Page 22 of Allegiant

“And don’t buy me any healthy shit. I don’t want it.”

“You might not, but you need it. You’re an unhealthy boob. You need to eat the vegetables I put in your fridge so you can live long and prosper.”

“Fuck that. I give them to the rabbits.”

I set my phone down between us and meet his stare. “Well, just so you know, I put vegetables in the brownies. And no, not weed. Broccoli.”

His lips part and that crumb falls from his mustache onto his shirt.

I bite back a laugh but I don’t say anything, just turn to look at the old Western show playing on the TV.

We’re quiet for a long moment, and my mind drifts to Samson, the mystery man, before I force it back to Larry. To my current distraction.

My grump of a neighbor is a mystery too. I don’t know much about him, just know he’s a widower, seems not to care about making friends, and walks with a limp.

I’ve tried to ask about his life, but he never answers truthfully.

He once said he was a spy, and a dangerous one at that.

That made me snort my soda out through my nose. Do not recommend.

I haven’t pried any more than that. Maybe that’s a coping mechanism. Maybe not knowing, not caring as much, means they won’t be taken from me too.

“Do we have to watch this show?” I blurt. “It’s boring. How about a nice romance? There’s a nice gay one on right now. It’s all the rage.”

“Don’t like the queers.”

“That’s a lie.”

He snorts, but I see the twinkle in his eyes.

“Because you love me, deep down, and I’m gay as fuck, Larry.”

I reach for the remote, and he swats my hand away with his cane, but he lets me turn the show on anyway. And if I see a little tear in his eye at a particularly emotional moment, I say nothing.

Larry is more than he seems.

My pesky brain decides to return to Samson. To the mystery he presents.

He’s more than he seems too. That dagger… I pull my phone out and open the internet browser, surprised I haven’t done this sooner, and type St. Dismas and his first name into the search bar. I don’t know his last, I realize.

When his picture pops up almost immediately, I gasp, my hands tingling.

What the fuck? Samson is Samson Buckingham? Like, the richest family in St. Dismas?

I had no idea. I mean, I don’t have time to follow high society, and honestly, don’t really care about most of them, but I know the family name. Everyone does. Fuck!

“Why do you look like you’re taking a shit? Don’t do that on my couch.”

I see he’s paused the show, not wanting to miss any part of it. I knew he’d like it. I mean, who wouldn’t?

“I just found out a guy I like is rich…like, way out of my league.” I scratch the side of my head, embarrassed.

Is that why he always keeps running off? He realizes that the dancer he’s touching is a poor fuck who takes him to cheap motels? God, how humiliating. If I’d known…

I shake my head. I would have done the same thing. That motel was accessible and cheap. It served its purpose, and he didn’t seem bothered by any of it.

“Who?” Larry asks, his hand tightening on his cane, like he’s about to whack me in the head with it.