“Little punk’s been sniffing around Haven since she was a girl, you know. Filling her head with ideas. So fucking happy when the Jordans fucked off out of that trailer park. Put Haven back in her place.”
That place, I presume, being under her father’s boot heel as he ground the will to live out of her.
He’s shocked she didn’t do drugs?
I’m shocked she made it to puberty without killing herself.
“I’d have done the same,” I tell him.
He glances at me, lifting a lip to reveal a most unfortunate set of rotting teeth. “The fuck you on about?”
“I get it, Bobby.” I lean in his direction, giving him a conspiratorial smile. “Dealing with these kids day in, day out, it’s fucking exhausting. Sometimes I just need to get out of my own head, you know?”
Bobby says nothing, scratching the side of his neck. It has nothing to do with his grubby skin—that’s withdrawal. From the looks of it, he can’t fucking wait to take the money I gave him and score another fix.
“I tell you,” I say through a laugh, “this week’s been one for the books.”
No need to mention last night’s black out, or how my credit card balance is significantly higher this morning than it was yesterday.
I’ve made several questionable purchases lately.
One of them was a redhead who unironically called herself ‘Ginger Snap.’
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, light glancing off something embedded in my cuticle.
Glitter.
Red glitter.
“Sometimes you just need to blow off some steam, right? Kids don’t get it. I mean, Jesus, what the fuck do they have to stress about?”
Bobby’s eyes flick toward me, a flash of recognition there. One user sizing up another.
“Fucking kids,” he mutters, but cautiously. Testing.
“Everyone’s got their poison.”
He stiffens, mouth pursing. “I ain’t using anymore, if that’s what you’re ‘sinuating,” he lies.
“Me neither,” I lie just as easily. “Told myself this weekend was the last.”
I pick at the piece of glitter trapped in my cuticle.
That reminds me, I need to launder my bedding.
I flex my hand on the steering wheel, pushing the thoughts away.
Focus on Bobby Lee.
If anything can repair the damage between me and Haven, it’s this festering sore of a human being oozing meth-tainted sweat onto my leather. But the fucker is turning out to be a hard nut to crack. I can thank his drug-induced paranoia for that.
Me and paranoia go way back.
Which is why I’m so familiar with its bedfellow, resentment.
“Couldn’t have been easy raising Haven by yourself.”
Silence.
