CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Thia
“I’ve been thinking about it, and I think there’s something wrong with your dog,” Rage said. She was sitting on a barstool at the kitchen counter, painting her nails. Pancakes immediately took back his spot on couch the second Rage had gotten up, laying on his back with his legs spread and his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth.
“He’s a coyote,” I corrected.
She turned up her nose. “Well, that would be what’s wrong with your dog then.”
“Do you know what kinds of diseases dogs can carry? Never mind coyotes. I heard once that some dogs can carry STD’s on their tongues and with one little lick on the mouth…” Rage made an exploding motion with the hand she’d just painted. “Boom, herpes.”
I was only half paying attention, my mind and body still humming from my night, and morning, with Bear. “I don’t think that’s true.”
“I don’t know, maybe it was parakeets. Don’t you think that thing could be violent? You know a coyote is not the same thing as a dog.”
“Rage I’ve heard you say the same thing every day for six months.” I pointed to Pancakes who was fast asleep, still upside down, although now he was halfway off the couch, slinking further and further toward the floor with each little snore. “Does that look violent to you?”
“Do I?” Rage asked, blowing on her nails and flashing me her pearly white celebrity looking smile.
“Point made.”
“Can I ask you something?” Rage asked, getting up and strolling around the living room as she examined the pictures on the wall like she hadn’t been seeing the same ones every day for months. “Well, you drugged me so technically you owe me an answer.”
“I prefer to think of it as giving you some much needed sleep.” I struggled with the lid on a jar of peanut butter and was about to use my old bang-it-on-the-counter-until-it-submits trick when Rage walked over and grabbed it out of my hand.
“Hey, I—” I started, but stopped abruptly when Rage twisted it off in one try without putting any effort into it, while I on the other hand, was on the verge of popping a blood vessel in my eye when I had tried.
She handed me the jar and continued her stroll. “You and Bear. Did you… was he…” She sighed and I didn’t know if she was embarrassed to ask me her question or if she couldn’t find the words to ask it.
“Is this a sex question?” I asked, casually, trying to make it less awkward for her.
“Yes,” she answered, picking up a photo off the coffee table of me and my dad when I was still in diapers. He held me in his arms and I was reaching for an orange off the tree. She set it back down.
“What do you want to know?” I asked. Pancakes fell to the floor and startled himself awake. He looked around as if he were looking for whoever pushed him off the couch. Within a few seconds he was back up and back asleep.
“Was he your first?” Rage asked, clearing her throat.
“Yes, he was,” I said, licking the remaining peanut butter off the knife and tossing it into the sink. I handed Rage her PB&J and sat next to Pancakes whose paws were rotating like he was chasing something in his dream.
“And you…like sex with him?” she asked, popping her lips and folding her hands behind her back. She had set her sandwich down on the table without taking a bite.
“Are you sure you’ve had sex before?” I asked, wondering how anyone couldn’t love what it was Bear and I did when we were alone, together, naked, and he was…
“Yes, I have. And I think that’s why I’m so confused,” she admitted. “And in my line of work, I don’t get to talk to too many girls my age.”
“Armed babysitting protection services?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.
Rage laughed and tightened her ponytail. “Protection services,” she repeated, “I like that. Actually, I don’t protect much of anything these days.” She pulled herself up onto the counter, dangling her feet.
“You must have one hell of a good story,” I said, taking a way too big bite.
She scoffed. “I don’t know how good it is.” She looked out the front window and then at me. “But maybe I’ll come back and tell it to you one day.”
A car door slammed and immediately Rage was on her feet with her hand behind her back on her gun. I pushed off the couch, startling Pancakes who ran out the open sliding glass door in the kitchen.
We walked to the front door and I caught a glimpse of a familiar sedan I never wanted to see again. We both stepped onto the porch, me first with Rage following closely behind. “It’s no one,” I grumbled, “Just some guy I shot once,” I said loud enough for Mr. Carson to hear as he made his way up the walk, stopping just short of the steps.
“Well now, that’s not a very nice greeting when I’ve brought you a present,” Mr. Carson said, holding up a manila envelope, bringing memories back of the last time he was here and of another envelope he’d held.
I folded my arms over my chest. Rage stayed behind me, just outside the doorway. “Mr. Carson, you can take your envelope and get back in your car and leave, or this is going to end the same way it did last time.”
