How to Kill Yourself in a Small Town (27 page)

Tough

Even
though the moon was less than a quarter full, I could see fine with the vamp
senses. The cabin was sitting at the tree line. Colt’s Explorer was parked by
the shed, one tire low from sitting for a month. I could hear the punching bag
swinging on its rope in the shed and smell the gunpowder and plastic-ex. So the
arsenal was still there.

The
place looked pretty much like it had five years ago when I left, minus the
snow. If I’d landed on my ass with Ryder yelling, “Get up, Baby Boy. Ain’t no
fucking foot soldier just going to kick you in the face and walk away,” I don’t
think I would’ve been too surprised.

Actually,
it would’ve been kind of nice if Ryder did suddenly materialize. Then I’d have
something to focus on instead of the way Desty kept sniffing like she was
trying not to cry.

I’d
got her backpack out of the truck and brought it up here for her. Wasn’t that
enough of an apology? It wasn’t like I could tell her I got made so I could
make her and keep her safe from Kathan, but that blew up when I realized what
it really meant to be cut off from God and barred from Heaven. Even if she begged
me, I could never make her now that I knew.

In
my head, I tried to make the argument about me not being able to talk and Desty
being unfair. Make it seem like we barely knew each other and that I shouldn’t
have to answer to her about anything, but it was all bullshit. I knew if I held
Desty’s hand or kissed her, she would understand. Desty always seemed to know
what I was saying when I touched her.

Then
the vamp-serial-killer-rapist chimed in with all the shit he wanted to do to
make her understand and pissed me off all over again.

“I
can’t,” Colt said. “There’s a reason. It has to do with no alcohol. Yeah, but—”
He had to put his shoulder against the cabin door to shove it open. It always
stuck in the heat. “—last time I thought the wrong thing, the black noise came
up and I started seeing shit. Oh, boo-fucking-hoo.”

That
stopped me cold. I let the “Gold fucking star” slide before because I thought
maybe Colt was joking, but this was too damn far. I followed Colt and Desty
into the kitchen.

Did
you just say “boo-fucking-hoo?”
I asked Colt.

No
answer. He flipped on the light and looked around.

“Looks
like I left yesterday,” he said.

Colt,
I know you can hear me. Tell me what you just said.

He
looked at me. “About what?”

Why’re
you talking like Ryder?

“I’m
not.”

I
heard you. Desty heard you.

“Who’s
Dusty?”

“Desty,”
she said. “It’s short for Modesty.”

“Sorry.”
Colt shook his head. “I knew who you were, just not—” He looked at me. “Wait a
damn minute. I’m not talking like Ryder.”

You
said “boo-fucking-hoo” and “gold fucking star.”

“Ryder
said that,” Colt said. “I didn’t.”

What
the hell was I supposed to say to that? Ryder was dead. He’d been dead for five
years. Mikal chopped him up into a million pieces—and she didn’t use her fiery
sword to do it, either, because that would’ve just sent Ryder on to Heaven or
Hell the second it cut into him. She had hacked him up with a big-ass hunting
knife and she made sure he stayed alive as long as possible. But Colt was
supposed to know that already. He was the one who’d had to pick up the pieces.

Colt
took a step back from me and bumped into the kitchen table.

“I
know Ryder’s dead,” he said. “But he keeps fucking bothering me, so he must not
be dead enough.” Colt looked at the sink. “Could you shut the hell up for five seconds?”
Then back at me. “You heard him. I know you heard him.”

The
hell I did.

“You
laughed in the truck when he called you a commie fag.”

You
said that!

“Bullshit,”
Colt yelled back. “I’m not fucking crazy!”

He
looked scared and that pissed me off worse than anything else. Colt wasn’t
supposed to be scared of anything.

“Guys,”
Desty said, stepping between us. “Whatever you’re arguing about doesn’t matter.
No one thinks you’re crazy, Colt.”

I
do. I think you’re bat-shit crazy,
I told him.
I can deal with
the old OCD shit or you freaking out and talking to yourself, but Ryder is not
here. Him, Sissy, Dad, and Mom? They’re all dead. That bitch who had you
chained up like her fucking dog killed them.

Colt
put his head in his hands and started whispering something under his breath. I
should’ve been able to hear it, but everything except “Mikal” was too
run-together to make out.

Desty
glared at me like she knew what I’d said to him.

“It.
Doesn’t. Matter,” she said. “You’re making it worse by arguing. Stop.” She took
a step toward Colt. “Colt, do you remember who I am?”

After
a second, he looked up at her.

“Grace,”
he said.

She
smiled at him. My fists started shaking and metal music screamed in my head.

“Desty,”
she said. “Short for Modesty.”

“Right,”
he said. “I knew it was one of the virtues.”

