26
Ashford, Virginia.
I finally reached.
After renting a car at the airport, I start heading for the address I found on the mail, and the further I drive, the more run-down the town feels.
It’s remote. A place where it feels like meth heads live in every other house. It’s a trailer park and the ghetto all rolled into one, and a chill goes through me because this is the kind of place where homicides take place and people just never find out.
The land is flat here, dominated by old, broken-down industrial buildings and a massive train track that cuts right through the middle of everything like a scar. I turn down one road and end up on a dead-end street that leads into a natural path over a burnt-up field.
At the end of it sits a rinky-dink single-story house. I can’t even tell what color it originally was because there’s so much green algae growing all over the siding.
This is bubba-fuck Virginia.
I hope to God I don't get a gun held to my face. I straighten up, fixing the ponytail in my hair. I'd managed to buy myself some fresh clothes and took a long shower at a hotel near the airport, so I’m at least presentable. I’m wearing a cute, short sundress, white with pink flowers faded into the design, a double hem at the bottom, and short sleeves that look like flower petals.
I walk up and knock on the storm door.
The whole house, which looks more like a trailer that’s been built onto, creaks under my touch. Behind the house, there’s a big trailer sitting in the tall grass, rusty and looking like it hasn't moved since the day it was manufactured.
Someone opens the inner door, though the screen door stays shut.
"Can I help you?" a deep male voice asks.
It’s not King, that’s for sure.
The man behind the screen is white, but half of his face is obscured by messy hair that looks jet black. He’s wearing all black. Even in the shadows, I can see his eyes are a piercing, bright blue.
"Um... I'm sorry to bother you. My name is Erica," I say despite my nerves. "I'm... I'm looking for King. For Kingston Buchanan."
The guy just stares at me through the screen. It’s so dark inside I can’t see anything past his face. He tilts his head, looking past me to one side and then the other, as if he thinks I’ve brought a crowd with me. He looks back at me, scanning me up and down.
"There's no King that lives here," he states in a thick drawl.
"I know, but... this address sent him mail. I didn't know if family lived here or something..."
The man pushes open the screen door, and I actually stumble back in shock. His face was obscured because the entire right side of it is covered in what looks like black spider webs.
The ink crawls down the half of his face and his neck, interwoven in a dark, intricate tattoo that looks like it goes on forever, covering half of his body.
His right forearm and hand have the same design, a complete sleeve that covers even his fingertips.
He’s wearing black pants and black socks with a long-sleeved dark blue shirt pulled up to his elbows.
He’s actually pretty good-looking, even though the sinister tattoos make him look terrifying.
His hair is pitch black, some of it brushed back and some falling over his eyes.
The dude looks straight-up like a half black, half pale vampire. I swallow hard and take another small step back.
"You want something to drink?" he asks, stepping away from the door and gesturing for me to come in. I peer into the house; it’s pitch black in there.
"Um... no, I'm okay. I just wanted to know if you guys have seen King or anything. This is probably the wrong house."
"He doesn't live here, but my family knows him," he replies.
Now I know he’s lying. He’s just trying to get me inside his house.
"Okay, well, just tell him that Erica was looking for him," I say, turning to head back to my rental car.
"He wasn't supposed to get out of jail early," the man says to my back. "But I guess... his reputation precedes him."
I stop and turn around to look at him. He looks younger than King. He looks nothing like him.
"Who are you?" I ask.
"I’m the new owner of this house. The previous owner passed on," he says, leaning casually against the doorframe.
I look around at the place. It looks like it’s literally falling down on itself, the wood rotting and the porch sagging. "Are you the only one who lives here?"
"Yep. Just me," he replies. "Bo." He holds out his hand, the right one, the one completely swallowed by those black shadow vines or webs or whatever they’re supposed to be.
I’m terrified to touch it. I have this sudden, irrational flash of him grabbing me and dragging me into the darkness of that house. He looks at his outstretched hand, then back at me, and lets out a breathy, cold laugh.
"I get it. You don't trust me," he says, sticking his hands into his pockets in a way that is hauntingly similar to the way King does it.
"Forgive me, sir, but we’re in the middle of nowhere," I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "You’re one man living by himself, you’re trying to get me to come inside, and not for nothing, but... you straight-up look like a serial killer. Can you blame me for being cautious?"
