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And I was right. Yeah, I may have laid on the guilt a little thick, but he seems to understand why I did it. I mean, this is my life we’re talking about, and I don’t feel bad for using a little manipulation and a heavy guilt trip to save it. I’m pretty sure nobody else in my place would either. If they say they do, they’re lying.
When you’re in a situation like I am, and you have one shot to get out, you’re going to do whatever you have to do to make that a reality. You will lie, beg, manipulate, and probably even kill to get out of the sort of hell I’ve endured for so long. You’ll do things you never imagined yourself capable of doing. Things you may come to regret later, but you can at least take comfort in knowing that you will have a later in which to regret those things.
Right now, though, I don’t regret a thing. I’ve been honest with Hawk. It doesn’t even really count as guilt-tripping someone when it’s true. I can tell Hawk respects me as a human being, for fighting instead of just rolling over waiting to die. It’s obvious in the way he talks to me but especially in the way he looks at me. I can see it in his eyes.
With a sigh, I push myself out of bed and put on my jeans and a black t-shirt, then my thick socks and tennis shoes. It’s chilly this morning so I pull a black hoodie over me then pull my hair back into its usual ponytail. That done, I head out of my room and into the kitchen. I hear some of the guys in the main room speaking to each other in slow, slurred words. They sound like guys with the worst hangover ever who are trying to piece together what happened the night before.
Smiling to myself, I put on a pot of coffee then scrounge through the cabinets and refrigerator, looking for something to put together for breakfast. I strike gold when I find a couple packets of instant gravy in the pantry and a couple tubes of biscuits in the back of the refrigerator. Don’t know how old they are or if they’re past their expiration date, and I don’t really care. In their condition, they’re probably not going to notice anyway. I set about making breakfast, humming a tune, the weight of the plastic baggie Hawk gave me sending an electric charge through me.
A few minutes later, Hawk enters the kitchen and gives me a knowing glance. Hammerhead is right behind him. I pour them both a cup of coffee and secretly dash a little bit of the powder Hawk gave me into Hammerhead’s mug, then cover it with sugar and creamer, fixing it the way he likes. I turn and hand it to him. He snatches it from me without so much as a thank you. Hawk takes a sip of his own coffee—that he poured himself—and is trying to suppress his smile. Hammerhead takes a long swallow and grimaces.
“This tastes like shit,” he mutters then looks up at me. “How can you fuck up coffee?”
I shrug. “I didn’t do anything different. It’s the same way I always make it.”
He frowns and looks down into his mug and I feel a white-hot bolt of fear that he’ll see some of the poison or whatever is in that baggie floating on the surface of the dark brew. He doesn’t say anything and takes another drink. I blow out a silent breath of relief as I turn back to the stove and stir the gravy.
“I feel like shit this morning,” Hammerhead mutters.
“You were hittin’ it pretty hard last night,” Hawk tells him.
“Was I?”
“Yep,” Hawk confirms. “You don’t remember? Cards won. We practically had a rager.”
I look at him from the corner of my eye and see the confusion on Hammerhead’s face. He’s trying to recall what happened last night but can’t seem to make the connections. I can see the frustration on his face as he struggles with his memory and it makes me want to laugh. Somehow, through a Herculean act of sheer will, I manage to keep myself in check. Hammerhead drains his cup of coffee then pours another himself.
“You all right?” Hawk asks.
“Fine. I’m good,” Hammerhead replies. But he’s looking clammy and his eyes are sunken—even more than usual
I listen to them talking about mundane things—last night’s game, whose team is better, all the usual bullshit male banter. Hammerhead can’t hear the patronizing tone in Hawk’s voice, but I can. He’s humoring him. Hawk doesn’t give a damn about sports. He may like them, but he doesn’t live them the way Hammerhead and the Howlers do. Hawk is just passing the time, waiting for me to dose Hammerhead with whatever is in this plastic bag. I can see in his eyes that he’s got something up his sleeve and I’m just waiting for him to play his cards.
With Hawk distracting him, I drop a couple of biscuits onto a plate then layer the gravy over them. I glance behind me and see that Hammerhead has his back to me, so I pull the baggie out of my pocket and dump it onto the gravy, stirring it with my finger. I avoid licking my finger—though just barely. Instead, I wash it off under the sink. I glance at Hawk over Hammerhead’s shoulder and nod then walk over and hand him the plate. Hammerhead takes it from me and frowns.
“No fuckin’ bacon or sausage?” he growls.
“We didn’t have any in the refrigerator,” I reply. “And it’s not like I can run down to the store and pick some up, now, can I?”
He glares at me and mutters under his breath then walks out of the kitchen. I then hand a plate that hasn’t been laced with whatever was in that baggie to Hawk and send him on his way with a big smile. The rest of the food, I bring out and set down on the table where the spaghetti had been last night. Unlike last night, though, there isn’t a stampede to get to it.
All the guys are sitting around, most of them looking like something dead on the side of the road. They’re all groaning and looking miserable. Hogwild has a bag of frozen peas held to his head and looks a little green around the gills himself. They all look like they might throw up and the sight of the food I brought out only seems to make that worse.
Hammerhead and Hawk take a seat at a table near the back, eating and talking in low tones. I can see in real time that Hammerhead is already starting to feel bad. Not wanting to miss the show, I start dishing up the biscuits and gravy then handing them out to the guys. Most of them look at the plate like I’d just handed them a heaping helping of rat poison. Jammer actually gets up and sprints for the bathroom, retching the entire way. It’s getting harder for me to keep from laughing as I edge closer to the table where Hammerhead is sitting.
“I’m telling you, man, you look like shit,” Hawk says. “You look like you’re getting worse by the minute.”
“Didn’t know you cared, Hawk.”
Hammerhead shovels a big helping of gravy-soaked biscuit into his mouth and chews loudly, smacking his food, which totally grosses me out. But as long as he keeps devouring the food and our secret little ingredient, I don’t care. Hammerhead is sweating now and seems to be having trouble keeping his focus.
“It’s not that I care. I don’t even really like you,” Hawk replies. “But from a business standpoint, I’ve got a vested interest.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Dude, you’re comin’ down off a nasty addiction. You’re going through withdrawal. Obviously,” Hawk presses. “Going cold turkey like this… it’s dangerous. It can fuck with your heart, man.”
A bitter laugh bursts from Hammerhead’s mouth and he points to me. “Ask the bitch over there if I have a heart or not,” he says, glaring at me. “By the way, this tastes like shit too. Did you forget how to cook or somethin’?”
