Dillon probably should have been paying more attention. He was sure that he's missed what she wanted or what she didn't want. Yeah, he had been looking forward to a winter with her in his bed, and he felt really middle school about the whole thing because the fucking had not been his objective. He thought he'd done a decent job of fucking her, though. No, he hadn't been as all-encompassing as he'd been with...other girls. He had Evie pegged as a lesbian, and Evie certainly had not come across a raving cock monster, but she'd started on the pill. What had she said about her sister? Her sister had done something, but her friend was sleeping with a guy now. Was that right? Something. Didn't matter. It wasn't going to last. He hadn't even realized till after they were back that she had gone to New York to have sex with that girl. Jenna, right? Jenna was the one Evie had been with, and the other one was the apartment mate or whatever. Vicky? What an unpleasant person she had been; Dillon could see that from the 20 seconds when he dropped her off and the possibly 40 on the street when he picked Evie up. They'd fucked the night they got back, though. He was as tired as she, but she had wanted it. Virginia showing up like that probably freaked her out. Too much Dillon in LA talk. Evie might be an art history major, but she could add and subtract. Mars hadn't done it with his girly babble, but the former LAPD in the form of a black woman turned lawyer showing up to shoot the shit and tell heartwarming stories of the bank probably had done it.
Dillon felt like shit when he got home. He went in the back door after parking his car and was happy for the peace of flat black silence. Besides the refrigerator, there wasn't a sound in the dark apartment. Tomorrow was Tuesday, so Mars was most likely asleep. Evie hadn't been there at all in a week, so Dillon wasn't going to be bothered. It had been a 12 hour day with JK and it was after midnight. It was Tuesday already. Fuck. Long day, and his head hurt. He didn't get sick these days. If he felt badly, his body usually sprung back to equilibrium. The cold, greasy pizza he'd eaten a few hours ago that was currently burrowing in his guts like an ill-tempered worm and the gallon of coffee he'd had at Clinton street around 11 would not be doing any permanent damage. JK couldn't have been any more thrilled, but once they had found his mini storage unit, all Dillon did was spend a week making crank calls to the cops to make this guy Kiffsky jumpy as shit. They kept a watch each night after dark on the storage yard. It had only been three days and there he was. Dillon called the police and then distracted that asshole for 15 minutes, keeping him talking and blocking his way out, while JK stayed out of sight. Dillon didn't feel he was in that much danger. Kiffsky wasn't known as much of a shot; Dillon didn't get that close while he was standing out there between the two rows of doors. Kiffsky was a fucking waste of space, armed but not that dangerous, and idiot. Until the cops showed up, and that was when Dillon got the fuck out of there. He could have drawn and held him there, but he was just as happy to let him run right into the fine and helpful police officers. They drove to the station, and it took less than an hour for them to finish up. Kramer was fucking thrilled. It was another coup.
He peeled off his vest,feeling islands of sweat under there that were always under there and unhappily walked it back out to his car, shaking his head, wondering why a superball of pain was rolling around in there. He could do it tomorrow, but he just didn't feel right not keeping it in the car with rest of his gear. Up went the hatch, back went the special carpet in the boot, and under went the vest. Always be ready. If you're going to keep a bag, make sure you're always ready to go. There's not a fucking chance in hell anyone in this fucking town would ever find everything he had in here, ready to go. His bug-out bag wasn't any good to anyone but him; someday he thought he'd have a proper kit, but since he'd had this fucking car so long and didn't even by it, properly paranoid survival shit was probably not in the cards. Always a few surprised, though. He walked back in the dark along the path to his kitchen door after locking and alarming the car. The best thing about Evie not coming at night was that he didn't feel the obligation to shower before bed, but he knew he would regardless. He felt slimy and wanted nothing more than to take a shit, shower off his sweat and sleep dreamlessly on his clean sheets.
No, he didn't really get sick. Spring-loaded centering. Nothing really took. He had not asked outright, but he didn't think anything would. Anything. He wasn't going to survive major trauma on his own like this, but he was strong, healthy, immune, powerful. When he felt out of sorts, he bounced right back. He needed to take a nasty shit. That fucking coffee. The pop. Pizza. Not good. He'd like to leave, but where to go. Nowhere better and for fucking ever. Not so long ago he was looking forward to fulfilling the family pattern, now it would be so fucking much longer. Kiffsky? Jesus what a clown. Dillon took an ugly little dump before he started the shower and felt immediately buoyant. With the window open and the minty mint of the mint mouthwash sloshing in his mouth, it was almost pleasant for Dillon to be on this feet. The hot hot heat and the steamy steam of the shower water was a welcome weight, a warm wet embrace. Mars had not had many deadlines recently, he could tell, because the bathroom was pretty grungy. When Mars had a deadline he became a happy fucking homemaker of procrastination. Relaxed and happy Mars didn't give a fuck. Besides, without Evie coming down, who would notice? Mrs. Mars was easy to please.
Providence? No, that wasn't going to happen. Not fucking Boston, either. Santa Fe seemed like a possibility, but there wasn't shit going on out there and the idea of New Mexico bothered. With the entire west coast out, Pennsylvania not happening, the entire fucking Midwest full of slow children off limits, what was left? The Republic of Boulder actually seemed like a plan. He wished he didn't have so much fucking time; 6, 7 years ago, Dillon was fucking set, and part of the plan worked out just fucking fine. 6 years he'd been here; he should be looking at ten more at the most. He woulda' been able to sleepwalk that. Motherfuckers.
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