Page 9 of Insidious Heart
Do I have any concrete proof of that? No, and I’ve seen him kill without hesitation enough times to think otherwise, but there’s always some little flicker of doubt or remorse in his eyes when he delivers my father’s orders. And after Beau is through with me, Cal’s old lady is usually the one to fix me up. Which leads me to believe he feels guilty or something, but the fact that hechoosesto continue doing what he does in spite of it is exactly why I’m so afraid of him.
If you know what you’re doing is wrong and horrible, then still decide to do it anyway, you’re a monster regardless of the way it makes you feel.
“Church is still in service,” Cal grunts as he pulls into my driveway. “Joker and me have to go back but there’s prospects on the house.”
At least four from the looks of it, but Beau took my freedom away so it’s not like I was going to take off on him.
I nod as I push open the passenger door. “Got it.”
“Stevie…”
I pause and look up to see that possible remorse glimmer in Cal’s clear blue eyes for a second before he turns back to the windshield.
“You’ve got maybe an hour.”
“Ok…”
As if I’m walking the Green Mile, I close the door to his truck and slowly make my way toward the porch, but I can still feel Cal’s eyes on me. And when I glance over my shoulder to confirm, I swear I can see him white knuckling the steering wheel before he peels out and speeds down the road.
I’ll never understand him, or anyone else God decided to curse me with, and it’s exactly why I’d rather be alone than surrounded by monsters.
Too bad I don’t have a choice.
I really am the princess locked in a tower, but there is no knight to come save me.
This fairytale is doomed to have a very unhappy ending.
CHAPTERTWO
VICTOR
I takea hit off my cigarette as I watch the front of the sleazy-as-fuck motel with narrowed eyes.
All ten rooms are booked, all of the curtains are drawn, and the doors are locked on each. Most of the occupants are in for the night and most definitely engaging in theirless than wholesomeactivities.
Two crackheads are holed up in number one, probably blitzed out of their skulls already, and I’d put money on finding one of them dead in the morning based on the way they were fighting over their stash when they arrived.
Room numbers two through four are registered to a rather well-known pimp and his girls, the steady stream ofJohnscoming and going the last hour a dead giveaway to anyone who might question it. More proof was provided by the Lexus, Audi, and BMW that rolled up and produced three middle-aged men in suits that stick out like a sore thumb in this area of town. They each went into a room about twenty minutes ago. The pimp came out of one of them then went to the office and apparently checked himself into room eight. A clear indicator that those three fat fucks plan to pull all nighters with theirdates.
There’s a group of homeless elderly people staying in room number five. About seven or eight of them from what I saw, and I’m sure they pooled their money from panhandling just to pay for one night at this dump. But I’m sure it beats sleeping under a bridge with the way the temperatures have started dropping at night this time of year. And when the snow starts to fall? Somewhere like this motel becomes a goddamn palace when you’re on the streets.
Room number seven has been sealed up and quiet since I got here, but when I went in to inquire about a room—that I don’t actually need—I looked over the registry and sawMr. and Mrs. Smith, which means it’s probably some couple shacking up unbeknownst to one or both of their spouses.
A local heroin dealer is doing business out of room nine but he hasn’t had any visitors for a while now, so I’m assuming he closed up shop for the night and will reopen when he drags himself out of bed sometime tomorrow afternoon.
I’m not worried about any of those rooms, not really worried about much at all to be honest, but room number ten is occupied by a single mother and two little kids.Thatroom is one I need to be cautious of and it almost has me questioning my plan.
Almost.
Especially when thegueststaying in room six finally fucking pulls up in his piece of shit Chevy and unknowingly puts my plan into action.
He’s why I’m here.
Bruce Carpenter. Forty-two-years old. Unemployed. High school dropout. Ex-military collecting government benefits from an injury sustained in the line of duty. Twice divorced. Father of three children he doesn’t have custody of and hasn’t seen in at least five years. Proud owner of a rap sheet that consists of mostly DUIs and drunk and disorderly charges.
A never-been-caught serial rapist and sociopath.
And the bastard currently has his next victim riding shotgun, most likely drugged or at least immobilized enough not to fight him on the thirty minute drive out of town.
