Page 14 of Cain

“I’ve got a gun!” someone that sounds a lot like a fucked up Storm shouts from behind the trailer door.

“Don’t shoot, you dickhead. It’s Evan.” I still find myself putting my hands up, unsure of what he’s about to do.

“Evan?”

“Yeah, Storm. Evan. You know, your… friend?” I say with a wince. I don’t even know what to call myself to him. That’s how little we talk. A few moments of uncomfortable silence pass, as if he’s trying to remember who I am, before I hear a lock being flipped over, and the door flies open.

Oh my god.

He looks rough.

Rough as in, ‘I drank a bunch of Long Islands, took a Xanax, and don’t remember the night.’ His hair is sticking in every direction, not styled like that on purpose, but from the grease I can see from here. And if the smell I’m getting from 10 feet away is anything to go by, I don’t think he’s showered in a while.

Ugh. Fuck my life. Why can’t anything ever go smoothly anymore?

“Why are you here? How did you find this place?” Storm rushes out before I can even get a word in. His body is wound tight as his left leg bounces up and down, his eyes scanning all over the drive and yard behind me.

Is he for real right now?

I texted him not even two hours ago, asking to meet up. I gave him a bogus story about wanting to talk about having more stuff to move, but really, I just want to feel him out to see if he knows anything about last night.

The impending dread I was feeling earlier is back with a vengeance.

“I texted you a couple of hours ago asking if we could meet up, and you sent me this address. You don’t remember?”

“Oh. Yeah, right. Of course.” He waves me in, his eyes still scanning quickly over the area behind me.

You know that feeling you get when you feel like you’re being watched but don’t see anyone watching you? That’s exactly how I feel right now. The amount of times he’s looked behind me has me turning around and doing a scan before I step inside.

The overwhelming stench that greets my nose has me inhaling sharply.

Holy mother of god. What is that smell? Looking around, trying to find the source but coming up with a million different possibilities of the cause because, let’s be honest here, the place is fucking trashed. Imagine if a hoarder and the dirtiest person you can think of had a baby. That’s what Storm’s place would be.

Does he even know what a trash can is?

I can’t see anything on the countertops because takeout containers are stacked up to the bottom of the cabinets. Random wrappers, papers, dirty clothes, and boxes are scattered all over the floor.

Oh god. Please tell me that isn’t a used condom in the corner.

It’s official.

I’m going to fucking throw up.

“So, uh, how have you been?” I ask, forcing back my gag.

“Oh, you know, the usual. I stay pretty busy with my contacts and the pussy that throws itself at me.” He smirks a yellow-toothed smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Ugh. Ick. He gives me the fucking ick.

I would have thought being back behind the closed door of his trailer would ease some of his anxiety but his leg is still bouncing. As I scan him up and down, he almost seems more uncomfortable.

Is it because I’m in his personal space? I guess I haven’t ever dropped by like this before. He doesn’t exactly seem like the type to know what your standard social protocols are, considering he didn’t even attempt to clean. This definitely seems deeper than that, though. Now that I’m up close and can really look into his eyes, I notice that he’s high as hell.

“Have you had any issues with the product lately?” I cut straight to the chase. No sense in beating around the bush because I have about 5 good minutes left of breathing this disgusting fucking air. It’s the kind of dirty that makes you want to leave and bathe in bleach.

“No.” He shakes his head quickly. “No, not at all.” If I hadn’t already been focused on Storm, I would have missed how he refused to make eye contact and how his leg bounce seemed to pick up speed.

Well, well, well. I think I have myself a coked-out liar on my hands.

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