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From my lying position on the couch, I can see his outline through the plaid curtain. The curtain is faded and worn. It came with the house, and I’ve had zero desire to change it. Make it more personalized. That just isn’t me, and it’s certainly not in the funds. Besides, from what I hear, Derek Wordon is making bank. Good for him. Icouldn’t give a rat's ass, but I also can’t help but overhear shit when I go into town. This place is full of gossip, worse than prison, and even though I grew up here, I’m still amazed at how much shit people have to say about one another.
It’s like they’re bored or something. They have no idea what boredom truly is. When they sit in a cell with nothing more than a cellmate, we can discuss what it truly means to be bored.
So, basically, if Derek doesn’t like the curtains, he can change them himself. Between him and me, we both know he’s too cheap to do that.
He rings the doorbell again.
Suppressing a growl, I set my beer down on the end table, slide my legs off the couch, and head to the door. The door is full of claw marks because the previous tenants had three huskies. I’ve found the evidence throughout the place since I moved in a few months ago when prison finally let me go. Dog hair. Dug holes. Chewed trim. The works.
Swinging the door open, I watch as Derek, who is wiping the spittle from his mouth with the back of his hand, looks me up and down. I’m wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. This may be his trailer, but it’s my home, and if I don’t want to change after I work out, I don’t have to.
“Did you get those abs in jail?” Derek asks when he raises his frown to me. “I don’t remember you having those before you went. You were a scrawny kid.”
I grunt. “There wasn’t much else to do but lift a few weights.”
“I assume that’s what you were doing by all the sweat.” He gestures vaguely to my body.
I look down at my stomach, which shines with perspiration. Yes, before my beer, I was working out, but what the fuck does that have to do with anything? “What do you want, Derek?” I don’t pay him rent; it comes out of the work I do for him. I can’t think of another reason he’d stop by because surely he learned a long time ago that I’ve never been the person for a chat.Thatfact infuriated my cellmate, who was compelled to tell me everything about his life, and I refused to tell him anything in return. He knew why I was in – everyone did – but that’s all I’d give away. I only told them in hopes that they’d leave me alone, but that didn’t deter my cellmate one bit.
“Are you going to invite me in?”
Since I’m several inches taller, I scowl down at him. “Why?”
He matches my scowl until I relent and step aside. Whatever he’s here for must be good if he wants to come inside.
I shut the door behind him and watch as he takes in my space. It isn’t much. When I went to prison as a teen, I didn’t own anything besides the clothes on my back, and I outgrew those a long time ago. Everything I have, I've bought over the last few months thanks to the work I do for Derek.
A couch sits in the middle of the living room and faces a too-small TV. The TV only gets a few sports channels and one news program. Most of the time, I sit with it off.
Beside the couch is the end table with my beer squatting on it. Between the coffee, the protein shakes, and the beers, there are permanent circle marks on the wood surface.
I have no pictures, nothing to give away my interests and hobbies. Not that I have any. I didn’t before I wentaway either. My interests surrounded my sister and making sure she was protected.
Beyond the living room is a kitchen that has the bare minimum of kitchenware. I don’t cook, so the freezer is stocked full of frozen dinners, but the fridge at least has fruits, vegetables, and protein drinks.
To the right of the kitchen is a hallway that leads to the only bedroom and bathroom. The bed is second-hand from an estate auction a few towns over. It was probably owned by an old bat who died in her sleep, but I couldn’t care less. It’s a place to sleep, nothing more.
“Still redecorating, I see,” Derek says when he gets his fill of my space.
I grunt again and cross my arms over my chest. “Is that what you came for? To see if I settled in?”
“I have to admit, you not making this homey has me nervous that you’re flighty.”
I chuckle, drop my arms, and head to my beer. After a swig, I scratch at the stubble of my jaw. “I’m not going anywhere. I just don’t see any reason to make it more than what it is.”
“And that is?” he presses.
“A roof over my head.”
“I see,” he comments dryly with a nod. While he heads into a small bout of coughs, I sit on the couch and relax. “Damn this . . . whatever this is.”
“You look like shit, Derek.” He does. He’s thinner than he used to be, and it’s only been a couple of weeks since I saw him last. Dark circles are starting to appear under his eyes, too. No doubt, if he’s coughing like this all the time, he probably isn’t sleeping well either.
He clears his throat and rolls his shoulders. “I swear to god, if the doctor doesn’t have answers by my next visit…”
“What? You’ll fire him?” I ask with humor.
“Well, I’ll do something,” he answers defensively.
