“Right.” LA’s cheeks were getting hot, and he wanted to be anywhere but inside this damn shop. He was pretty sure he’d just wasted his money, and he felt like an absolute idiot for coming in here. He quickly headed to the door, scowling.
“You’re welcome!” The Owner called after him.
“Yeah, thanks!” LA rolled his eyes as he stepped outside, marching down the block to get as far away from the shop as quickly as possible.
He needed a damn drink or five.
Home was an old brownstone with cast iron railings and ivy creeping over the stairs. He let himself in, the wooden floor creaking beneath his feet as he kicked off his shoes. His back was throbbing from the walk, pain shooting down his right ass cheek and into his leg. Walking so far had definitely not been wise, but he reasoned it was still better than sitting in his car for hours waiting for a tow.
The furniture was mostly knock-off antiques, pieces he’d acquired from the funeral home the last time they redecorated. He’d needed new furniture and he wasn’t going to argue with free, though the rosy pink floral prints did make it look as if an eighty year old woman lived here and not a thirty-something year old man.
The walls were cluttered with paintings and framed prints, many of them his own. He’d once had the dream to be an artist, having had a special love for mixing different mediums like biohazard tape with medical gauze and acrylic paint. The results were haunted figures that seemed to pop right off the canvasthanks to the three dimensional pieces, a macabre contrast to the otherwise cheerful grandparentcore aesthetic.
The kitchen was small with dark wood paneled walls and faded green tile backsplashes along the counters. There was a small breakfast nook with a table and chairs, though he hadn’t seen the surface of that table in months. It was covered in paperwork, forms, medication bottles, boxes of lidocaine patches, and two different back braces.
It had been six months since his injury—two herniated discs with a heaping helping of sciatica, weeks of physical therapy, daily pills, daily stretches, daily pain.
Fuck.
He headed to the fridge to grab a can of Dr Pepper. He used to keep the spiced rum in a cabinet, but he’d been leaving it on the counter as of late for easier access. He was startled to see the bottle was already half-empty.
Shit.
He knew he’d been drinking a lot lately, but…
No, it was fine.
He made himself a drink that was heavier on the rum than the soda side and then dragged himself upstairs to get changed out of his suit.
The bedroom was dark and painted in somber shades of gray with a thick red border. The king-sized bed took up most of the space, the rest occupied by neglected laundry and tall stacks of DVDs. A flat screen TV was mounted on the wall along with a handful of other paintings.
He’d had what he mentally referred to as hisRed Phaseand only created monochromatic pieces in vivid variations of scarlet and crimson for several years. The subjects were more gaunt, tortured figures like the ones downstairs, and he’d used everything from broken paintbrushes to newspaper.
Huh, there was newspaper in that bag from the Magic Shop.
Shit, thebag.
LA hadn’t planned on going back downstairs, but he wanted to get the bottle. He thought it would look nice on his nightstand. He didn’t believe it was a strength potion or whatever the hell the Owner had said. That was obviously a bunch of nonsense.
It was a nice bauble.
Nothing more.
After changing into a T-shirt and sweats, he trudged back down the steps to find the little shopping bag. It was where he’d left it on the coffee table in the living room, but it was empty now.
LA frowned.
He hadn’t taken the bottle out.
At least, he didn’t think he did.
He checked the bag twice and found nothing inside except for the card the Owner had placed in it. It was a Tarot card with a woman holding a lion or something, and he didn’t pay it much attention. He remembered he’d gone into the kitchen to make a drink, so he headed that way to see if he’d brought it with him for some reason and forgotten.
He froze in the kitchen doorway.
The fridge was open.
Something was drinking milk right out of the carton.
