Page 64 of Trailer Trash

I am going to kill Killian.

16

Killian

The swinging wooden door flies open as I blow past it. The stall doors are open. Good. I twist the lock, subtle and quick.

Jaxson washes his hands in the sink.

“Oh, hey!” I say. “We keep bumping into each other.”

He glances over and smiles. “Right.”

I pull out a joint and press it between my lips. I bring the lighter close but stop myself. I waggle my finger at him.

“Don’t tell Harlow. It’ll break her heart. You know how women are.”

He gives the smallest, polite nod.

I light the end, taking in a half-drag.

Burns. Stinks. Love it.

I hold it out to him. “Hit?”

He pauses, his smile unsure.

I push harder. “I mean, is weed even a drug?”

Still, he hesitates. “No problem, bud. More for the joker-man.” I point at my jaw. I know he’s thinking it. His gaze keeps shifting to my scars. “Did you see my girl? Nina? I got her laughing so hard, I’m definitely getting laid tonight. If God didn’t want me to smoke and fuck, he shouldn’t have made weed pure and women beautiful.”

“God is great,” he says without skipping a beat. Then he chuckles before taking the joint. “One puff of God’s greatness won’t hurt.”

I smirk, feeling victorious. I had my computer-nerd buddy, Atticus, look up this guy. Religious was at the top.

I lick my lips, waiting.

He inhales and holds the smoke before coughing. He returns the joint and says, “Harlow says you’re funny. Got any jokes?”

“No doubt, I do. Here’s one. I bet you think you’re gonna get your dick wet tonight, huh?”

He freezes. Blinks. Then straightens. “What?”

I take a slow step forward, then blow a plume of smoke straight into his face. He moves back fast, but there’s nowhere to go but a wall. His shoulders bump into it, but my knuckles are already flying, hitting him right in the throat. He clutches his neck and coughs, violent and desperate.

I punch his gut in quick succession, then knee his ribs. He buckles onto the tile floor, curling into the fetal position as I deliver a firm kick to his spine.

“You see, you fucker.” Kick. Kick. “She may be dressed like a whore for you tonight, but her ass is mine.”

I reach into my pocket, pulling out my pocketknife and snapping it open. The blade rests against his cheek, ready to slice or plunge into his eye.

“What the fuck!” he yells.

“You like looking at my scars? Want some of your own?”

He trembles, but remains fixed in place, afraid my blade will move.

“Come on, man. Let me go,” he begs.