Page 61 of Of Heathens & Havoc

I wait in the dark, my heart pounding, for a long time. When I’m sure he’s gone, I slip out of bed and turn on the light. I slide down and sit on the floor, leaning against my bed. A wave of dizzying shame crashes into me when I see my shoes set neatly under the edge of the bed, where Angel put them after carrying me home because my legs were too weak to hold me after what they did.

I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. When the burning in my veins doesn’t subside, I give in at last. Forcing my shoulders to relax, I find a hairpin that fell from my hair when Angel undid my bun and pick up one of my clogs. I hold it in my lap, turning it as I pry off the sole with the edge of the hair clip. I can already feel the fear and desperation fading, single-minded focus replacing the weeks of tumult and torment tumbling through my mind.

I set the sole of my shoe on the floor beside me. Gripping the small black rectangle inside, I pull it free, the Velcro making a satisfying ripping sound. I couldn’t have it rattling around in there, making people suspicious. Kicking my other shoe away, Ipull out my drawer and push aside my bible, finding the two-inch adapter that plugs from my regular phone charger into the burner.

I thought about taping it to the underside of the drawer, or even the inside of the back cover of my bible. But as any good sneak knows, the best hiding place is in plain sight. If someone saw it taped into my bible, they’d know I was hiding it. When they tossed my room, they would have known it was important. No one would give it a second thought when it’s thrown in a drawer with an extra charging block, a spare pair of earbuds, a pair of headphones and an adapter for that, my e-reader and charger, and an aux cord still in the package.

I plug it into my charger, then push the other end into the phone. It blinks on a moment later, still charging, and I sigh with relief. Of course it still has minutes, but I never know when the cheap phone will crap out on me.

I sit back on the bed and punch in the number from memory. Then I hit call.

My contact answers on the fourth ring, just when I think he’s not going to pick up for an unknown number.

“Hey,” I say. “It’s Mercy.”

“Well, if it isn’t my little sparkplug,” he says. “Where the fuck you been?”

“Around,” I say vaguely.

“Haven’t heard from you in months,” he drawls. “I was beginning to think you left town.”

I came back to town, but he doesn’t know that. He probably assumes I’ve always lived here, and I let him. For our arrangement, it’s best if we know as little as possible about each other. For two years, I’ve been sneaking up to Faulkner when I needed a break from the monotony of my aunt’s safe house and he needed me. But I haven’t lived here in all the time I’ve known him.

Until now.

“You’re a man who can get things for people, right?”

“What kind of things?”

“The things people call on burner phones to ask for.”

He hesitates a long moment. I’ve never asked for a favor before, but I don’t know many people involved in illegal activities, and I can’t exactly ask the boys I grew up with.

“For a price,” he says at last.

I sigh. “Of course. What’s the price?”

“For you?” he asks. “How about a date? You like pie?”

“Everyone likes pie.”

“Great,” he says. “Downtown Diner, say, Friday night?”

My mouth waters at the memory of Scarlet’s famous homemade pies. But then I imagine walking into the diner like nothing happened, looking into the scarred face of the owner, pretending I didn’t put her son behind bars.

“I’ll have to take a rain check,” I say, pulling my cardigan around me as if I can stave off the chill of that thought. Scarlet would probably drop arsenic in my pie if I dared to step through her doors.

He groans. “Rejected again. I’m starting to think you don’t really love me.”

“Be for real,” I say, laughing awkwardly. “A guy like you? You don’t need a date with me. You must have five other girlfriends already.”

“But none of them are quite like you.”

“Flattering as your words may be, they won’t change my mind.”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he says. “Not every guy can say he went out with someone famous.”

That makes me snort. “I’m famous to exactly one person—you. No one else would even look twice if they saw me.”

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