Cowboy Villain Damsel Duel by Ginger Scott

Author:Ginger Scott [Scott, Ginger]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little Miss Write LLC
Published: 2020-01-29T18:30:00+00:00

21

Villain

I’m not sure whether Sal is real or I dream him. I’m leaning toward real since I’ve pretty much vetted the people in my dream side, and Sal, he can’t cut it over there. He’s too small.

For a while, I could tell the difference between here and there because in my dream I never came home to this shithole two-bedroom by the Red Line. Though now it’s been showing up in both places. Mostly because in the dream world, I’m hiding.

There was a bust on the warehouse. Someone ratted me out; I’m pretty sure I know who. I’ve seen her once, but who knows how many times Damsel’s been watching me in her sketchy spy shit.

I know it wasn’t Sal, so I shuffle my way down the hallway to the front room to let him in. I rub my palms over my sleep-heavy eyes and kick open the dented metal and screen door that barely keeps the bugs out of the house. It stinks in here because Paul, he likes to smoke all the fuckin’ time. I left the door open when I went to lie down. I must not have been out for long.

“I see your mom and Paul have really fixed up the place,” Sal says. He coughs out a laugh that sounds like a lung came up with it.

“Same shithole it was when you lived here,” I say, picking up a sofa cushion covered in ashes and walking it to the screen door to brush off outside. I don’t know why I bother trying to keep this place clean. I swear I’m the most domestic one.

“And since you don’t live here anymore and all, and besides me, the people who do kinda hate your ass, what gives with the visit, man?” I toss the cushion back where it belongs and flop down on top, pulling one of Gia’s dolls from the space against the arm. I toss it in the laundry basket near the TV.

Sal holds up his phone, waving it side to side, too fast for me to see whatever it is on the screen that he clearly wants me to read. I stand and grip his wrist, and rip the phone from him with my other hand.

“Quit with the jazz hands, dude,” I say, moving my focus down to the phone in my palm. There are eighteen missed calls from some number I don’t recognize and he doesn’t have saved as anyone in his list of contacts. I toss the phone back to him and he bobbles it a bit before catching it.

“So, you’re on some spam list. Why do I care?” I fall back into the sofa, this time sideways so I can put my feet up. I cannot sleep enough, I swear.

“That ain’t spam, bro. It’s that lady doctor woman. She keeps calling, wondering why you’ve missed two appointments. The school’s probably calling your mom, but I know she don’t give a shit about that. But this lady, yo, she can’t keep callin’ me! I’ve got business.

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