“Whoever owns this place is very dead in their room.” I start to open the windows, struggling against the years of grime to pry them open.
“We can’t stay here. It smells like death. Literally.”
I stop and stare at her. What does she mean we can’tstayhere? It’s everything we’ve been searching for. It’s more than what we could ever ask for, smell or no smell. “We couldn’t be any luckier, and you want to leave because of a little smell?”
“It’s not little.”
“Once I get the body out, the smell will go away. Mostly.”
“I’ll wait out here,” she says as she waves me off and goes to a wicker rocking chair on the porch.
I enter the room and glance at the sad sap before trying to figure out how best to get rid of him. My fingers are crossed as I head into the backyard through an even ricketier backdoor to check the shed. A dingy blue tarp catches my eye, and I yank it out, knocking over a shovel and rake as it comes free. When I head back inside, I lay out the tarp on the floor in front of him.
“Sorry, buddy,” I tell him as I shove him off the chair. I haven’t apologized to men I’ve killed before, but here I am, apologizing to a long-dead corpse. Selena’s warmth has thawed me a bit more than I’m willing to admit.
The man hits the tarp with a thud that sounds like a garbage bag filled with congealed pudding and bones. The skin on his left arm has begun to slough away, revealing the sinewy highway beneath. I almost laugh when I realize how much this doesn’t disgust me. Not even the dark stain of human decay left behind on the chair elicits more than a shrug of my shoulders.
I wrap up the tarp, tie it off with rope, and drag him out the back door. I walk as far into the woods as I can and leave him there—in the humid heat but out of the sun, at least. I’ll come back and bury him later, after I’ve dealt with the chair.
When I go back inside, it’s already smelling better. I grab a half-smoked cigar off the table beside the chair and light it with the old Zippo resting beside it. My cheeks puff at the rich smoke, a strong scent that somehow overpowers the perfume of death. It feels good to have it between my lips. I miss the normalcy of having a smoke.
A legal one, at least.
The recliner is light enough to lift. The fabric smells like old man, piss, and death. Definitely not up to Selena’s standards. I carry it outside, letting the cigar mask the scent as I go. I lean it against the back of the shed, which is about all I’m willing to do with it in the stifling heat.
I circle to the front of the house and wipe my hands on my pants as I lean against the railing surrounding the front porch. The doors are wide open to let the stench clear, and flies and other insects buzz in and out.
Selena’s eyes roll up and stop at the cigar. “Since when do you smoke?”
I smirk, drawing the cigar from my lips. “Since I was eight.”
“Jesus,” she says with a shake of her head.
I offer it to her. “Want to try?”
She chews the inside of her cheeks before taking it and putting it between her full lips. If she knew it was half-smoked by the dead man himself, she wouldn’t have taken it. She puffs on it and hands it back.
“Since when doyousmoke?” I ask, a sly smile on my face. From the way her lips wrapped around it, I have the feeling it isn’t her first time.
She shrugs. “On and off since I was eighteen. Mostly off. How’d you know?”
I step toward her, lift her chin, and look down at her. “Because you smoke like you’ve done it before. And it’s fucking sexy.” I run my thumb along her lower lip.
Her eyes roll back at my touch but then she rips her face away and wipes at her mouth. “Dude, you were just disposing of a dead body.”
I let the cigar rest between my lips. I smirk at her and go inside to wash my hands. If she only knew about all the things we touched in prison, and honestly, most were worse than a dead guy.
Coffee mugs and a single plate fill one side of the sink. I wash my hands, turning the knob and realizing there’s no hot water. I’m not sure how Selena will feel about this. Actually, I do know. She’s going to hate it. But she’ll deal with it for me. Which I hate. I still haven’t told her the shower is merely a stall outside with a hose attached to a rusty showerhead.
When I turn around, she’s behind me, sneaky little prey. At least her hand isn’t pressed against her nose any longer, which means the smell is getting better. Or she is getting used to it. Regardless, she still has a scowl on her face. I can’t help but chuckle.
“Not good enough for you?” I ask.
“It’s just so...”
“It’s all we have, rabbit. What’d you think would be out here? The Ritz Carlton?”
She blows hair from her forehead. “I know. I know.”