28. A Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing
A WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING
LAKE
I’m not a particularly intuitive person.
There have been so many instances when danger was just around the corner, and I didn’t pick up on the undertone until much later.
Maybe it’s because I didn’t want to acknowledge it.
Maybe it’s because I knew my self-destructive behaviors were wrong, but I needed to feel that edge—that edge millions of people have leaned down to kiss to see just how close they could get to death.
Some got their answer, and some (like me) are still wondering how long the metaphorical fall would be.
Call it a postcoital premonition, but I get this feeling that something bad is about to happen.
Statistically, I don’t think I’ll get stabbed on my way to the vending machine—I need to get reinforcements since I, quote, “fucked the energy out of Sutton”—though there is this inexplicable fear icing my veins as I walk down a long stretch of concrete.
I’m more alert than usual. The hair on my arms stands up while I quicken to a faster pace, feeling like prey out in the open that has to choose between starvation and safety.
The clopping sound of my badly beaten sneakers echoes down the narrow walkway, and I’m about to round the corner when braying laughter assaults my eardrums.
I’ve heard that laughter before. High-pitched, obnoxious, somehow condescending. The kind of laugh that country club cretins share when they’re trying to compare finances because their dick sizes are too small.
Buford.
I duck out of sight. There are two people standing in the hallway by the ice maker. I hear another voice too—masculine, deep.
This is a bad idea. This is creepy as hell! I’m spying on my ex-boyfriend. What Buford does in his free time is none of my business.
But this is strange. What is he doing up so late? Who is he talking to?
I don’t have a lot of time before my adrenaline wears off, so I do the unwise thing and peer around the corner as discreetly as I can. I manage to catch sight of the other culprit’s face with some meticulous maneuvering of my body.
A tall, lean man is half-hidden in the shadows, wearing a tailored suit that matches the swoop of his salt-and-pepper hair. A few lines decorate his face, alluding to old age.
Dread metabolizing and stirring in my belly, I don’t follow the normal course of action and simply move on. Their words are hushed, but I am able to see the giant wad of cash that travels between steady hands.
I rear back instantly, distancing myself as if witnessing a monetary exchange is a crime by proximity. But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part, above spying on an exchange between two people, is that Buford appears to be the recipient.
The rose-colored film on my life begins to peel.
There has to be an explanation for this, right? Maybe that old dude bought something from him and is paying for it?
That’s weird, Lake. People buy things online nowadays. Plus, what could Cataracts possibly be buying that would warrant him to pay Buford in the creepy hallway of a hotel?
You’re right. What if it’s drugs?
Not all drug dealers are bad. They need to make a living somehow. I thought you supported small businesses. Maybe the buyer needs the drugs for chronic pain or something.
Yeah, and patients get those drugs prescribed to them by doctors. Not a twenty-something kid in college.
Don’t be judgmental, Inner Me. We don’t know what the situation is.
I need to get out of here. Not before I take a picture though.
And right as I’m about to snap a noiseless photo on my phone, I hear the man say to my ex: “Tell anybody about this, and you’ll have hell to pay. The next game. Get it done.”
Once I secure the evidence I need, I bolt down the passageway without considering how loud my footsteps are, and I don’t stop running until I make it to the other side of the hotel, where another vending machine greets me.
Buford is a piece of shit, sure, but he wouldn’t deal drugs, would he? Something like that could get him disqualified from playing in the Frozen Four. And I don’t think your average Mary Jane costs as much as that poor bastard was paying, so it must be something stronger.
Heroin? Cocaine? Fentanyl?
Give him the benefit of the doubt, Lake. Would Buford really stoop that low?
Yes. Yes, he would.
This is bad. Like, really bad. Why did I need to get involved? And what…what am I going to tell Sutton? Do I even tell him?
I thump my forehead against the oily glass of the vending machine, sipping in a breath that does absolutely nothing to slow my rib-breaking heart rate. My vision is swimming, my nape is smeared in sweat, and my stomach is burbling like a vat of acid.
I don’t know what to do. If I let this go, I’ll be keeping a humongous secret from everyone in my immediate circle.
But if I tell the truth about what I saw, it could ruin the hockey team’s dynamic and create strife between everyone on the team.