Mr. Carson smiled and put a hand over his heart. “Ms. Andrews, I forgive you for what happened last time.”
“I’m not seeking your forgiveness, Mr. Carson.”
He seemed amused by my admission. “Last time, I will admit, I was a piranha. Feeding at the bottom of the barrel. I realize my error now and I have another offer for you.”
I scowled. “Make your offer to the bank. In about six months this place will be theirs. I’m sure you can work out a deal that best fits your black soul and their fat wallets.”
“You sound bitter, Ms. Andrews. Let me make this better,” Mr. Carson said. “Sunnlandio Corporation doesn’t want to wait the six months. Time is money and everything like that. So we are making you a much better offer. We would like you to sign over the property now and we will handle all debts and put a sizeable amount of cash in your pocket. Trust me, it will be worth your while.” He again held up the folder. “The numbers even surprised me.” Out of pure frustration and an overwhelming desire for Mr. Carson to leave, I made a move to go down the steps and grab the file.
Rage stopped me by grabbing me by the arm. “I’ll get it,” she said. She went down the steps slowly, snatching the file from Mr. Carson’s hand. Rage’s eyes lingered there, on his hand, for just a fraction of a second.
“And who might you be?” Mr. Carson asked, sounding a lot like he was talking to a toddler.
“Management,” Rage answered. She opened the file and quickly scanned whatever was in there. “It’s legit, Thia. I think you guys should sit and talk about it,” she said, but there was something off about her voice. I’d heard her cheery, I’d heard her bored, I’d heard her complain A LOT, but this tone wasn’t like anything I’d ever heard from her before. I searched her eyes for some sort of ulterior meaning, but found nothing.
“Come on inside, Mr. Carson. We were just making iced tea,” Rage said, leading Mr. Carson up the steps, passing me on their way into the house. A huge victory smile plastered across his rat like face.
I should have aimed for his fucking head.
“Have a seat. My name is Mandy. I’m Thia’s cousin,” Rage said.
Her name is what?
Mr. Carson took a seat at the table while Rage opened kitchen cupboards and started taking random things out, setting them on the counter.
That’s when I saw it. The very small, very subtle look she shot me. I would have missed it a nanosecond later but luckily I hadn’t. She looked between me and then the knives in the butcher block on the counter, and then finally Mr. Carson. The smile never left her face and her attention never left our guest, but the message couldn’t have been more clear.
“I’ll cut some lemons,” I said, grabbing a knife and walking over to the refrigerator. We had no lemons, but on my way back from the refrigerator I managed to slip the knife into Rage’s waiting hand.
“Here we go,” Rage said, walking around the counter with an empty pitcher. Mr. Carson looked at it and then looked at her, his forehead creasing in confusion. Rage dropped the plastic pitcher and when Mr. Carson’s eyes followed it to the floor, Rage grabbed his wrist and set it on the table. In what seemed like no time at all, she raised the knife and ran it through the back of Mr. Carson’s hand, pinning him to the table.
He screamed and reached inside his jacket, but Rage was faster. She pushed his jacket down his shoulders, locking his arms to his sides and preventing him from getting to whatever it was he was reaching for. She pointed to the knives and I tossed her another one and she did the same with his other hand. The screaming escalated.
She reached into his jacket and removed his gun.
Then, as if she hadn’t just stabbed a man, TWICE, she calmy pulled out her gun, set it on the table next to his, making sure to point both of them toward Mr. Carson. She took a seat at the table while he continued to wail.
“You bitch!” he cried out, throwing his head back.
“You BASTARD,” Rage said. She reached over and yanked up the sleeve of his jacket, revealing the Beach Bastards emblem emblazoned on his forearm.
“What?” I asked, clamping a hand over my mouth, not believing what I was seeing.
“Thia, why don’t you be a doll and get us some rope?” Rage instructed.
“Rope?” I asked. “What for?” Mr. Carson tried to move his hands but only succeeded in making his wounds larger and the blood pour out faster.
All the other variations I’d seen of Rage’s personality disappeared and were replaced by the sinister being staring hatred into her new captive. Rage smiled sweetly. “’Cause, Thia darling, this is the South and I’m in the mood for a good old fashioned hanging.”