Page 19 of Existential
TEN
Dagne
Digits’ connection for work via the club doesn’t come through. Apparently the woman who owns the grocer doesn’t mind helping out club members and families, but as for outsiders? She’s too wary to take on a stranger.
How backward is that? As though I’m more of a risk to her livelihood than this lot. Ugh.
I look around the dining area at the others while I chew on my granola. An old guy sits to the right at one of the four circular tables relishing his toast as though it were his last meal, while directly across from me is Heather and one of the prospects I’ve learnt to be dubbed Timmy-boy.
Figures—he looks all of twelve.
The young guy blabbers on, something about the work he’s put in on his bike, yet Heather pays no mind. She’s busying engaging in a stare down with me over his shoulder.
Groundhog day—that’s what this is. I’ve been here eight nights and nine days, since Hooch gave me employment as a glorified gardener. And every damn day it pans out the same: get up, eat, confront Heather somewhere along the way, lose myself outdoors, come in to eat and get accosted again, return outdoors, and then hit the hay before I can get verbally assaulted a third time.
“You don’t fit in here.”
“You couldn’t handle the men here, anyway.”
“You one of those basic bitches?” as she tugs/flicks/fingers my hair.
And my favorite, “Being pretty only gets you so far in this world.”
Pity the bitch is so average, then—maybe she would have made it further than a biker club’s cum-bucket. Yep, that’s exactly what I’ve heard to her referred as. I mentally slap myself for falling to their level with insults and rise from my chair, collecting my empty bowl.
Heather excuses herself and cuts me off at the door that leads to the hallway. The kitchen is directly across from where we eat, the dining room appearing to have been the original semi-outdoor laundry. The concrete floor has been polished, though, and walls have been put up with large windows that look out over the back yard, letting the sun pour in first thing in the morning.
It’d be a beautiful, calming space if it wasn’t for the wildlife.
“Can I help you with something?” I ask.
“When the fuck are you leaving?” she asks exasperated, as though tired by it all.
Not the only one. “When I’m good and ready.” As much as I feel out of place in this living hell, I’m almost tempted to stick around a bit longer just to stir her up some more.
“The longer you’re here, the more you know about us. And the more you know … well …” She smirks. “You do know what the GFOD on their cut means, right?”
“No, and I don’t really care.”
She tracks Timmy-boy with a seductive smile as he excuses himself to pass between us. Satisfied he’s out of earshot, she leans in for the kill. “It means, God Forgives, Outlaws Don’t. You snitch, say anything at all about what you saw here, and—” She makes a dramatic show out of shooting me in the head with a finger pistol.
I roll my eyes and try to walk away, yet she shifts to block the kitchen door.
“Stay away from my man and I won’t have to let Hooch know that I saw you talking to the sheriff.”
Her threat of a bald-faced lie doesn’t worry me in the slightest. Anybody worth half a grain of salt would ask around and find it’s bullshit considering I haven’t stepped foot off the property since I got here.
“I thought staying away was what I was doing by being outside,” I say. “Considering I’ve heard you belong to all of the men, that’s probably the only way I can keep away from the whole lot at once, right?”
Her lips set in a firm line, and before I can cross my body with my free hand to defend myself, her palm leaves a sting in its wake.
I rub my cheek, eyes narrowed on her. “Truth hurts, bitch.”
I leave her in the hall as I stride into the kitchen and rinse my bowl and spoon before loading them into the dishwasher. I may have acted tough, but the way the crockery rattles as I slot my bowl into position gives away just how badly my hands shake from the rush of adrenalin.
I hate conflict—loathe it. Yet for some reason, whenever I’m provoked, fighting back comes naturally. I guess with years of suppressed comebacks for my father, a lifetime of things I never said, now have an outlet.
The hall’s empty by the time I’ve finished cleaning up, which is a nice respite give my hands still shake a little. I head upstairs, change in to my gardening clothes: a faded tank Digits gave me, and my cut offs, and then head outdoors to my safe haven.