“Yeah.” It’s an exhale, and an agreement, but it could’ve been a curse for how he says it. “I know that, too.”
I’m glad he does. I look over at Maverick, obviously confused. He might know what’s going on. I have no clue.
And no one tells me.
CHAPTER 14
Darryl takes us on a tour through East Jersey.
How nice of him. If only it was actually out of the kindness of his heart, and not because he wants to show off how impossible it’ll be for us to leave without his blessing.
Despite being what Maverick called a prison town, it doesn’t seem that different from the Grave. Most of the people live in a strip of houses that are connected together like the collection of townhouses on the far side of Grove Avenue; the idea of having your neighbors as close as possible is one that Jack believes in, too.
There are six interconnected apartment complexes that make up East Jersey. According to Darryl, the next three streets beyond it belong to the settlement, too. Past that, there’s a fully infested lurker nest. They keep the monsters at bay by a row of torches that one of the men in town lights every evening before the sun goes down.
The first apartment complex is built in a square. On the inside, there’s a large patch of grass with a wooden platform erected in the middle. I don’t know what that is, and—still listening to Mav’s advice—I don’t ask.
Darryl doesn’t explain. I guess he thinks it’s obvious. That, or he and Maverick already know what the deal is with some kind of… I don’t know. Stage? It reminds me of a stage.
There is more wood behind another one of the complexes. A stockpile, obviously. They have barrels of gasoline, too, and I’m envious of their supply. These ex-cons seem to know what they’re doing.
After the quick tour—when I get the feeling that it’s more about showing Maverick how guarded his territory is while also showing me off to the people who mill about, doing work and gawking at us—he brings up to his designated home. I’m not surprised that it’s the nicest one on the block. A real McMansion, it’s twice as big as the others surrounding it.
I can tell that Maverick would rather go anywhere than inside. I’m right there with him. Darryl’s friendly act is just that: an act. We’re fucked, and I don’t even need the warning Maverick gives me to know to keep my mouth shut. He’s on his guard. His body is tensed, a small tic in his jaw as he attempts to hold up his end of the conversation with Darryl.
I’ve never heard him talk this much at once. They’re all meaningless little comments designed to keep the older man’s attention on him instead of me, but no matter how many people think I’m innocent and naive, I’m not. I can see how closely Darryl is paying attention to me even as he plays the role of host.
My zipper is still up as high as it can go. Pointless. Rory’s jacket was tailored to his taller, broader frame, and it covers up my shape. Useless. The steely look in Darryl’s eyes makes it obvious that he’s undressing me with his gaze.
What the fuck? I’m covered in dirt, my hair is ratty and tangled, and I smell of sweat, smoke, and the outdoors. He can’t be so hard up for a little pussy that he’s willing to ignore the fact that Maverick called me his, right? I mean, I’mnot, and Mav’snever given me any hint that he’s interested, but if he’s willing to stand between me and the men of East Jersey, I’m okay with it.
In fact, as I sidle closer to him, clutching his sleeve, I notice Darryl picking up on the gesture.
He pushes in the door, holding out his hand so that we stay on the porch. Before I can yank on Maverick, hissing at him that we should find a way out of this, Darryl sticks his head inside.
“Girls? Your husband’s home. And I’ve brought guests so I hope we can squeeze two more in at the dinner table.”
I don’t know what stuns me more: the plural of “girls” or the way that he calls himself their husband.
Ten minutes later, when I’m sitting between Maverick and Darryl at a large, oval table that seats ten, I decide: both. It’s fuckingboth.
And how do I know that it seats ten? Because between me, Mav, Darryl, and Darryl’ssixwives, that’s how many people are perched around it, eating the meal of spaghetti and some questionable meat sauce that Bernadette— Darryl’s first wife—had cooked with the help of Felicity—his most recent acquisition.
Dinner is quiet time. Thank God, and I don’t mean that ironically. Darryl makes a display of saying grace before any of us are allowed to eat. Even then, his wives all wait like well-behaved robots for him to eat his fill before they pick up their own forks.
I’ve learned not to turn down food, but this is rough. With my nerves making my belly squirm, it takes everything I have to force mouthfuls down. It’s obvious I’ll offend our host if I refuse more of his hospitality. Maverick chows down, and so do I.
Because he started the meal first, Darryl finishes before the rest of us. He disappears between the end of dinner and only returns about ten minutes later when one of the youngest wives—with a big belly that almost makes me lose my appetite whenI realize why she’s waddling—heads into the kitchen, returning with a cake.
I’m sure it’s delicious. Since the Turning, so many survivors have altered recipes to suit whatever supplies are left, and this almost tastes like it could’ve been made from fresh milk and eggs in the before times.
Doesn’t keep it from going down like concrete.
I don’t know what to expect as dessert comes to a close. By now, it’s gotta be getting close to sundown. Even if Darryl sends us on our merry way, is there enough time to find a safe place to sleep for the night?
Or are we stuck here?
That’s what I’m worried about, and I don’t have to worry for long before I understand that Darryl’s “welcome” isn’t over quite yet.
