Page 58 of Boy of Ruin
I catch the eye of one of the policemen, and he’s watching us. I swear he tips his head to Jeremiah in a nod, then turns around, letting him go.
Do they know each other? Who doesn’t he know?
I hold my breath, waiting for Jeremiah’s anger. For it to come out all over me like a purge. That’s how he deals with it, with me. He holds it in until he can’t, and when he lets go, he doesn’t hold any of it back.
I think of when he fired a gun at my head.
When he missed.
I wonder if he regrets that, even now.
He switches over to the left lane, one quick glance in his side view mirror before he does. Then he utters a curse under his breath, another language I don’t know.
I know he knows German. Latin. I’ve heard what I think is Spanish coming from his office too.
I decide to ask an innocent question, try to deflect from the hardon he’s still got, evident by the huge bulge in his pants.
“How many languages do you speak?”
He glares at me, shifting gears without taking his eyes off of mine. “A lot,” he says, his eyes narrowed. “But apparently Sid fucking Rain isn’t one of them.” He holds my gaze even though we’re going over one hundred miles per hour on the fucking highway.
“Jeremiah, I’m sorry, I—”
“You what?” he growls, still holding my gaze.
My stomach churns. I glance out the windshield. There’s not another car for a while, but even still, he could go off the side of the road, veer into another lane.
He doesn’t, though.
His hand is steady on the gear shift.
I glance to the one on the wheel.
It’s not as steady.
I know he sees me looking, but he doesn’t move it. “What happened?” I ask, my voice hoarse as I meet his gaze again.
Surprising me, the corners of his mouth pull up into a smile. “Same thing that’s gonna happen to you, if you don’t stop fucking with me.” Without another word, he turns from me, staring straight ahead, that haunting smirk still lingering on his handsome face.
I wake up to the smell of bacon.
My stomach rumbles before I even open my fucking eyes, and my mouth is so dry, I think I taste blood on my tongue.
Groaning, I stuff a pillow over my face, rolling onto my back.
Inhaling, I catch the scent of something…unfamiliar.
Fabric softener, or some other fucking laundry detergent that isn’t what my wife uses. It’s strong, nearly choking me and I sit up, flinging the pillow off the bed as I blink my eyes open, scrubbing a hand over my face.
Another breath in, and the bacon scent hits me again.
My wife doesn’t fucking cook bacon, and Ella only likes to bake.
My wife also uses unscented detergent. Something about the chemicals killing our brain cells. Running the edge of my hand under my nose, snorting, I think about the coke I’ve done and all the brain cells I’ve lost.
But then I take the room in.
Its sheer curtains do nothing to block the sun streaming in through the window to my right.
