Cadillac Payback by AJ Elmore (scary books to read .txt) 📗

my internal conflict. For a moment, all I can do is hang my head and stare at the lush green grass all swathed in darkness. I know it's much too late for regret, that there's far too much momentum behind me. Now the other dealers will be more inclined to be our friends. We are united enemies of Gram and his Reaps. Everyone gets anxious when the shots start flying.

The harmonica cries across the yard, and I realize the sound is coming from the back porch. I sigh against the lonesome music, then take a long slow breath. My only path is forward and my only chance at surviving what's to come is my will. With one last glance at the moon, I take off toward the house.

When I get a bit closer, I can see that the wielder of the harmonica is Joshua, and that he's sitting on the steps with a beer beside him. His eyes are closed in the soft light from the porch. His little curls shiver as he finds his notes. In this moment, I just watch him.

This, this is what Joshua should be, someone who creates, who inspires. Someone beautiful. This is also why I can't quite send him away. His energy and vitality feed me and help me remember that in myself. It's a point that has become sorely obvious in these past days. But how cruel would I be to keep close at hand a boy who thinks he loves me?

The music lulls. He opens his eyes, jumps at the sight of me. I hadn't realized I approached so quietly, thought for sure he had heard me. He looks down at the tiny instrument and clears his throat before inching it into his pocket as he has been caught off guard in a moment of serenity.

He still won't look me in the eye when he says, “You okay?”

I give him a small smile. He's so boyish and charming in this moment, like a fairy tale. My little prince, long lost from his kingdom.

Instead of addressing his question, I sit down beside him, say, “I didn't know you played the harmonica. How have you kept this hidden for so long?”

He makes a soft, uneasy laugh that doesn't quite turn into a smile for him. In the dim light, I swear I can see him blush.

He says, “I've been learning off and on for a while, but I'm no good, so I play when no one's around.”

“You play guitar in front of people,” I say. I can feel the tension in him and something deep down makes me want to soothe him.

“I've been playing guitar for a long time,” he says with a sidelong glance at me, like he doesn't know how to handle my sudden interest in his music. Then he picks up something from the step and hands it toward me. He adds, “Here, everyone went to bed.”

I see that it's half of the blunt that he rolled just before I got the call from Jack. He hands me a lighter. I spark it up, breathe it in, then pass it. I can tell there's a lot swimming in his head, a lot he wants to say.

He takes a heavy hit, exhales, and says, “Look, what I said in the car . . . I shouldn't have said it.” He takes another hit, passes it. “I should never have told you that.”

I watch the cherry glow on the end of the blunt as I pull on it. For all that we've been through, for all that he's taken so quietly without questioning me, I know that I owe him at least my honesty now. I hold in the smoke for as long as I can, just to stall for a few more seconds.

Then, “Is it true, Josh? You think you love me?”

He lets the silence stretch, no doubt searching his heart for the right words. His expression clouds and darkens. Finally he says, “I know I do. I've known it since I met you. I thought for sure we were going to die in Biloxi . . . I still shouldn't have said it.” He sighs out pot smoke. “Can't we just pretend I never told you?”

“You'd rather live a lie?” I ask. I'm speaking to him, but I'm staring out at the silhouette of the plants at the edge of the yard.

“It's not a lie if I don't speak it,” he answers. “Shit was fine until those words.”

I nearly stutter some reply but choose to keep my mouth shut as his response hammers against the walls of my mind. Maybe he does know what he wants, and maybe what I believed he wants is nowhere close to true. Would he really be content to take back his words, just to stay close? I don't deserve him. I'm a monster next to him.

“You're too good for this life. You don't belong with us, because you're capable of so much more.”

At last I gain the attention that he doesn't want to give me. He looks directly into my eyes, and his gaze is so hard.

He says, “Where else do I have to go? Back to my family that doesn't give a shit about me? Out to some new life? You and Charlie are the only ones who've ever made me feel welcome. You're the only person left who cares, in some fucked up way.”

I wince at the conviction in his voice. It flows from him so strongly. He's right, of course, I do care and it is in a fucked up way. I finish off the blunt and flick it into the grass. Now I'm the one avoiding eye contact as I watch the tiny cherry sail off. I sigh again, the pressure in my chest is too much.

I say, “I just . . . I can't love anyone the way you deserve. Especially not now, when I can't feel anything but cold, heavy hatred.”

For a moment, I believe my tears will rise