Page 40 of Enemy
Just as I’m leaving the cave, Prophet bumps into me. His bright green eyes search my face. “All good? Heard Parker’s out?”
News travel fast here. When asked about it, Prophet sometimes jokes the birds tell him all the freshest gossip. I’m becoming inclined to believe that.
“Finally. Told you he was bad news. I know people like him,” I say, shrugging as we walk back to the settlement arm-in-arm.
Prophet scowls. “Everyone deserves a chance. You know yours—”
“Oh, come on,” I growl, frowning. “I was never like that junkie. Bet he only moved in for cheap drugs.”
So maybe I am snappy, but I’ve grown used to a steady supply of hot male flesh, and turns out I’m not getting any tonight.
Prophet sighs, glancing to the far-off lake glittering in the sun. He’s only wearing jeans and an open leather vest, which reveals lots of occult-themed ink, courtesy of Brigid. When I follow his gaze, all it reminds me of is Clyde stepping into the water naked, the cute little dimples on his ass becoming more pronounced as he clenches his butt.
“Fair. He got several chances. Can’t save those who don’t want to be saved.”
“Ah, there he is. The aspiring cult leader we all know and love,” I say, elbowing my prez in the side. “When are we bringing back orgies to get closer to the higher power?”
Prophet rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as we walk past the basketball court. “There’s a right time for everything—”
“Which means what? That you aren’t yet sure if you should allow just women, or everyone?” I tease.
Prophet points to my neck. “Maybe if you bring the girl who gave you that hickey, I’ll allow you to stay at my orgy.”
I stall, touching the mark Clyde left on me last time. It’s embarrassing, but I’ve already lied about dating someone, so I might as well continue with that. “She’s… shy about people knowing.”
Prophet’s expression changes from playful to a concerned frown. “Don’t waste time on a girl ashamed of seeing you, brother. Unless she’s a throwaway, then who am I to judge?” He stretches in the sun, showing off his chest tattooed with all kinds of symbols I know nothing about. Brigid also tried to get me to tattoo some protection sigils. I refused.
Prophet doesn’t know much about the person I’m seeing, but his words still grate on me. “Watch your mouth,” I tell him, briefly tugging on his magical necklaces. “We’re working things out. She doesn’t know whether she... wants to rock the boat yet. With her family, I mean.”
Prophet raises his hands in defeat. “Okay, okay, my lips are sealed, but speaking of bruises… Apparently Clyde Turner’s got a big one on his face. My friend at the gas station saw him today. Loads of Butchers were leaving town. Something’s brewing.”
My sole digs into the crack between two slabs of concrete making up a path, but I manage to keep myself upright and clear my throat. “Yea? And you don’t know anything?” I ask while my imagination suggests that someone might have discovered Clyde’s secret and is now blackmailing him. Is that why he can’t see me? Or are the Butchers involved in something dangerous? I shouldn’t care—and I don’t—but don’t I deserve to know why my fuckbuddy is jilting me?
“No, but I’m sending out Creep. Maybe he can get us some intel. If there’s internal trouble in their club, I need to know. This could be a chance to pull some strings if we play our cards right. Imagine getting rid of Clyde and his uncle without even getting our hands dirty.”
That’s it. I need to know if Clyde is fine.
“Sounds… grand,” I say, though it comes out a bit flatly. Prophet must be in his own head, because he doesn’t seem to notice and pats my back.
“I’ll let you know when we find out. You going to meet your girl tonight, right?”
My stomach retreats, as if it wants to curl around my spine. “Yeah.”
“Good luck. But if she dumps you, you can still bring her to the orgy,” he says and walks off with a wink.
As soon as I’m alone, I pull out my phone, instantly annoyed that the sun is so bright I can’t read shit on the screen. I have to move under a tree, but all I see is that Clyde hasn’t answered me at all.
I text him a question mark, followed by [everyfin ok?] as I make my way back home with a dark cloud spreading inside me like smoke.Something’sburning, and I can’t fucking locate the source. Why would Clyde have bruises on his face? Did he fall? Get in a fight? Did someone punch him when they found out that… he has pictures of a man on his second phone? I open my own smartphone and browse through our conversations, but we are keeping them casual and never discuss anything related to club life. So they wouldn’t know it’s me he’s fucking around with, unless he told them.
My mouth runs dry by the time I sit on the steps leading to my porch and grab the unfinished stag. How long until he responds? Will he even respond, or is this the end,and I’ll never hear from him again? If that’s the case, would he even acknowledge that there was anything between us once we, inevitably, meet face to face in the future?
I shake my head, cutting away bits of wood while my insides stew in their own juices, ever spicier as my anger grows. Because this is fucking inhumane. He should have let me know what’s up. I don’t want details, just a I’m-fine-can’t-wait-to-lick-your- balls-when-I-see-you-tomorrow. But no, he needs to be all cryptic and forbid me from calling on top of that.
I press on the knife with more force than I intended, and a sharp pain travels up my hand as I stare at the short blade embedded in the middle of my fingertip. I pull it out, and blood gushes down my hand.
“Fuck. Fucking fuck,” I mumble, dropping both the stag and the tool on the way inside. It takes me several moments to stop the bleeding, and by the time I go back outside, a scrawny cat I call Bean is licking my blood off the figurine. He’s never sleeping in the same room as me after this.
But despite the discomfort in my left hand, my thoughts return to Clyde, and when I see that he hasn’t even read any of the new messages, one thing becomes clear—I need to see for myself if he’s fine.
