Page 18 of Deviant

“You’re late, girlie,” Joe hiccups in greeting once I’ve reached his cell.

“Or you’re early. Depends on who’s asking,” I goad him, pushing the coffee mug through the iron bars.

“I was getting bored,” he complains, awkwardly crawling across the cell until he leans against the pale yellow wall beside me, separated only by the steel bars.

“You do know there are healthier, more productive ways to cure boredom? Or do you get yourself locked up every night just to get a free cup of coffee?” I tease.

“I don’t come for the coffee. I come for the company.” He winks.

“Right,” I laugh. “Because I’m such amazing company.”

“Better than most around these parts, girlie. Better than fucking most.”

I take his words to heart because I’m inclined to believe their sincerity.

People usually disregard Joe altogether on the mere principle that he’s an unrepentant alcoholic. Not many people in our town have the bandwidth to deal with him, preferringto complain about his antics to the sheriff’s department than actually offer him any kind of valuable help.

It’s a shame, really.

If people took the time to get to know him, they’d see he’s actually one of the most decent human beings this town has, which is saying something since decency in Blackwater Falls died a quick death ages ago.

“So, what did you do this time that earned you an overnight stay?” I ask, curious as to what lewd exploits he conducted to get himself arrested once again.

“Oh, you know… the usual.”

“Let me guess? You pissed on Mrs. Rodrick’s azaleas again?”

“Missed the azaleas, but not Mrs. Rodrick’s open-toe shoes.”

“Gross.” I laugh.

“Funny, I say.” He grins, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Are my eyes deceiving me, or are you notthatinebriated tonight?” I ask when I realize the lack of slurring in his speech. Usually, it takes me a hot second to interpret his remarks, but tonight, he seems almost sober.

“Your dad picked me up before the night got fun,” he grumbles, disappointed. “He said he couldn’t deal with my shit tonight, and locking me up early was as much for his benefit as it was for mine. He really is a spoilsport, that one.”

“He’s the sheriff. There’s no such thing as fun in his vocabulary.”

Joe chuckles.

“Thank God you took after your mom then. Like her, you don’t feel the need to spoil people’s fun. She was always up for a good laugh.” My genuine smile wanes a bit at the mention of my mother, but thankfully, Joe doesn’t pick up on my changing mood. “Anyhoo, how are you doing, girlie? Are you getting the harvest jitters yet?”

“Isn’t everyone?” I shrug, leaning my head back against the wall.

“Yeah. I guess you’re right.” He lowers his gaze to stare at the black sludge in his mug. “I have to admit, I’m a bit antsy for this one to be done with, too.”

“Oh?” I arch a brow, curious as to why this harvest would be any different from the others.

“It’s my last one. Then I’m out.”

“Congratulations?” I reply in the form of a question, unable to hide how sad it is that aging out of the games is a motive for celebration.

Sadder still that Joe must endure the next few weeks with the impending Harvest Festival hanging over his head, wondering if this is the one he’s going to be selected or finally freed from such torment.

“Hey, none of that.” He points to my wrinkled brow. “I’m as good as golden, girlie. Those fuckers don’t want drunkards like me. Trust me.” He scoffs.

“You sound disappointed.”

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