Blood to Dust

B) Payphones don’t usually ring, let alone for so long.

C) We better pull our shit together if we want to get out of this alive.

“Shut up, Prescott, I mean it, just shut the hell up.” I’m tired of her hot and cold behavior, and I’m really pissed with her for not letting me in on who she was talking to. It’s making me edgy and suspicious of the girl I like.

The girl I like. Great. So I did grow a bushy vagina after all.

I trudge toward the payphone, pick it up and press it to my ear. I don’t even have to say hello. The second the receiver hits my skin, a cockney accent seeps from the other end.

“Hello, Nathaniel. You know, I thought you were a lot smarter than this. Granted, not a bloody genius, but clever enough to know my game is too dangerous for you. You’re lucky you’re in the middle of a highway.”

I look around me, trying to spot him or one of his wise guys. Where could they be? Cars flash by from each side of the highway, golden mountains fill every corner of our landscape. There are two other cars and one truck driver lazing around the gas station, so I bet wherever they are, the only reason we’re still alive is because they can’t aim straight at our heads without missing. I’m trying not to panic, but one look at Prescott, and I’m seeing red. Her eyes widen in shock when she realizes who I’m talking to. Well, technically, I haven’t spoken yet, but that’s about to change.

“Now, now, Nate. You know I’m a saint, so I’m willing to let this one go. Just this time. Go back to the car. Act as if nothing’s happened. Hand the girl back to us. I’ll be waiting in my office. I want her delivered straight to my door. Do it, and I’ll spare your miserable, meaningless life. Got it?”

The hair on the nape of my back stands up in warning, but I take comfort in one thing. God’s in Blackhawk. Otherwise he wouldn’t have directed me to his office. That means someone else is watching us. And I bet it’s his little toy soldier, Sebastian.

“Am I clear?” he repeats, this time louder. His urgency doesn’t escape me.

“Yeah,” I answer indifferently, propping a lazy foot on a step under the payphone, holding the receiver between my ear and shoulder. Purposely looking like I couldn’t give two shits. “But there’s one little problem.”

“And what would that be?”

“She’s not going to be any good for you.”

“How so?” He seems intrigued.

“Well. . .” I glance fleetingly in her direction. She’s looking at me like I’m the Messiah, shifting her weight between her feet nervously, choking the stress ball in her fist. “Because soon, you’ll be dead. And dead people? They don’t really need a companion, Godfrey my friend.”

He barks out a laugh that bounces off my ribcage, not quite reaching my heart, but having enough impact to make me shiver.

“If you’re going to shoot the king, you better make sure that he’s dead. I’m so much stronger than you, Nathaniel.”

“And I’m so much angrier, Godfrey,” I warn quietly. “You better start running, because we ain’t stopping until we play fucking football with your head. No hourglass in the world is going to stop us this time.”

Pea’s eyes are so big right now, I can see my whole reflection dancing against her irises. I’m trying to read her face, and if I ain’t wrong, I see admiration, surprise, panic, anger and confusion. It’s a lot, but it’s all there in those hazels.

“Goodbye, Godfrey.” I smirk then slam the phone with a loud bang. Prescott rubs my arm, eyes bright and wide. She looks startled, but there’s also something soft behind those brown-greens.

“I don’t know how to. . .” she mutters, looking away. Heartbreaking expressions of surprise, terror and gratitude paint her face. She can trust me, and she knows it. No more fucking around with my dagger in her panties. “Thank you.”

“Who were you speaking to?” My tone may be dry, but my heart is doing cartwheels. I guide her to the car by throwing an arm over her shoulder, mainly to shield her whole body from behind. I’m not sure why I’m protecting her life with mine.

Actually, I am. But saying it aloud, or even thinking about it makes me want to punch my own face. We practically run to the car, working our way so that we’re always close to the other customers at the gas station.

“Someone named Dorian. He says he’s Preston’s counselor.” She’s breathless, trying to keep up with my pace. “Dorian said Preston is in rehab in Vallejo. Got into a bit of trouble with booze, but he’s getting better now. That’s really good. That means that he’s alive, Nate.”