Desty
laughed that little breath-laugh she always did when we were making out or
having sex. Something exploded inside my chest. I spun around and put my fist
through the counter. The particle board vaporized. Pieces of the laminate stuck
in my arm.

“Tough?”
I felt Desty touch my shoulder, but I shook her off hard enough that she
stumbled backward. “Fine. Be mad at me if you have to, but don’t be mad at
Colt.”

That
helped a whole lot. She should’ve just told me to fuck off so she could fuck my
brother.

I
jerked my arm out of the counter and headed for the door.

“Tough,
wait,” Desty said.

The
door slammed so hard that the glass broke. The vamp speed kicked in and I was
halfway to the creek before the last piece hit the floor in the cabin. I got in
the truck and started it up. Tore back through the pasture to the gravel road.
I hoped Rian was still patrolling this side of town. You might not be able to
kill a fallen angel, but I bet you could sure beat the hell out of one.

Colt

“Dammit.
I wasn’t mad at him. I was just so pissed that—” I couldn’t think of a way to
say it. For almost three months after Ryder died, I’d begged God to get Tough killed
in Nashville. Someone there would’ve stabbed him for his guitar or shot him for
being a smartass—whatever they do in big cities. It would’ve been fast and
anonymous, easier on him and easier on me. “But Tough didn’t just come back
alive, he came back with a pair of protectors Kathan could keep on a leash.”

Glass
crunched. Grace was stepping in what was left of the big pane in the door.

“Shit,
don’t cut yourself, Grace. Let me get the broom.”

“My
name’s—”

Whatever
she was saying faded out when I saw the broom and the dustpan, just leaning
against the fridge, right where I left them.

This
wasn’t real. Standing around with my brother’s girlfriend, sweeping up broken
glass? Normal people swept floors. Sane people. Brain-damaged nutcases didn’t.
They sat in the dark, fighting their straightjackets and giggling, waiting for
the next round of electroshock to burn the crazy out.

There
wasn’t any way I was here. Not really. This was all in my head.

“Colt?”
Grace’s voice sounded far away. “Are you okay?”

I
had to swallow so I could talk.

“Yeah,
I—” I got a death grip on the broom. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Convincing,”
Ryder said.

“Fuck
you,” I said.

He
snorted and spit into his bottle. “You know the thing I always liked best about
you, Sunshine? When you know you’re wrong, you just tell everybody to fuck off.
That’s a winner’s attitude right there.”

I
ignored him and started sweeping.

“Would
you like some help?” Grace asked.

“That’s
all right.”

Grace
took a step toward me.

“I
could hold the dustpan for—”

“No,
don’t move,” I said. “I mean, I’ve got it.”

It’s
strange to realize you’re doing something obsessive and not be able to stop
yourself. Watching Grace watch me freak out and sweep the whole kitchen, then
sweep it again made me feel as if I’d gone back in time to the time to living
with Ryder and Tough.

When
I made it all the way around the floor the second time, I got out the trashcan
and dumped the dustpan into it.

There
was something too rotted to recognize in the bottom of the bag, but I knew it was
a hamburger. I had made it out on the grill, tried to eat, couldn’t even get
half of it down. I’d been preoccupied with something. Mikal…the Dark Mansion…a
Tac-Ops Tango-51?

I
tried to think who the hell I’d be picking off with an old model sniper rifle
at the Dark Mansion—and without a suppressor. Might as well’ve strapped a bomb
to my chest and rang the doorbell. Maybe that was why I’d been too anxious to
eat.

Then
I saw Grace looking out the door’s broken window.

“She’s
going to cry,” Ryder said, scraping his boot on the floor. “Son of a bitch. Way
to be a man, Baby Boy.”

I
leaned the broom and dustpan back against the fridge, and tried to think of a
way to comfort Grace. Crying girls paralyze me. I know they don’t always cry
because they’re hurt physically, but that was what it felt like—like I fucked
up and let them get hurt.

I
touched Grace’s arm. “Are you all right?”

She
smiled and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Yeah,
just being stupid.” She brushed the bangs out of her face. They were too short
to tuck behind her ear, but she tried anyway. “I’m pretty tired. Is there a
place I can lay down?”

“In
here.”

I
went into the bedroom and turned on the light. Just being in there at night
made me feel a little uneasy, but Grace didn’t act like it bothered her. The
bed was made. A three-quarters-full bottle of SoCo on the dresser. Top drawer
would be socks and underwear. Middle drawer two shirts, an HK .45, and a full
magazine. Bottom drawer empty.

That
wasn’t right. I’d put something in the bottom drawer. Top—socks and underwear.
Middle—shirts, .45, full magazine. Bottom—what?

I
jerked open the bottom drawer. There was a black and red box inside with
BawdyHeat—Heat
Up the Night
printed in spiky letters across the front and sides.

Grace
was standing beside me. I handed her the box.

