"There's still time," he shrugs, "you could run home real quick and check. I know you don't keep that stuff here."
"No?" I raise a brow.
He stands, searching through the drawers beneath a mirror for a change of clothes. "You're a professional compartmentalizer, Fomori. Anything to do with her didn't come through those fucking doors. And for good reason."
"Then how didsheget through them?" I ask.
He grins, looking up at me, "It was just meant to be, man. Kismet. The cosmos. The universe. Whatever you wanna call it, the both of you were brought here, independent of each other. Both called to the darkest parts of yourself that you can explore here."
"And you've never spoken to her?" Something wriggles up myspine, some tingling sensation I don't have much experience with. Jealousy? Possessiveness?
Holding up both hands, he shakes his head, standing to his full height. "Never. I know better than that. And, she's not really my type. I like them short, blonde, and mean as fucking hell.”
"That's really specific," I mutter.
He sighs, "Yeah, tell me about it."
"Where do I usually watch the fights from?"
"You don't," a laugh rumbles from his chest as he unbuttons his shirt. "But Leo and Tate here can show you where you watchherfrom."
The two large men standing side by side nod almost in unison, and I take that as my cue to leave Skyler to his preparation for the fight.
"Thanks," I tell him, not for the first time since I've been back.
He grins at me in the mirror, "You'd do the same, and more, for me. Scope it out, and if she's not here tonight, don't feel like you need to be. I've seen you more the last few weeks than I ever did before your brain got scrambled. Go home. Get some rest. Check in with your doctor. We'll swing by the distillery next week. That's where you did all your best un-violent work."
That, I do believe.
From what I remember of my life before everything changed, experimenting with flavors, different types of honey, different fruits, and distilling methods was my first love.
Something about the creation of mead and liquor is the only part of my past that I believe will still feel like home to me. I need to get back there to find some semblance of myself again.
She didn't come to watch the fight.
Can't say I'm surprised.
She was just here not too long ago, and I'd bet she only allowsherself this vice on a rare occasion, careful not to be caught here too often.
Spilling in my front door, I'm finally not assaulted by the scent of plastic police tape. Instead, this morning's coffee colors the air, smelling more familiar than anything else.
At least it's better than the sterile, cold, medicinal smell of the fucking hospital.Anythingwould be better than that.
But maybe I should do something to make it a little more homey. This little townhome is so impersonal. Like a robot lived here, not a person.
The only personality that exists in this place at all is hidden behind a wall.
And the person it belongs to is an actual psychopath.
Jesus fuck, now I’m talking about myself in the third person.
I'mthe psychopath it all belongs to.
So why do I feel like I'm breaking into somewhere I don't belong when I type in the code and the hidden door cracks open?
Pristinely organized. Untouched by the investigations, but filled with all the evidence they could ever need to put me away for the rest of my miserable life.
The large desktop has to have a passcode, but how the fuck am I supposed to remember it?
