Page 11 of Vipers & Roses

Blake T: Sure. Sweet dreams, Rae

“Don’t go,” I moan and start typing a message to reopen the conversation. But I come to my senses and delete it, then lie back on my bed and close my eyes, hoping that the next time I open them, this shitty migraine will be gone.

7

Yesterday was a write-off, but today, I’m back to normal. Note to Self: Never leave unfinished bottles of alcohol in the apartment. Better still, ban alcohol altogether. It’s wiser to keep temptations out of the way of the tempted if I know what’s good for me.

I didn’t hear from Blake again and ignored the disappointment in my abdomen, but I’m reluctant to keep in contact with him. The only time I touched the handgun was when I took it out of my bag and placed it in its new hiding place in the bottom drawer of my dresser. I haven’t unwrapped it from the fabric or examined it from a distance. All I’ve done was move it from one place to another to deal with another day. But I still need to learn how to load it and shoot it accurately, so I decided to watch some YouTube vids later and learn that way.

But right now, I’m in my happy place working in the University gardens, pruning the dead rose flowers in direct line with the Sports Performance School. This is strategic, of course, so I can watch for the Lion and his entourage and take notes.

I have a bucket, and my secateurs therapeutically cut each dead rose head and chop any diseased wood while I’m at it. Plants infested with aphids are my favorites because I am slightly obsessed with squashing the insects and feeling them pop under my gloves. When I was younger, I used to pop them with my bare hands, but they’d leave a green stain on my skin that was difficult to wash off.

Standing behind a large bush of yellow flowers, the same color as my car that only poor girls drive, I peer over the top now and again, keeping an eye on my target. Several people pour out of one of the buildings, and I search for a familiar face, but it’s not the face I’m looking for. Instead, it’s Cowslick Cormac, a possible relative of Call Me Gabe.

To avoid him seeing me, I duck down behind the bush as he walks by with a group of athletic-looking students on the path that leads from the SPS through the gardens to the Olympic Stadium. I have the impression that he’s rarely alone, always surrounded by friends and adoring admirers. I bet his devotees moderate a special Cormac Cowslick fan club.

“Stans of the Freestyler,” I chuckle into the thorny bush.

Once the group has passed, I stand back to full height and start demolishing several generations of sneaky aphids.

“Killing like a female mantis,” I mumble as I crush hundreds of the tiny little pests with my fisted hand and feel them burst.

“You’re quite nihilistic, aren’t you?” a voice blurts unexpectedly in my ear, and I stumble backward in fright, and he seizes my arm just before I fall backward into a thorny beast.

“I didn’t see you there,” I say, moving away from his grip and placing my hand on my chest to calm my racing heart.

He slips his giant hands into his black sweatpants pocket and peers down at me curiously. “I noticed. Too busy killing innocents by hand.”

“They’re pests that must be destroyed, or else they’ll kill the entire garden of roses,” I explain. Does he even understand how necessary this is?

“The entire garden? That’s dramatic. Dramatic and nihilistic,” he states bluntly, which I admire. I’m never a fan of fluffing around with talk about niceties. Maybe he’s not related to Gabe after all.

“Well, I am a fire sign,” I tell him.

“Figures,” he tilts his head to the side and gazes at me like he did when he scolded me in the pool as if he’s just discovered something intriguing on my face. And, of course, unconsciously, I touch my face, wondering if there’s something there. “You just wiped green sludge on your face. Is that your ritual? Smearing the green blood of the dead on your face as a warning to deter unwanted attention. See, dramatic and nihilistic.”

“Yes,” I answer. “Not working with you, though, is it.”

He nods his head towards me, shooting me a severe expression. “This is not unwanted attention.”

“I disagree,” I argue.

“What are you doing now?” he asks, as those eyes drill into my face, unsettling me. I was more relaxed around the gun-toting thief than this guy.

“Um, as you can see, I’m killing things,” I tell him as if it’s not apparent.

“Yeah, I heard that, like a female mantis.” He makes a face. “Weird. Come have a coffee with me.”

“I can’t. I’m working. This is my job. I get paid to do this,” I explain, irritated.

“Really?” He screws his face up and glances about the garden as if he can’t understand why anyone would want to do this voluntarily. Well, I do. I volunteer to do this. “It won’t take long. You can come back and finish off later.”

I open my mouth to argue with him fervently, but a thought occurs to me. Cowslick is The Lion’s golden child. If I get close to Cowslick, I might be able to access the Lion and find out information about him.

“Okay,” I answer slowly, conflicted because I don’t want to go, but I must. “But not for long.”

He smiles for the first time since he invaded my utopia. “You want to wipe that green sludge off your face first?”

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