White Rabbit(22)
Sebastian comes around the front of the Jeep, and we share a wordless glance before starting up the cement walkway. We barely make it five feet before a figure materializes out of the black shadows of the porch, looming into view at the top of the front steps. “I don’t know what’s going on with April, and I don’t care, so you two dipshits can just fuck right off.”
Arlo’s voice is so loud against the still night that it actually causes me to jump; my heart is done no favors, either, by the object the guy has casually propped across his shoulder. His booted feet resound heavily against the wooden steps as he descends to the walkway, and there he stops—feet apart, one hand holding a cigarette, and the other wrapped possessively around the stock of a hunting rifle.
“Is that meant for us?” I squeak stupidly, nodding at the weapon while just managing not to pee myself.
“Depends.” Arlo gives me a sharp-toothed grin. He’s added a few more tattoos since the last time I saw him; bare-chested and muscular, his arms and torso are wallpapered with a hodgepodge of images—daggers and roses, sugar skull girls, frigates under sail—and a metal stud shows like a bulbous growth beneath his bottom lip. “Are you planning to ask me a whole bunch of dumb-fuck questions about where I was tonight?”
Obviously, he got the memo from Lia. His posture is casual, the firearm pointed vaguely skyward—but there’s a menacing tension in his stance that’s impossible to disregard. Licking my lips, I venture, “Look, I’m just worried about April, okay?”
“I don’t give a shit what you’re worried about,” he retorts. As my vision continues to adjust, I notice Arlo’s eyes moving as he speaks; he’s looking past us, at the road, scanning left and right along its desolate length as if he suspects we might have backup on the way. “I’m not gonna help you two, so piss off.”
“C’mon, man. She’s his sister,” Sebastian intercedes on my behalf.
“Barely,” Arlo snorts, “and I still don’t give a shit. What are you doing hanging out with this faggot, anyway, Bash? Lia mess you up that much when she dumped your sorry ass?”
It’s a schoolyard taunt, crude and unimaginative; but it’s also the very question my ex-boyfriend was always the most terrified of having to answer, and it shuts him up. For my part, I’m not exactly fond of being called a faggot, and I’d love to try to take one of Arlo’s tattoos home with me as a trophy—but even though it wouldn’t be the first time I’d given in to my anger and picked a fight with someone I had no hope of beating, I’m not quite reckless enough to take a swing at someone toting around an actual fucking rifle. Instead, I take a deep breath and struggle to remain focused. Breathe and take a step back.
“Lia said you two were the last to leave Fox’s cottage tonight. Did you happen to notice what sort of shape April was in at the time?”
“Man, I could not give less of a fuck what Lia told you!” He chucks his cigarette to the ground, swings the rifle down off his shoulder, and grips it with both hands; the barrel nudges in our direction, and Sebastian and I both take an unconscious step backward. “You’re so worried about April? Go drive the hell out to South Hero and see what she’s up to. But leave my ass alone. And get the fuck out of my yard, too.”
“Or what?” I challenge, my intelligence ebbing as my anger mounts. “You’ll shoot us? I’m trying to make sure my fifteen-year-old sister didn’t OD at a coke party you and your business partner were throwing, and all you’ve got to say is ‘fuck off’?”
He takes one step forward, eyes flashing, and points the rifle at me. “What I’ve got to say is, get off my property, you pussy-ass faggot, or I will blow you off it.”
“Well, thanks for all your help, man.” Sebastian reanimates swiftly, grabbing me by the shoulders and dragging me back to the Jeep on legs that are suddenly surprisingly cooperative. “Enjoy the rest of your night. Happy Independence Day!”
He practically shoves me into the passenger seat, then darts around, jumps behind the wheel, and takes off from the curb with a high-pitched squawk of the tires. I can just barely make out Arlo’s pale figure in the gloom at the foot of his porch steps, the rifle trained lazily on Sebastian’s taillights as we drive out of sight.
7
“Are you out of your fucking mind, Rufus?” Sebastian demands as soon as we’re out of the Rossis’ neighborhood. He hurls me a look full of furious disbelief. “Were you trying to get yourself killed back there?”
“He wasn’t going to shoot me,” I mutter with far more conviction than I feel. The truth is that Arlo, I am fairly certain, would love to use me for target practice—and wouldn’t require much incentive to go for it. But at the moment, I need to hear somebody say out loud that I hadn’t actually been in mortal danger. “I mean, if he killed Fox, the last thing he wants right now is to attract attention from the police.”
“Or maybe he could figure he’s got nothing to lose by upping his body count a little, so why the hell not?” Streetlights flash across Sebastian’s angered features, gold flecks sparkling in his dark eyes. “And what the hell do you mean ‘if he killed Fox’? Were we talking to the same guy? Because the guy I was just talking to was a homicidal whack-job who threatened to shoot us in the face.” He takes a breath. “I mean, I’ve known Arlo for a while, and dude is definitely a little messed up in the head, but he’s never gone fucking Westworld like that on anybody before. This is next-level shit, Rufus! You said yourself the guy is a ‘score settler’—your words—and now he’s threatening to kill people just for asking about where he was tonight? Sounds guilty to me!”