Page 56 of Crybaby

“Which is why you’re going to sit your ass in that chair—” Before she can curse me out, I place my finger over her lips. “And we’re going to take a nice little drive so you can see just how badly you want to live…only to watch others die.”

Her eyes widen.

“Yes, little rabbit…I’m going to take you on an adventure, and oh yes, blood will be spilled.”

I remove my finger, only to press my lips against hers.

It’s not a kiss as such. More a promise of things to come because I plan on taking her to Buckets’s farm.

I too have made a choice—I’ve never played by the rules, and I don’t plan on starting now.

All I can hear on repeat is Jim Morrisonsinging that this is the end.

Darcie sits forward in her seat, peering out the windshield at Buckets’s family farm. The choice is hers. We either do this, or we walk away.

When she unsnaps her belt, I know there was never a choice to be made—it was always going to come to this.

“What’s the plan?” she asks, her voice animated but also filled with nerves.

“Follow my lead,” I reply, reaching into the back seat for the suit I swiped from the house of horrors. One never knows when they’ll need to dress snappy.

I leave on the ripped jeans but take off my T-shirt and slip on the white shirt. I roll up the sleeves. I then fasten the black tie. Darcie is watching me closely, and I like it. I like how she looks at me—like I’m her next meal.

The attraction between us only grows.

She also found some women’s clothing stored away at the house and grabbed a few things. A white dress is what she decides to wear. I give her some privacy, but not before grabbing the first edition ofThe Catcher in the Rye.

Once she is dressed, she steps out, and I take a moment to admire her—she looks like the fucking devil in her Sunday best. I swallow past the lump in my throat.

We walk toward the tattered farmhouse, and off to the side is a big red barn. I don’t have any weapons on me, but I have a feeling Darcie won’t want to make this quick. I don’t doubt for a moment she can follow through with her murderous impulses, but when push comes to shove, can we really take the life of another?

When we walk up the porch steps, it seems we will soon find out.

I knock once on the weathered door, and when it opens, I smile at the little old lady who is wearing a silver crucifix. “Good day, ma’am. My name is Holden Jameson, and this here is Veronica, my wife. Do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?”

Darcie does her best to keep a straight face beside me as I hug the book to my chest, faking it’s the Bible.

This must be Buckets’s grandmother.

I’ve not paid any attention to the rumors because I honestly couldn’t give a fuck, but apparently, Buckets’s mom left him with his dad and grandmother and ran off with the farmhand when he was five.

I don’t know much else other than Buckets is a dumb shit who failed first grade—twice.

The lady smiles as the prospect of speaking about God seems to please her. She opens the door and welcomes us inside. The place has seen better days. It’s layered with dust, and the outdated floral furniture has faded over time from the sun.

Someone is watching a football game, and when we approach the kitchen, we see it’s an older man. Buckets’s dad.

He is eating a casserole at the table, and when he sees us, he pauses with a mouthful.

“These lovely children want to talk about the Lord. Shall we say a prayer?”

Buckets’s father shakes his head and places his fork on the rim of his plate. “Mom, what did I say about letting strangers into the house? Sorry, kids, she hasn’t been the same since—”

But he doesn’t finish the sentence.

Since her grandson turned into a rapist motherfucker?I silently fill in the blanks.

His mother ignores him, however, and begins to dish up some casserole for us. It would be rude to decline, so Darcie and I sit at the table. Buckets’s father appears to humor his mom, and I wonder how his son turned out to be such a rotten son of a bitch when his dad and grandmother seem like nice people.

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