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That’s all the last two weeks have been.
A solid fucking waste.
Much like the way I have to stay in this fucking town.
I know how William Varon thinks. I’ve trained myself to be him without crossing certain lines unless absolutely necessary.
I know he’ll somehow convince himself that Sylvie Davis is responsible for his actions, that Cerberus is the reason Greta was brave enough to blow his cover and take that injured girl to the hospital.
He’ll never be able to reconcile that she mustered enough bravery to defy him. He’s too narcissistic for that, too convinced that he’s the ultimate educator, to ever admit his own faults.
That means he’s coming after her. He’ll never be able to get back to normal until she’s wiped from the face of the earth.
It also means Cerberus will realize the same thing.
I noticed Sylvie back at the clubhouse. If she stays there, it doesn’t exactly make things impossible for me, but it does complicate the situation.
Being caught watching the clubhouse will bring on trouble I don’t need. It would be much easier to watch her from her own house in town. I can only hope for the best outcome at this point.
Meaning, I have to stay in fucking Farmington, New Mexico until Varon is brought to his knees. It’s his punishment for losing control, his sanction for making me lose a paycheck.
I can’t leave until he’s taken care of.
I hardly register the cool temps of the water as I shower because my thoughts are focused elsewhere.
Lauren fucking Vos.
My skin itches as I scrub at it, but the images of her standing, looking shocked when her eyes first landed on me, just won’t dissipate.
I vowed to never see that bitch again because doing what I wanted if I did makes my stomach twist.
Darkness and the stench of rancid sewer infiltrate my mind.
Slices of a knife.
The poking and prodding.
The sinister laughs of Satan and his minions in the flesh.
The things I had to do to prove I was just as evil as them.
All of it washes over me, taking up the dark corner of my mind before I can shove it all back down.
She did this to me.
I was a saint back then compared to the man I am today.
I remember how your lips felt on mine.
The woman doesn’t have a fucking clue.
Kiss her? I’d rather use my teeth to rip the fucking flesh from her bones.
I toss the thin towel to the floor before making sure my gun is on the bedside table.
I’d prefer sheets that weren’t itchy, but nicer hotels don’t let you pay in cash. They require a credit card for incidentals and shit. It’s not possible to stay in the shadows if you’re using your American Express card all over the fucking place.
It’s not the irritation on my skin keeping me from sleeping. It’s not thoughts of putting an end to William Varon or wondering what’s going to happen to that little girl.
