Fucking hell.
“So she is.”
Willis leans forward, his young blue eyes wide and stunned.
“Are you practicing to be a monk or something?”
I chuckle dryly. “Nah—she’s just not my type. I’m selective.”
I prefer brilliant, frustrating, emotionally stunted redheads with legs for days, heartbreaking eyes, and a pussy that will make you fall to your knees and believe in God.
And my own hand, of course—Righty and I have never been so close.
“Willis,” Owen calls, “come on, we’re playing darts.”
The boy goes off, leaving me and Bea alone at the table.
No one could ever accuse life of being short on irony, that’s for damn sure. Because while the only reason they crossed paths was when Abby came to Katy’s that night seeking me out, Harry’s still in deep with Henrietta and Bea is still hooking up hard with that Kevin guy. I haven’t asked either of them for intel on Abby—because they work for me and I refuse to come off like a total fucking simp.
I’m pretty sure Harry is oblivious to the fact that there was anything going on between me and Abby anyway. Henrietta’s not the type to tell him dick—that one’s strong on the girl-code of silence, I can tell. Kevin’s a different story. His sort may be aloof and quiet on the outside, but when he feels like talking, he’s going to talk to someone he’s screwing.
To Bea.
Her eyes are heavy on me from across the table—in a way that tells me she knows something.
“Kevin said Abby’s been working like a beast lately. She’s practically living at the hospital these days.”
The information prickles at me—like an invisible hand poking a hat pin at my heart.
I take a long drag from my pint.
“Good for her. That’s exactly what she wanted.”
“He’s worried about her.”
I shake my head. “Not my problem, Bea. Hasn’t been my problem for a while.”
We have now moved into the bitter portion of our programming, in case you hadn’t noticed.
“I know,” she hedges. “But do you think, maybe—”
A shout from the dartboard side of the room cuts off whatever Bea was about to suggest.
“Son of a whore!”
“Shit,” I murmur, darting up from the table.
Because Owen and Gus were playing darts with Willis—but they were showing him the version that involves knives. And the handle of one of those knives is currently sticking out of Willis.
Not his hand, mind you—it’s imbedded in his fucking chest—about two inches below his collarbone. Way too close to his heart for comfort.
He reaches for the handle, but I grab onto his forearm before he can grasp it.
“If you yank the blade out it might cause more damage than it did going in. And relax your arm—don’t jostle about—you don’t want to nick an artery.”
If he hasn’t already.
“Ah, fuckin’ hell,” Willis groans. “If I bleed to death, my mum’s going to be so pissed.”
Yeah—I get that.
“Really sorry, Willis,” Owen says contritely from behind my shoulder. “That one got away from me.”
Gus hands me gauze from the first-aid kit that’s no longer behind the bar, and though there’s not a lot of blood seeping out, I carefully pack it around the handle to hold it stable.
“You’re gonna need a doctor,” Gus tells Willis.
“I don’t know any doctors,” he replies.
And the lovely white noise that’s always on the periphery of my thoughts comes roaring to the forefront.
“I do.”
* * *
Abby
Life after Tommy Sullivan is different than it was before him. Quieter, calmer—grayer. It’s like a tree that’s faded from summer to winter—the tree’s the same, the same branches, same trunk, but it’s bare. No foliage to decorate it, to give it color.
I make a concentrated effort to shake off the funk that’s shrouded me since the day I kicked him out of my flat. I consider getting a pet—a cat or a pretty bird or a rowdy puppy that will keep me on my toes. But I don’t have time to care for a pet properly.
So . . . I buy plants.
Lush, sturdy green plants with vibrant multihued flowers that add a spark of color to my flat. What did Tommy call it? Lifeless. Right.
I put the plants on a on a wrought-iron shelf in the front parlor by the window that I bought just for them. I read all the books about them—I water them, feed them, fertilize them, sometimes I bloody sing to them.
And one by one, apparently—I kill them.
No matter what I do, they wither and die and they’re not shy about it.
One night after our shift, Etta comes over to my place with a box of wine and stands at the shelf, staring at the vegetation morgue.
“Holy Morticia Adams!” She fingers one crispy leaf. “Are they supposed to look like this?”
“No,” I reply. “It’s like they came in here and lost the will to live. I don’t know what to do about it.”
Etta smirks. “Get a sign above your door—‘Abandon All Hope—Ye Plants Who Enter.’”