Bo smiles.
It’s actually a pretty good smile, which is jarring considering how sinister he looks otherwise.
"Guess I can't. I usually get that a lot.
I've gotten used to it. After all, it's the reason why I made myself look like this, so people would leave me the hell alone.
And here you come knocking on my door, full of sunshine and yellow contacts and everything.
Glowing like the sun in your flowery dress.
I was just trying to be nice. But whatever. Good luck on your search."
He gives me a bored, lazy "hot guy" grin, rolls his eyes, and closes the door.
I stand there on the algae-covered porch, feeling the heat of the Virginia sun.
If he’s my only lead to King and he actually knows him, unless he’s just lying to get me into bed, I can’t just walk away.
I pull out my phone and try to find anything connecting King’s old posts to this guy, but there’s nothing.
King’s bandmates were eccentric, sure, but nobody looked like a Gothic half spider-webbed vampire.
I get back in the car and start the engine. Then I stop.
I’m on a roll with stupid decisions lately, so why the hell stop now?
Grabbing the pocketknife I bought after everything went south with King, I tuck it into my bra, right against my skin. Then, getting out, I knock on the door again.
"For fuck's sake," I hear him mumble from inside. He opens the door and stares at me through the screen. "You going to make up your mind what you want?"
"I’m sorry I was rude before. Can’t blame me. But do you know King or not?"
"Do I know King? No, I don't," he says, leaning his head against the door. "I have enough information on him to probably give you an idea of what he was like, but you can find that online now. He lived a very... open life."
"What's your name again?"
"Bo. Bo Hillie," he says, opening the storm door.
Different last name.
"So what happened to the first owners?" I ask.
"If you want to talk to me, you're going to have to come inside. I don't want to stand up here talking to you like you're some kind of Jehovah's Witness," he says, turning his back and walking into the gloom.
He lights a cigarette as he goes.
Inhaling a deep breath, I follow him. The whole house smells like stale smoke and cheap alcohol. He clearly lives alone, but judging by the random bra hanging off the handle of the fridge, he brings women over.
Gross.
I sit down on a rickety chair, my hand hovering near my chest, ready to draw the knife at any second.
"They left this," Bo says. He hands me a photograph before sinking onto the couch across from me.
I look at the picture. It’s a blue-eyed redhead. "What is this?"
"His mother. I presume, anyway. She had some other pictures with him, but I threw that shit out."
"Why did you keep this one?"
"I don't know. Artistic reasons," he says with a mischievous, tired grin. His eyes look like he’s on the verge of falling asleep as he takes a long puff of his cigarette.
This guy is very weird. "So why are you looking for... King? Erica, right?"
"Yeah. He's my friend."
"Oh, is he? I wasn't aware he had friends."
"How would you know?"
"King doesn't strike me as the kind of man that has friends. He’s a bit... off."
"What do you mean?"
"What kind of 'friend' are you?" Bo asks, looking at me curiously.
"A good friend. We met... um..." I fall silent.
"It’s okay. Your secret's safe with me," Bo says, holding his hands out and looking around the dilapidated house. "Who am I going to tell?"
He pulls on his cigarette and then drapes both arms over the back of the couch, the cigarette smoldering between his fingers. His legs are slightly open, his posture completely relaxed. His eyes are so blue they look like ice.
"We met a little over a year ago," I say.
"Did ya?" Bo looks at his cigarette more than he looks at me.
"Yeah."
"And what happened? You guys had a falling out?"
I hold my head down, staring at my hands. I don't even know why I'm telling this guy anything. "King is not a bad guy. Not the man that I knew."
Bo just looks at me.
"He was helpful. He was kind, and sweet, and he was... honestly, the best man I’ve ever met. He always looked out for me. He saved my life, probably more than I even know. And I just... I want to return the favor."
Bo lets out a non-committal "Hm" and smokes again. He leans forward, draping his arms over his knees, the cigarette hanging loosely. "That doesn't sound like the King I heard of."
"Yeah, maybe not. But he changed."
"And yet here you are, looking for him."
"Well... I pushed him away," I confess.
"And now you're here to pull him back," Bo says with a triumphant, tired smile. His eyes look dead inside.
Maybe he’s high too; judging by the neighborhood, everyone around here probably is.
Picking up on my silence, Bo lets out a dry, rattling sigh.