Page 7 of Heavy
Ronan
HOURS EARLIER
“I’veturnedontheWi-Fi.”
I let out a groan as I take the last bite of my greasy burger while stepping into the cabin. If I had to lock myself away anywhere, I guess this secluded... well,dump, would do. I feel conflicted to call it that. The exterior is surprisingly nice, but inside it’s stuck in a time warp from forty years ago.
“No neighbors for a mile in each direction if not more,” Eamon says as he moves past me, flipping on a few lights in the kitchen and one in the dim hallway. It doesn’t matter that the sun is shining brightly outside; once you step out of the main living area, it feels as dark as midnight. “Two bedrooms, one and a half bath.”
He turns to me and flashes a broad smile. The rich kind, with bright white teeth that spell wealth across his lips. It’s carefree, exuding a sense of indifference, as if to say, “I don’t care because I don’t have to.”
Only reason my teeth are nearly as perfect is because, believe it or not, prison really cares about those. Especially my dentist… fucked her real good for a new set of front ones after losing them in a fist fight.
“There’s gym equipment in the garage,” he continues, clearing his throat as he leans against the barstool—one of only two, since the others seem to be missing. He and his wife clearly have money, so why haven’t they kept this place up? Not that I’m all that interested in the answer, but it bothers me. He has something nice, yet he chooses to let it fall apart.
“I’ve got an extra—”
“Will the neighbors know I’m here?” I drag my fingers along the counter, dust pulling in a thick heap as I do. “Can’t have people thinking I’m squatting here.”
When my half-mast gaze meets his, he nods. “Don’t worry, they’ll know you’re here.”
“Your wife, too. I assume she’ll know.”
He laughs nervously, answering my question without saying a word.
“Wonderful,” I groan.
I move around the counter to the fridge, guessing the last time it was used was for some teenage or college party. When I finally manage to pry open the stubborn door, my suspicions are confirmed. Inside are dozens of half-empty bottles of various types of liquor, each one likely subjected to a cycle of warming up and cooling down. I grab a bottle of vodka and kick the door shut with my foot.
Rolling the cap off and flicking it across the room, I lean against the counter and take a swig. Numbness washes over me; I barely feel the burn as it goes down my throat, even though it’s been years since I’ve had any alcohol. Getting caught for it in prison was dumb—I’d have preferred to take my chances with drugs instead.
I’d say that it tastesfunky, but who knows how long it’s been in here.
I take another deep chug, then wipe my lips with my bare forearm.
“I’m not trying to kill someone, Eamon. You hear me?”
His eyes widen. “Why would that—”
“If your wife comes here and calls the police on me, I’ll choke that bitch out.” It’s probably not my smartest comment, but what the hell does he expect? I’m a goddamn murderer, after all.
Clearing his throat, he adjusts his black tie. “I’ll tell her, but Ronan, no one comes up here. So don’t worry about it.”
“Why?” I ask purely to understand the validity of the statement.
“Not a lot of time, too busy with work. The both of us.”
“Your ex-wife won’t come? Your son?”
“No, I technically married into this property.”
Humming, I remember I’m missing someone. “And your stepdaughter?”
“Also too busy. She just mentioned how we might as well sell the place. Or maybe that was me. Either way, she’s probably the last person you’ll see up here.”
I take another healthy drink, finishing off the crappy Vodka. Placing it into the sink, I move back into the fridge and grab the same shit but in a different flavor.
“I’ve got something else for you,” he says, and the sound of something tapping against the table makes me turn. Curiosity grips me. On the counter, beneath his palm, lie several hundred-dollar bills with what looks like a check at the bottom.
