Page 16 of Violent Possession
“For the drink. And for the music,” I say.
“Hey, you asshole, I’m gonna sue you!”
“I solve your problem and you sue me?”
I walk out of the bar without looking back. The stupid pop music bleeds out the door, following me. I hear the bartender yelling something about calling the cops. By the time they get here, I’ll be long gone, rotting in another hole.
“You can’t just go around breaking things like that!” I hear the girl yell.
“I just did.”
I walk without rushing. A shard of glass is stuck in the sole of my shoe; it drags on the ground, scratching the sidewalk. It catches on my sole before breaking. Now there are two shards of glass drawing on the asphalt that Griffin was here. Griffin fucked everything up.
“You’re bleeding,” she yells, now from across the street.
I look down at my hand. It’s true. My knuckles are scraped raw—a piece of glass from that damn jukebox is sticking out from between my fingers.
Without thinking, I grab the tip with my teeth and pull. The friction tears a sliver of skin with it. I spit the shard of glass onto the sidewalk. Now there are three.
This time, she doesn’t follow me. The romantic fantasy of saving the monster ends when the monster shows its teeth.
I keep walking. Three shards of glass on the sidewalk. My mark on Sacramento.
At the motel, the TV is still on, but the game show is over. Now, a white-toothed pastor is promising salvation in exchange for a generous tithe. I listen.Yes, sir, provide me with salvation.On the other end of the line, the devil himself agrees with him. I was saved once before. Condemned right after. For heresy. Why do you think angels tell you not to be afraid when they appear?
My phone vibrates on the nightstand. The pastor says,Trust in the Lord.It’s Marcus.
“Yeah,” I say against the phone screen. It’s too cold.
“They accepted,” he says. He’s out of breath. I can picture him on the other end, sweating.
“To kill me for free?”
“No, you lucky son of a bitch! The money! They doubled the offer!” He sounds like he can’t believe his own words. “I swear to God, Griffin, I thought Karpov was going to use me to line the trunk of his car. The guy screamed. Said he was going to bury you in the desert where not even the coyotes would find your bones.”
“So unoriginal. At least get creative with it.”
“Shut the fuck up. He said that nobody, nobody, makes demands of him.”
I stay silent, waiting for the rest of it. The catch.
“And then?”
“And then he hung up on me. Five minutes later, he calls me back. Calm. Cold as fuck. Said he changed his mind. They’ll pay. Double. You just have to fight.”
A dry laugh escapes my throat. It’s an ugly sound. Theydoubledit.
“How fun,” I say quietly.
The ghost investor finds my death sentence amusing.
“Griffin, you crazy son of a bitch. You genius psycho. I gotta listen to you more often,” Marcus says.
I nod.Yes, sir. Trust in the Lord.
“One expensive whore,” I say, and my face twists into a smile without my permission. Marcus celebrates—easy money for him, since all he has to do is give up a life that isn’t his.
If they wanted me dead and didn’t want to connect it to the fight, there’d be a professional hitman at my door blowing my head off with a shotgun. But this.
