Page 29 of Haven't Killed in Years
“Gwen…”
“Breathe.”
“He thinks I tried to kill the fucking cat.”
“Why?”
“I got home last night out of my mind. My sister’s stupid cat followed me into the bathroom, and the next thing I knew, it was attacking me. I couldn’t get it off, so I shoved it into the toilet. My sister woke up and freaked out. Told my dad I was trying to drown it…. No one believed me. Gwen, it was bad.”
“Jesus,” I exhaled, struggling to visualize what happened without defaulting toTom and Jerry.
“I’m going to move in with the guys for a little while.”
“No way,” I said. “I don’t think they’re a good look for you.”
“There aren’t exactly options falling out of my ass,” Porter said, his breath shorter, and I could tell he was on the move.
“You can stay with me tonight, okay?”
“Really?”
I squished my eyes closed. Was I really offering that? It was the least I could do. “I’m downtown, but I’m leaving right now.” I opened my eyes and exhaled. “Meet me at my place.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” I said, and he hung up.
I stood so I could lower my pants to actually pee. I rested my phone on top of the toilet paper dispenser, but before I let go, it buzzed again. I flipped it over to see the screen. It was Brian. Ha. That guy. I had fallen very far from the Brians of the world. I rejected the call.Sorry, Brian.
- - - - -
Porter beat me homeand was sitting on my front steps, hands clenched around the straps of his backpack. His head was shaved, his bleach-blond hair gone. He was shaky and jumped up as soon as he saw my car.
“Nice haircut,” I said, walking toward him.
He didn’t say anything at first, which was extremely out of character. There were scratches all over his arms, presumably from the cat, and he rocked back and forth.
“Are you on something?” I asked, continuing past him to open the front door, which I was still somehow surprised to see wasn’t closed all the way.
“No.” He shook his head. “This is an organic reaction to being totally fucked.” He followed me inside like a lost little puppy.
“Second floor,” I said so that he could keep going while I fixed the carpet. I couldn’t handle his jittering next to me.
He stomped up the stairs while I forced the runner down with my foot.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed from the top of the stairs, his exaggerated steps halting. “What the fuck is this?”
Sixteen
Shit.There was somethingoutside my door. I sprinted up the stairs.Don’t be a body.Don’t be a body.
It wasn’t a body, full or partial. It was another dripping red message across my front door. A question.WHO’S NEXT?
“What is this?” Porter asked.
“Nothing,” I said, unlocking the door and pushing him inside. “It’s neighborhood punks.”
“Yeah right. Neighborhood punks draw dicks; they don’t write cryptic messages in blood.”
