Page 66 of Property of Necro
What is there to go back to, anyhow?
More jobs.
Sleeping with more men who don’t see me.
Sounds fun. Right?
Bumping my shoulder into Coffin’s side, I knock him out of whatever daze he’s in.
“Why do some of your trophies have lot numbers and others don’t?” I ask to make polite, albeit strange, conversation. It’s not every day you get to candidly ask about murdered women and their graves. Or see their insides preserved in jars. Should I be grossed out? Or scared? Or a whole slew of other words? Yes. But I’m not. And I’m not in the mood or the right headspace to figure out why that is. It probably has something to do with the nature versus nurture debate and becoming desensitized after years of living a shit life. Yadda. Yadda. Yadda. It’s a tale as old as time.
“The lot numbers are of the women we tried to rehabilitate. The others are the women I killed elsewhere. I collect my trophy and dispose of their bodies,” he explains like we’re having a regular chat on the outskirts of a cemetery, not conversing about his vicious nature.
“How did you try to rehabilitate them?” I ask, genuinely curious. If, like the cards read by the trophies, the women did so much bad shit, why would they bother?
“Rot told you about the forty-four women that came before you.”
Playing with the hem of my t-shirt, I bounce my head. “Yep.” He never said much beyond that, but I haven’t asked either. Which is probably stupid on my part, given how many came before me.
“This is them.” Coffin juts his chin and two-finger points to the graveyard. “We get shipments in every so often. Sometimes, there are conventionally attractive, age-appropriate women in the shipment.”
“That sounds very clinical.”
“For me. It is.” Coffin shrugs his big shoulders. “Rot picked out the ones we’d try out. If you haven’t caught on, he’s a bleeding-heart romantic and thinks everyone deserves a second, third, or even fourth chance.” He flashes me a smirk, and I nod. I’ve definitely noticed.
Coffin carries on. “We’d give ‘em a place to sleep, food to eat, and we’d fuck ‘em. We didn’t force ‘em. Apart from them arriving, tied up in a van, we gave ‘em a choice. Which is more than they deserved. They could die like everyone else or be with us.”
“And they chose the latter?” I guess. Not that I blame them. Have sex with hot, crazy men, or die. That’s a no-brainer.
Nodding, Coffin grunts his confirmation.
“And the altar thing?” I ask, hungry to learn more.
“That started later. A few years in.”
“Why?”
“As a test.”
Ah. That makes sense. “To see if they could endure, be quiet, and be still?” I check, getting the lineup wrong, but the sentiment’s the same regardless.
Staring across the land, Coffin hums thoughtfully. “Basically. Yeah. I don’t like talkers, and as much as I love to hear women scream in pain, I don’t wanna hear it when I’m tryin’ to fuck. Especially when I haven’t done anythin’ to make her scream. Does that make sense?” He side-eyes me to catch my response.
“Yes. I think so.” I smile softly and bump my shoulder into him again. “You should eat weed more often.”
Coffin snorts and half-grins in a shy, awkward wayyou’d never expect from a man like him. He runs a hand over his short, blond hair, which shines brightly under the afternoon sun. “Eat more weed. Noted.” He winks as a light dusting of pink fills his cheeks.
“It helps you,” I note, smiling privately to myself. He’s cute like this. Adorable, even. Which is odd, given who he is. Is that insane? You probably think so, but it doesn’t make it any less true.
“By calming me down. Yes. I know.”
Going out on a limb, I say the first thing that comes to mind. I try not to overthink it, since I don’t usually talk this way. Wringing the edge of my t-shirt in my fist, I gather the last ounce of courage I need to just… say it. “This is the first real conversation we’ve ever had. It’s nice. I’m enjoying myself. Thank you for sharing with me,” I sputter, staring at my Crocs.
Coffin groans, and my heart sinks to my toes. “Sola. Don’t.” His tone’s ragged like gravel and whiskey, but I won’t let that deter me. This is different. Today is different. He can’t spoil that.
Blowing out a harsh breath, I squeeze my eyes for half a beat before I look at him. “Do-don’t. What?”
Staring straight at me, all those hard edges out and proud, Coffin grits, “Thank me.” His nostrils flare like he’s angry, either with me or himself. Either way, I’m not having any of it. Sure, this is weird, but I started it, so I’ll finish it. I can’t continue living like we have—months cooped up inside—the same shit day after day.