“Tell
me I’m not seeing things again,” I said. “What are those?”

“Aw,
for fuck’s sake,” Ryder said, rolling his head back on his shoulders.

“Shut
the hell up,” I told him. “I didn’t ask you. I asked Grace.”

“Desty,”
she said.

“Right.
Short for Modesty,” I remembered. “Tell me what those are.”

“Condoms,”
Desty said. “For vampires.”

“That’s
what I thought.” I took the box back and turned it over. It hadn’t been opened.
“You and Tough haven’t been out here, have you?”

Desty
shook her head.

“I—
We can’t use those,” she said.

“Why
do I have vamp condoms?”

Ryder
spit into his bottle and shrugged. “Somebody making an educated guess might say
‘fucking a vamp.’”

I
remembered Beth Ann at the drug store giving me that satisfied smirk people get
when they find out a preacher’s wife has been cheating on him. That must’ve
been when I bought them. I remembered smelling cinnamon, too. Or thinking about
cinnamon. Smells are supposed to be able to trigger memory, but this one
didn’t. Brain damage.

“I’ve
only ever had sex with Mikal,” I said. I wouldn’t have forgotten, not even with
the brain damage. Sex is a physical expression of love. That’s part of why I
was so upset when I found out Tough was going to sleep with that pedophile
bitch, Mitzi, so she and Jason would be his protectors. He was just a kid. He
didn’t love Mitzi, but if you have sex with someone it’s hard not to feel like
you love them, like you’re giving them your heart. And once they have it, they
can crush it, the way Mitzi crushed Tough.

Ryder
snorted.

“Yeah,
Tough’s the one that got crushed,” he said. “You’ve got an unopened box of
condoms, a rotten supper for one, and nobody, nowhere gave a fuck when Kathan
handed you over to Mikal.”

That
feeling—I remembered it. Before Mikal, I used to train so I didn’t have to
think about it. Some days I got in upwards of twelve hours. Near the end it had
been sword drills mostly, because… I couldn’t remember why and I didn’t really
care. The point was I’d been a sorry fucking loser trying to pretend like it
was okay that all I’d ever done in twenty-four years was fight fallen angels or
prepare to fight fallen angels or get my ass handed to me by fallen angels.
Everyone in my family was either dead or hated me enough not to talk to me, I
didn’t have a girlfriend or any friends, and everybody in Halo thought I was a
homicidal psycho who got what he deserved. Mikal had at least wanted me. She
loved me.

I
pushed past Grace out of the room. Left the cabin door hanging open.

But
when I got onto the porch, the lines were back, just like in the truck.
Different colors of light stretching across the sky like strings. Some of them
moved. The one that freaked me out the most was a yellow-orange one arching
down through the woods and into the cabin.

I
dropped onto the top step and leaned against a post. Tried to keep breathing
and hoped the lines would disappear again.

After
a while Ryder came out, leaned against the other post, and looked up at the
lines with me.

“I
hate this fucking town,” I said.

“I
always did, too,” he said.

“Tough’s
right. There ain’t any such thing as ghosts.”

Ryder
shook his head like he was disgusted with me. “Come on, Colt, you ought to be
able to recognize your own fucking mental construct when you see it.”

Con
-struct.
The same way Ryder—the real Ryder—used to say
gui
-tar and
con
-cert.
Dad’s old-Missouri drawl that Ryder always used to put on because he thought it
made him sound badass.

“Tough
did what he had to do to survive and so did you,” Ryder said.

I
thought it over. “I made up my older brother to tell me what to do because I
knew Mikal was going to wear me down until I couldn’t eat or piss or think
without her permission?”

Ryder
spit into his bottle and scraped his lip on the rim.

“I
like to think you made me up to kick your ass if you tried to go back to her,”
he said. “Thought I was going to have to for a second there.”

I
looked back up at the lines in the sky, then had to look away when a green one
followed something or someone through the woods too close for comfort.

“I
was hoping those were yours,” I said.

“SOL,”
Ryder said. He snorted. “Sunshine’s outta luck.”

I
shouldn’t just sit there. Holding still, not doing anything—that was when
everything piled up. I needed to be training, working on a new strategy,
something. I needed a plan. That had always helped before Mikal. With Mikal…
She hadn’t given anything the chance to pile up. Between the torture and the
headfucks and the literal fucking, I’d barely had time to think.

My
face burned. I scrubbed my hands across my cheeks like that would stop them
from turning Whitney-red. I missed that sadistic bitch so bad my stomach hurt.

“I
fucking love her. What the hell is wrong with me?”

“You
want the short list?” Ryder asked. “Pretty much everything.”

I
nodded. Tried to think. If there’d been a plan before, there wasn’t much chance
it had included an “in case of survival” contingency.

“So,
what now?” I asked.

“Exactly,”
Ryder said.