I suffer the same chance of losing said circle, and I made a promise to myself to hang on to the people I care about for as long as I can, because you never know when the universe plans on taking them away.
Either way, I’d be adding stress to Sutton’s life. Stress that will only bog down his performance this weekend.
I have to shelf my martyr tendencies. This isn’t my fight. If Buford is being reckless with his life, the truth will come to light eventually, right?
I stare at the bag of barbecue chips teetering on the edge of its respective spiral, my mind taking a violent list sideways like a stylus dragging over a record groove. I don’t even remember what Sutton asked me to get him.
Despite being outside, my lungs refuse to take in oxygen.
The silence is unnerving. There’s no gale of wind, no untraceable rustle in the nearby vegetation, no buzz of faulty building equipment, no indication of nightlife at all.
I’m all alone, and for someone who’s trying to be better at taking accountability, things are off to a rocky start.
I’m half-dead by the time I drag myself back to the hotel room, depositing way too many snacks onto the bed to compensate for my unnaturally long excursion.
Sutton immediately perks up at the sight of food. He put on his sweats while I was gone, but he’s still gloriously shirtless.
I hate that I can’t be giddy about that.
“Ugh, thank you, Lake. You’re the best,” he rushes out, already ripping open a miniature-sized bag of Doritos that probably won’t make a dent in his appetite.
He stuffs cheesy goodness into his piehole with zero decorum, and I’m staring at the carpet like I just saw a ghost.
“I think I’m going to get some work done on the latest article,” I announce, pulling my laptop out of my backpack and situating myself in the corner of the room. There’s a comfy-looking chair a few feet away from the bed, and given its position, I can hide my screen from Sutton’s line of sight
“Alright, yeah. I’ll probably head to bed soon.”
I nod, though the forced laxness of my body hardly offsets the anxiety fermenting inside me.
I hate keeping things from Sutton, but the last thing I want to do right now is stress him out.
He has a game to focus on. He doesn’t need me spiraling about what-ifs and curating fantastical conspiracy theories.
It only takes a few minutes for Sutton to sink into his post-snack coma, and I begin the real detective work as soon as his head hits the pillow.
I don’t know what I’m expecting to find from this life-ruining internet search, but I brace myself nonetheless, swallowing the bile that splashes against the back of my throat.
First, I email myself the picture I took on my phone, then I open up Google’s reverse image search to try and find any public record about the man in the fancy suit.
With each approximate image match that flies by—melting into a visual cesspool of well-dressed dead ends—I feel a muscle in my jaw flicker in frustration.
It takes me a while before I find a picture of a man whose angular bone structure matches the side profile of my mystery culprit, and from there, everything falls into place.
The photograph takes me to his Facebook profile—an untouched time capsule lost to the cobwebbed corners of the internet—and the minimal gallery of pictures that are accessible to the public flaunt something of a cookie-cutter lifestyle.
His wife and three kids are featured in multiple images—sketchiness expunged—and a part of me wonders if this is all some facade to steer away nosey, second-rate sleuths like myself.
Steve Miller.
A common name for an uncommon man. The longer I flick through his seemingly innocent photos, the more I second-guess what I saw transpiring in the hallway. If this is all some picture-perfect cover-up to distract from the seedy underbelly of an operation, then it’s a helluva good one.
I try looking for him on other social media sites, but to little avail. He’s a ghost amongst a worldwide pandemic of internet-obsessed zombies. I doubt I’ll be able to find any substantial dirt on him, though I do know someone who is proficient in online stalking.
Calling Ellaria and hoping that she picks up despite it being far past business hours, I stare at the pixelated computer screen in front of me, the face of this man seeming to melt and shift into something uncanny.
Eyes wide and unblinking, teeth filed into sharp points, the proportions of his body stretch with every passing minute, contorting him into some gangly, emaciated creature that dove right off the page of a children’s fable.
Instinctually, I know what I witnessed wasn’t some ordinary transaction. And as much as I hate Buford, he could be in serious trouble. Trouble that has no right crawling to Sutton’s overflowing doorstep.
The call finally goes through.
“Hey, babe. Everything okay?” my best friend asks.
“Code purple,” I whisper over the speaker, feeling a microscopic kick in my pulse, trepidation rankling down the curve of my spine.