Page 51 of Surface Scratch
“My mother was injured and trying to get away when I walked out. She was drunk. Crying a lot. I always hated when she cried. It was like nails on a chalkboard, even when I was small. Well, smaller, I guess. And then she started trying to make a deal with them. They could just keep me, no money involved, if they let her live.” Ophelia let out huff through her nose. “When that didn’t work, she begged me for help.”
The truck jostled again as they hit a bump, but Caleb barely noticed it. The cool calmness with which she explained her life made his stomach knot, but it wasn’t because of the way she said it. Her parents had tried tosellher. There was no way they didn’t know exactly what the type of person who buys a child would do to her. He peered at her through his fingers.
Ophelia glanced down at him, her face not giving an inch. “That made me angry. So I stabbed her in the throat.” She nudged his shoulder. “Sit up, we’re here.”
Caleb sat up slowly and glanced around. The truck wasn’t moving anymore.
It felt like his brain had short circuited. He could see the narrow street through the windshield, a totally unfamiliar neighborhood stretched out before him. The homes barely had yards and looked the worse for wear, but Caleb was fumbling to unbuckle the seatbelt, his insides feeling like they were vibrating as he realized over and over that he had done it. He’d ridden in a car.
Ophelia opened his door, allowing him to stumble out, barely grabbing the door handle in time to keep himself from hitting the ground. He stared at her, his eyes wide, unable to determine where his flood of emotions wanted to take him. It was an overwhelming storm of fear, awe, gratitude, and guilt. A small, victorious whisper echoed in his mind:I finally did it. I fucking did it!
Before she could step back, Caleb threw his arms around her. “Thank you,” he whispered, trying to keep his tears at bay. He squeezed her, wanting to show her how thankful he was but also to show her some kind of affection after hearing the nightmare that was her life. He’d always felt there was some sort of kindness hidden below the surface, and it finally seemed like he had worn her down enough for her to show it.
“Nope. Not doing this.” She punched him hard in his right shoulder, the blow landing square on the area where he was still sore from being bitten. “Never, ever bring this up.”
Caleb released her, holding his hands up in surrender. Okay, maybe she wasn’t at that point, but it still heartened him to know that she did what she did and said what she said. He hadn’t really considered what having a relationship with someone who had a child close to his age might be like, but being able to get along with Ophelia, even if she really didn’t like him, meant more to him than he’d initially realized.
She turned her back to the house they’d parked the truck in front of, unzipping her puffy jacket and reaching inside. “Do you have the knife I gave you handy?” she asked, her face disappearing as she looked down and the fur-lined hood fell over her head.
Caleb shook his head. “I left it at home,” he admitted, patting his pants pockets despite the fact he knew he didn’t have it on him.
“The whole point of having a knife is to carry it with you all the time.” She scowled, then reached into the other side of the coat’s interior and produced a similar looking switchblade. “Here, put this in your coat pocket.”
He glanced around the empty street as he accepted the weapon, half expecting the cops to jump out of the bushes and tackle them for their suspicious behavior. “Do you have—” His words cut off in his throat as Ophelia flashed a small revolver and he blanched at the sight of it. “Jesus Christ.”
She rolled her eyes and zipped her coat back up. “Chill out, Pinky. It’s just a backup plan if things go tits up,” she said. She pointed to the house they stood in front of, not at all put off by the warped, rusty gutters or peeling paint. “Just let me do the talking and we should be out of there in ten minutes or less.”
Caleb kept his hand on the switchblade in his pocket, his legs once again heavy as they tried to convince him to stay put while Ophelia walked up to the door as if she were going to visit an old friend. Either she was an incredible actress, or he had been correct in his assumption about her demeanor being influenced by being raised around the elastic moods of her vampire family.
A strange sinking feeling hit him, too different from the fear and dread he had felt when he was in the truck to be some leftover side effect from the amount of adrenaline dumped into his nervous system during the ride. No, this was something else. Something primal that tickled his brain and hollowed him out in a way he couldn’t comprehend. He wanted to run over to her and stop her from knocking as she raised her hand to the storm door.
This is bad. Something bad is going to happen, his mind wailed at him. By the time he found his voice, it was too late.
The door was opening.
Chapter Sixteen
Caleb had never done drugs, let alone attempted to purchase them, so most of his knowledge about the process was based on the limited media he consumed. He couldn’t recall ever seeing people making deals from ugly floral couches in living rooms filled with family photos and decorative plates that looked as though they hadn’t been updated in over fifty years. There wasn’t even a hint of that skunky smell that lingered when people smoked pot outside of the club. It smelled more like old-lady perfume and some kind of spice that made him aware of how hungry he was.
For some reason, the home not meeting his expectations made him more nervous. Ophelia slapped his knee, glaring at him to make him stop the incessant bouncing of his leg. He held his hand on his leg above his knee to still the nervous movement, but holding it still just made it the tension build, like it would kick out and mess up the ancient-looking coffee table in front of them.
“Chill out,” she whispered to him as she unzipped her jacket.
“I have a really bad feeling about this,” he whispered back, glancing at the doorway that led to the kitchen.
“He sells weed and fake IDs, he’s notHeisenberg,” she muttered. She began fiddling with the front of her shirt, yanking it down so the top of her lacy bright red bra showed in stark contrast to her black V-neck shirt.
“What are you doing?” Caleb asked. Every time he had seen her outside of work hours, she’d been covered from neck to toe, usually in something baggy.
“Making it easier for us to convince him to give us the information we need.”
He averted his eyes as she stuck her hand in her bra to adjust herself. “You’re sixteen.”
His eyes focused on a small display against the same wall as the doorway to the kitchen. Several candles were lit around it, adorned with pictures in color and black and white and objects that were just far enough away that he was unable to see what they were. They looked vaguely like flowers, but he would have to get up close to confirm that.
Man, I really need to see an eye doctor.
“And men are pigs. Get with the program,” she muttered.
