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Gig…another of Remi’s shows, where girls—and the odd boy—would be stolen.
Daniel’s parting words were to my owner, “All relevant paperwork has been forwarded to you.”
My eyes followed them as they hopped back in the eighteen-wheeler, neither looking back at me.
“Up you get.” The man who thought he owned me smiled a semi-toothless smile when I did what I was told without a fight, but that was only because I hadn’t failed to notice the giant hunting knife in his boot. The same boot tapping the ground below spoke of an impatience his mouth never mentioned.
He hurried to the back seat of his 1990 Jeep Wagoneer, pulling out a coat that looked as dated as his vehicle. Then he slammed the door, and a sprinkle of rust dusted the dead yellow grass.
“You can wear my jacket. I noticed you shivering.”
I accepted the jacket, truly unsure what would happen if I refused. Putting my arms into the sleeve, I was extra careful with my purple wrist, which was twice the size of my other.
Mr. New Owner Guy didn’t fail to notice. His eyebrows slouched, meeting within a wrinkle between them.
“What did you do to piss off Rubbichon?” he questioned before spitting brown-stained phlegm at the ground. He pulled a tiny wooden stick from his pocket and chewed the pointed end while he waited for an answer.
The vehicle filled with others like me turned, reversing too close to me before it drifted casually back down the road we came, leaving me in this field with the fully dressed in pink pig in front of me. Men like him didn’t belong in innocent colors like pink. He looked flamboyant, especially with his bouncy walk and the giant creepy smile growing on his face as he watched the eighteen-wheeler fade away from us. They had places to be, people to deliver.
“I asked you what happened. You speak English, or are you one of the foreign ones? French? I can’t speak that.” The pig’s attention was back on me.
“I speak English,” I mumbled, rolling up my sleeves. The metallic stench of this canvas jacket, which felt so much like the collar that was no longer around my neck, ran up my nose. The red stains hidden in the deep maroon color reminded me of the red room and all the blood that soaked the carpet.
My nose scrunched, taking in the sharp scent laced with death. I didn’t want it on me, but I didn’t want to give this creep a reason to add my blood to the jacket, either. So, I stilled, straightened my face and back, and stepped closer, feeling less intimidated when I saw our heights leveled up.
“Does the Devil need a reason?” My schooled expression didn’t falter.
He mulled it over, his bottom lip sticking out for a second. This close to him, he didn’t look scary, but to me, he was unattractive, with his sunken bloodshot eyes and his malnourished cheeks creating hallows in his face. He was probably around triple my age, and the thought that I’d have to sleep with him almost made me gag as much as the smell of his jacket.
“Good thing you’re with me now.” He smiled, opening the vehicle’s passenger door like he was a gentleman and I was his lady friend.
I got inside without another word, making a mental note of the nine knives he had hanging in the seating area. I wondered which one I could stab him with and if I’d have the guts to actually push it through to his dirty soul.
It was highly doubtful, given I couldn’t help Rhylie pierce her belly button last year without vomiting all over her white jeans.
What would the pig do if I failed to gut him? Would he slit my throat? Stab me repeatedly until my insides hung out? Was death worse than this life? I didn’t know just yet, so I wouldn’t sign my own death warrant.
The vehicle didn’t drop when his scrawny frame sank into the driver’s seat, but my heart did when the door slammed, and he stabbed his giant blade into the dash.
He eyed me warily, his dark brown eyes warning me what would happen if I reached for it.
I didn’t.
Proving myself trustworthy, I reached for the tattered seat belt, clipping it into place. It was pointless because it would easily rip if my weight pushed against it a little too hard.
But I left it on anyway.
He cranked the radio, slapping it twice when a poor signal interfered with one of my favorite songs—a Remi song.
I Can’t Be Your Everything.
He sang along a verse before turning it over to some pop princess channel and complaining. “I hate that fucking song.”
But I didn’t. It was still my favorite, and I kept singing it in my head, finding a strange comfort in the all-too-true words. He couldn’t be my everything...not anymore.
The pig, who still hadn’t told me his name, kept singing along to his preferred station.
And I took a deep breath, keeping all my tears at bay, thanks to Remi’s song, as I mentally readied myself for the next chapter of my life.
