Page 38 of Kings Fear No One
Joke about kneeling by the toilet aside, I’m not spending my night babysitting a lightweight.
“You’re gonna have to tell me anyway, you know that, right?”
“Tell you what?”
“About earlier. Your family.” I nudge the cup of whiskey and coke toward her. “You didn’t seem all that happy to see them.”
“Is that why you stepped in?”
“You were begging me to with those puppy dog eyes.”
She makes a face and shakes her head. “I’ve missed them so much. I’ve prayed I’d be fortunate enough I’d see them again.”
“So? Why didn’t you want to go with them?”
“I never said that.”
“You damn sure did with your behavior. But no need to answer anyway. I know all about what it was.” I set to refilling my own glass, pouring whiskey in straight.
Teysha spends a moment taking another sip of hers. A small taste test to see if she can handle any more. Either she decides she can or that she needs to as a distraction.
“How can you know all about it when I didn’t tell you?”
“’Cuz I know your type. You think I’ve never met anybody like you? My mom was religious. She took us to church every week. I’m more than a little familiar.”
Her eyes narrow. “My type?”
“Sheltered. Wholesome. Raised in the church. Formed your whole identity around it. Everything you believe is what they told you to,” I say with a shrug. “Your mother’s the stereotypical overbearing kind that dictates everything you do. Why would you want to go back to that? Especially after what’s happened to you?”
I’m not sure what reaction I expect. Part of me hopes it’s more sass. More mouth.
Then at least the tension would ease and I could forget I’m irritable for a couple seconds. I could find amusement in whatever sassy thing she’s said and give her more shit about it.
But as I drain my second glass of whiskey, she’s stopped touching hers. She won’t even look me in the eye. The sweetness about her is gone; the girl-next-door-picking-flowers-in-a-fucking-meadow disappears.
The frigid woman I’d witnessed one too many times with the Saints returns.
“Teysha—”
“Thanks for the drink.”
She slips out of the barstool and heads straight for the spare bedroom.
The room I’ve allocated for her. The room she never spends any time in. She much prefers the couch or, better yet, my bed.
I wait five minutes then go knock on the door. She never answers.
I turn in for the night reminded why I didn’t want her around. Why I should be spending my newfound freedom alone rather than babysitting some woman I don’t know. Her issues with her religious-freak family’s got nothing to do with me.
I’ve got no shortage of my own damn problems.
Shit I haven’t even begun to sort through.
I go to sleep only to be woken up a couple hours later by my phone vibrating. My hand stretches out to grab hold of it. In the pitch dark my screen practically fries my retinas. The text is simple and short.
To the point.
We’ve caught one of them.
