“I don’t owe you shit.” I went back to the sink full of dishes. “Never have, never will.”
“He’s going to kill me.”
I paused, so briefly I didn’t think she noticed, the last thread of connection between us pulling tight before it snapped. “What am I supposed to do about it?”
“I need money, Octy.” She shifted on her feet, glancing over her shoulder like she was being followed before her eyes pinged around the room. “If I don’t pay him, he’s going to kill me.”
“What else is new?”
“Please,” she begged as she grabbed my arm and forced me to look at her. “I can’t take another beating, Octavian, and he won’t stop there this time. Please.”
She wasn’t wrong when she said that.
Mandy looked like shit, she had for most of my life but it had gotten worse the last couple years before I left, and that was because she’d gotten hooked on something harder than she was already addicted to, which meant she was stealing from her pimp more often.
Apparently she was into him for almost ten thousand dollars.
She told me that while she begged me to give her money. Money I didn’t have since she’d spent my inheritance from Gran and had been taking every cent she could find in my bedroom.
Mandy told me her pimp was going to kill her over ten thousand dollars while begging for my help, right before she pick-pocketed my car keys and stole Gran’s Cadillac from the back parking lot.
I didn’t know that until I got off work around eight in the morning.
Walking out to no car—and none of my shit because I’d already packed the car—sent my blood pressure through the roof and I saw nothing but red.
I went looking for her after a few minutes, though.
Checked all of the crack houses she frequented, the corners she worked. I hit the truck stops and gas stations, every liquor store I knew of, all while trying not to assume the worst.
The worst being that she sold my shit and the car after she found my cash in the lock box under my seat, and I’d be stuck in Illinois for the rest of my life.
That’s when I went back to our shithole apartment and found her.
Mandy had crashed the Cadillac into the lightpost out front while she was actively overdosing, and I pulled her from the driver’s seat, tossed her and her shit in the yard, then drove to the nearest mechanic.
I did call paramedics when I got there, but it was anonymous, quick, and as detached as I felt.
A couple hundred dollars later, I had new headlights, a patched up radiator, and the front end of the car held together with bungee cords but I was finally on the road. On the road and thousands of miles away from Mandy.
I don’t even know if she survived the OD, but I don’t care. I don’t give one single shit, honestly, and there’s even a part of methat hopes that bitch finally died. Mandy Jones has more lives than a fucking cat, I doubt I’d be so lucky.
I don’t have to deal with her anymore, though. Dead or alive.
She doesn’t know where I went, she has no way of getting in touch with me if she didn’t kick the bucket, and if she did, she can watch me start over from her herpes-filled seat in Hell.
“Mr. Jones?”
I blink a few times, pulling my eyes from the biggest stain on the mattress to look at Father Guy. “Pardon?”
He gives me a small smile, the first I’ve seen since he started his welcome speech. “I was just reminding you that dinner is in a half hour. Come to the dining room after you get settled. You look like you could use a hot meal and a good night’s sleep.”
Considering the former was a rarity, and I don’t think I’ve ever had the latter, he’s not wrong.
“Thanks.” I nod as I move toward the bed. “I think I’m going to sign up for a shower, then maybe I’ll come to dinner.”
Father Guy pats my shoulder, a frown quickly passing over his features as I pull away on reflex. “I hope your stay with us gives you peace, and helps you get a little closer to finding what you’re looking for, Mr. Jones.”
I don’t say anything, I just nod again and watch the priest move through the room, greeting the two otherguestson his way out.
