mutt that's been kicked one too many times. The question is how long he'll continue tucking tail, and how long until he uses those powerful jaws. Then again, maybe all his biting is over. The second I think this is the second my teeth grind. There's nothing that makes my blood fire quicker than when easy targets get picked on. Like what happened with Poppet inside.
That makes two of us.
Cain looks up at the sky, holds out his silver lighter and says, "I could light a fire if you're cold. I have some lighter fluid beneath the kitchen sink."
I smile at his joke, because it has to be ninety degrees outside, even with the sun long gone.
"What happened to your arm?" he asks, sobering. His voice sounds like tires over gravel. It holds a surprising amount of authority for a boy who keeps his head down. Maybe boy is the wrong word. I seldom get the right word on the first attempt. I try again-
Young man.
That's two words. But it fits him better. I'd put him at twenty. Maybe older. Maybe old enough to put a cold beer bottle to his lips in broad daylight.
I don't bother hiding my arms. If you put blade to flesh, you better be ready to show the world, because they're going to see eventually. "It's a body count. Unmarked graves."
Cain chuckles. "You're not as scary as you think you are."
"Who says I think I'm scary?"
He looks pointedly at the piercings in my eyebrow, my lip, the silver loops climbing my left earlobe like poison ivy. I wonder if Katy felt insulted by my calling attention to my ears when she's got only the one. Man, what a sick thought.
"Thanks for being cool to me," I blurt out.
"I'm not."
"You kinda are."
He stands up like he doesn't like where this conversation is headed. My skin burns with shame. There I go again with my attachments. Someone so much as looks at me and I want to snare them with my octopus arms, suck on their salty skin, and pull them underwater.
You'll stay as beautiful with dark hair and soft skin … forever.
That's a song about someone drowning their companion to keep them for eternity. I've never been one to remember lyrics. Want to play name that song? Don't put me on your team.
But that song I remember.
Cain narrows his eyes like he's searching for something. "Why did you come here?"
I debate whether to confess, and decide it couldn't hurt anything. Maybe he'll tell the madam and she'll advance me the money so I can get Dizzy out sooner. So I explain the situation. I tell him about Dizzy and about living on the streets and about how I need to help him.
The whole time I talk, I stare at my hands. Now I look up and find Cain studying me.
"Your friend, Dizzy, he'd do the same for you?"
"Of course," I say too quickly. "He absolutely would."
Cain doesn't respond. He just studies my face, the cigarette in his hand forgotten. I can't stay still with him looking at me like that. Because by him not speaking, he's actually saying too much at once. Causing questions to pop up in my head like termites chewing through hundred-year-old walls.
Dizzy would do the same for me.
He would.
The front door to the Violets' house opens and a girl's laughter rushes across the space in an unexpected tidal wave. Cain sees who's standing in the entryway, and he leans over and stubs out his cigarette in the untended ashtray. He digs his hands into his pockets, turns a massive back to me, and strides away.
Taking his place is a girl I've seen before. Red lipstick. Commanding gaze.
Lola the Violet. Lola the Top Girl.
Her hair is black and her eyes are lined with a heavy hand and she walks on the tip of her toes. "What are you doing? You can't be back here."
Before I can respond, she leans sideways and spots Cain in his rapid retreat.
"Was that Cain?"
"It was," I say. "Why can't I be here?"
She holds a hand to her forehead like my presence is making her ill. "Because I said so, new girl. And what I say goes. Now be a good maggot and go back inside." Lola analyzes my face and nibbles her plump lip. "You won't be here long, you know. Not pretty enough. So don't stress out about it. That's a favor, me telling you that. Don't forget it."
Anger simmers in my belly, but I can't properly experience it in all its reckless magnitude. Because Lola is exotic, and untouchable, and someone you want to examine in detail even as they torment you. It's like a lion chasing you across an open field. You're going to die, but there's a part of you that wants to turn back and see this glorious creature attack, even if you're the victim.