Page 26 of Trailer Trash

“Killian, I need to know you are staying sober. So... show me where you hide your drugs.”

I hesitate, but why not?

“Fine. Knock yourself out.”

Immediately, she is in my sock drawer. It takes her seconds to find a pipe.

Shit.

Then a lighter. A razor blade. A cutting dish.

She doesn’t stop there. She goes through the next drawer, and the next.

I let her. I don’t care. With everyone else, I lie. Harlow already assumes the worst. And she’s mostly right.

Suddenly, she pauses and holds up a cylinder. “What’s this?”

I smirk. “A fleshlight.”

“A what?”

“A pocket pussy,” I say, bored. “You know, when dates don’t go well.”

It drops from her hand as if it had just scalded her palm. Her face twists in disgust.

Why does she do that? I can’t repulse her that much.

“Chill, CNA.” I swipe the item off the floor. “It’s just a sex toy.”

Again, no fucking smile.

“Come on, Harlow. I know you have a toy. That rose-thing.”

“What?” she says, her expression horrified.

I chuckle, truly delighted. “After I took the test, I found it in your bathroom drawer by the shower. Was it the first thing you unpacked?”

She gasps. “You went through my drawers?”

I narrow my eyes, turned off by her dramatic tone. I only have so much patience.

“Listen, Killian. This was a bad idea. It won’t work. I’m sorry. I’m leaving.”

My chest tightens, and I scowl unintentionally. Nothing works with her. Now, she’s leaving and I haven’t made her laugh once. I’m not fucking done. Not yet.

I set the toy down and straighten.

“Hold up. I won’t go through your things again. I can take this seriously.”

“Oh?” she replies, clearly skeptical. “Then help me.” She steps closer. “I know there are drugs in this house.”

She’s not wrong. I don’t want to give up my emergency stashes, but maybe this will impress her.

I hate it, but I move steadily, revealing my last pieces of heaven. They’re taped to the bottom of drawers, stuffed in the mattress lining, under a carefully cut piece of carpet, in over-the-counter pill bottles, hidden in a flour container, in a speaker, stuffed in a once-melted candle. The pills and powder are everywhere. After an hour, about forty thousand dollars of narcotics are piled on the coffee table.

“Whoa,” she whispers.

I wince. It looks like a fun weekend to me. To her, just another thing she dislikes.