Page 45 of Bloom: Part 1

Saint stopped at a house even shabbier than the rest in this forsaken district. The peeling paint and boarded windows screamed neglect. A flickering neon sign advertising some defunct business tilted dangerously on the rooftop. A rusted metal gate led to an equally decrepit yard littered with discarded items.

“Jesus, Winter.” Saint unbuckled his seat belt. “What the fuck have you gotten yourself into this time?”

I slowly followed Saint into the yard, careful not to put pressure on my leg. Winter’s hog wasn’t parked anywhere, so maybe he wasn’t here after all.

“I don’t have my knives.”That’s the last time I remove them, even for a formal event.

“Here.” Saint thrust his knife into my hand. His gun was tucked into the waistband of his jeans. “Do not act unless I give you the go-ahead.”

“Well, this ain’t gonna be fun, then.”

“I’m serious, Bloom!”

I rolled my eyes. “I won’t kill anybody unless you say so.”

Maybe.

Saint knocked on the door, then pounded when no one opened it.

“Hold your horses.” The door swung open, revealing a tall, thinly built man with a goatee, sallow skin, and the flesh under his eyes sagging. Bruises from needles peppered the inside of his arms to the extent they were almost black. Apart from the needle marks, tiny sores dotted his hands.

“We ain’t got no drugs left.” He raked his gaze over my body with a predatory leer and grinned, displaying a mouth of missing and some rotted teeth. “But for you, I may be able to part with my personal supply.”

I withdrew my knife. “Now can I kill him?” I asked Saint.

“Not yet.” He pulled a pair of disposable gloves from his pockets and handed them to me. “For safety.”

I frowned but took the gloves and slipped them on. First we had to find Winter and get him home.

“Wait, what the hell’s this?”

Saint pushed his way into the house, and the man backed up so fast he stumbled. “Are you Poe?”

“Yeah. What of it?”

“We’re looking for our friend. Tall, big guy, long blond hair. Know him?”

His eyes shifted to the right as he shook his head. “No, I don’t know anyone fitting that description.”

“He’s lying,” I said.

Saint carefully pulled his gun from beneath his cut. With deliberate movements, he retrieved a suppressor from his other pocket and deftly screwed it onto the gun’s barrel. The man’s eyes grew wider, darting between the weapon in Saint’s steady grip and the knife in my hand.

“If you lie to us, we’re gonna make a game of who can kill you faster.”

I grinned, perking up. “That’s a good one, Saint. We haven’t played in so long. Last time I was up thirteen to one.”

“I let you win because I knew you were a whiny ass baby about losing.”

“You lying motherfucker—no disrespect to your lovely mother, of course.” She was the one who’d mainly treated me after all. Without her patience, I would still be the mute, feral boy who’d stayed alive by eating rotten food and drinking my urine. “Then let’s play for real this time.”

“Nonononono.” Poe held up his hands. “Please don’t kill me. It was his fault. I didn’t do anything he didn’t want me to do.”

“Where is he?” Saint demanded. “Show me.”

Poe led us to a living room, a drug addict’s paradise, the air thick with the sickly sweet smell of burned plastic and meth. Dim orange light from a dying bulb flickered over a nest of empty liquor bottles and discarded food containers. A half-empty bottle of lube sat on the floor next to a foldout couch bed where an enormous figure lay motionless, naked from the waist down, with his jeans around his ankles. The long, blond hair was unmistakably Winter’s, even though I couldn’t see his face.

My chest rose and fell. He wasn’t moving. Was he…?

---