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No one answered, and if they did, I didn’t hear it because I wasted no time before slamming the door and jumping into my truck. Ollie’s car was in his space, but his engine was running. Warming up, ready for his trip back to The Shithole where the poor fool spent every day of his fucking life.
I respected but pitied him.
He felt the same about me. He never said it, but I knew that to be true.
I checked my glove compartment for my phone, pulling it out to input the coordinates. The open compartment revealed a Glock, stolen from the creep who’d pulled it on me yesterday. The dirty, bloodstained knife I’d used to kill him was still here, too, should I need it.
Gravel crunched beneath chunky tires, the road in desperate need of repair. It would get done as soon as one of us learned how to tarmac because it wasn’t like we could invite strangers to the property, given what we did for a living.
Especially given who I was.
It had been years since the world saw my face, but they hadn’t forgotten it. Articles and rumors floated around the social media sites I’d never joined almost daily.
Directions flashed on my phone screen. A little car led the way on a lined road, and the distance between Cat and me got smaller.
I left our land, turning left onto the long stretch of road as I followed them. The little bear, whose tie hung him from my rearview mirror, swung, thanks to my lead foot.
I drove between one and two miles when my phone would have verbally told me to turn left if I had the volume up, and I almost missed the turn because I didn’t.
Woodrow’s sneaker slammed the brake, and I didn’t even realize there was a vehicle up my ass until it blasted its horn, and the driver shouted obscenities through his dirty window.
Many would have apologized, but I wasn’t like most people. I was cold and aloof towards the majority of people because the truth was, so many people were dodgy bastards who didn’t deserve any decency from anyone. The way that loser tested my nerves had me wanting to reach for my gun.
But public murder wasn’t something I could do. Killing had to be discreet. And if I wanted to uphold my only killing monsters theme, I couldn’t let road rage get the better of me.
So, I flipped him off instead and continued my journey up the winding road, barely wide enough for my truck.
Anticipation built in my stomach, then climbed my throat, making it dry. I reached for the bottle of water in my cup holder, tossing it against the passenger window when no more than three droplets rolled around in the bottom of the plastic bottle.
Trees parted to reveal a house in the distance, similar to ours in color. Yet different, as its three-story roof kissed the clouds.
“For fuck’s sake.”
Another truck, bigger and more intimidating than mine, was in the road, blocking me from going forward. It revved its rattling engine, and the rusted orange paint glistened under the winter glow raining down.
A giant emerged from the driver’s side door, boots trampling the dried mud between us. His plaid shirt blew open in the wind, showing off the bulky chest gifted by weightlifting and possibly steroid injections.
Let’s hope he doesn’t have the rage that often went with those injections, or one of us wasn’t making it out of here.
As he approached, I rolled down my window, not wanting one of his massive fists to smash through it.
“Can I help you?” His accent didn’t sound like mine. It was not native to Georgia or the surrounding states. He wasn’t American, but he pretended to be.
And I pretended, too. I pretended I didn’t notice while I made an excuse as to why I was on his land.
“My apologies,” I said from below my dipped hood. “I was looking for someone, but you don’t fit the description.”
“Well, this is my family’s house and private land.”
“I must have missed my turn. I’ll turn around and get out of your way.”
He leaned into my car and inhaled. My eyes stayed on him, taking in details of his face from below my hood. He looked to be in his twenties or thirties. His greasy skin spoke of a hard morning, and the bags under his eyes screamed of a rough night. My eyes roved over him completely, not drifting to the still-open glove compartment and the gun and blade lingering inside for all to see.
“I smell blood.”
“Is it from your shirt?” sarcasm got the better of me, falling from my mouth.
The inside of his shirt held blotches of red near the armpits like he’d been sweating out his life force.
