Chapter Five
THE MOON CASTS PEARLY SHADOWS on the gravel sidewalk as I knock on Peter’s door, the hand-carved P above the rusty knocker being the only thing that differentiates his brick home from the others in Egal.
The sixty-some homes are attached, forming one giant row house.
The compound was part of the original town of Jocassee, and held up well enough.
Besides the plumbing—hence, our glorious latrine.
The row houses are identical, just the way Chandler likes it.
Equality, baby. That’s the name of the game around here. We eat, sleep, and shit as one.
“Hey.” Peter opens the door, shirtless and wearing tight boxers.
Lucky for Peter, his well-muscled exterior counteracts his asshole interior.
My attraction to him has become purely carnal.
I don’t know if you can consider sex a redeeming quality, but .
. . it gives us both what we need. Sex gets him on my good side, and frankly, I so rarely experience physical pleasure that I take what I can get.
Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I pretend he’s still the man who offered me a hand in Walgreens after I shot insulin in my dying sister’s abdomen.
As for Peter, well, he gets what he wanted all along: power. Dominance. His ego stroked.
“Wow,” I say. Peter leans a muscular arm against the open door, a black snake tattoo weaving around his forearm and up his bicep. “Gun Show McGee.”
“Who?” He balls his fist, and his bicep pumps as he flexes.
I duck under his arm and step into the foyer. “It’s an expression. Forget it.”
The inside, lit by haphazardly placed candles, is sparsely decorated. Considering he’s out on runs half the time, and personal belongings are to be approved by Chandler because uniformity fosters unity, Peter hasn’t made his house homey.
His house consists of three rooms: a small kitchen with rusty appliances that don’t work, a living room with a futon he found in the wreckage somewhere in Chick Springs, and the bedroom. With a bed. Where we spend most of our alone time together.
“Kota.” Peter approaches me from behind. His arms wrap around my waist like the snake slithering across his arm. “I’ve missed you.”
“You could have talked to me at dinner,” I say, my voice wavering. “Just . . . putting that out there.”
“I had to talk with the boys.”
Right. But not me. I’m never involved. I’m his delicate doll.
I stare at the dark doorframe to the left. “I want to know why you said what you did to Chandler, especially after you broke protocol by cutting off Indy’s—”
Peter cuts me off with a kiss on my ear. Lips grazing my jaw, he whispers, “You look so beautiful tonight, Kota. My Kota.”
A shiver runs down my spine, though it’s not from pleasure. I spin around, then Peter cups my head in his hand and pulls my lips to his. His breath is warm and smoky as he slides his tongue into my mouth. I push against his chest.
“Peter,” I say, pushing again as he comes in for a second kiss. “We need to have a conversation. A real one. About Indy. About me.”
Peter cocks his head sideways, narrows his eyes like he’s ready to bite. I fold my arms across my chest. Stand down. I worry he won’t, but then he drops his hands from my face and balls them into fists.
“You won’t lose your job.”
My stomach sinks. Can he see through me?
Maybe I should shove my thumbs into his eye sockets and press until they pop.
“I—that’s not what I . . . You could’ve told Chandler the whole story earlier. I didn’t forget to lock the truck door because of a simple run-in with the Macs. I was distracted trying to save my friend. You know, the one who was about to get mauled by a zombie?”
“Oh, so you wanted me to tell Chandler that not only did your stupid decision lose us food, but you also left the truck? That you broke protocol?”
“No, I want you to have a bit of empathy! To care! To care about Indy, and about me.”
“I took care of the zombie, need I remind you. I saved Indy.” Peter’s shoulders tense up, and the snake pulls back, preparing to attack.
He marches toward the living room, leaving hot red steam in his wake. Knuckles white, Peter grips the doorframe so hard I fear the wood might split. I fear I might split.
The wood creaks under his pressure, and the smell of mold thickens the air.
I huff. “Yeah, well, you took care of Indy, too, didn’t you? Like a pathetic asshole.”
Peter whips around, his eyes wide in surprise. Never, I realize, have I spoken my mind in front of him . . . but it feels so good. So good that I don’t think I can stop. I don’t want to stop.
I stand up taller, square my shoulders.
“Why’d you really do it?” I ask defiantly. “Why’d you hurt him?”
“Nine out of ten fingers is pretty good,” he says, the corner of his lips ticking up. “Don’t you think?”
“When you’re talking about Powerball odds, sure, but not fingers!”
Peter’s smile falters. “You don’t understand.
The world isn’t rainbows and butterflies.
People need to learn the hard way—you, Indy, everyone.
Otherwise, you’ll all continue to repeat your mistakes.
” He spits the words at me like I’m some child.
“And then we’ll all be back where we started—outside these walls, fending for ourselves.
” He takes a deep breath and releases his knuckles.
Muscles at ease, the snake settles into his skin.
He bridges the gap between us and places a soft palm on my cheek.
“Just stop being stupid; that’s all I’m asking. ”
I want to bite his goddamn finger off. I want to show him how it feels. But no. I need him.
I close my eyes and lean into his touch. Refocus my energy.
My next words come out soft as velvet, so as not to enrage him again. “I’ll do better, I promise.”
But I want to do so, so much worse.
“Kota, you should know I’d do anything to protect you.” Then he leans in and kisses me again, hard, before pulling back. His mouth is swollen from our kisses, and his green eyes crinkle at the sides.
“I know,” I say.
Liar, liar, liar.
Peter grabs my hand to guide me toward the bedroom.
I tug on his hand to stop his movement. “Not tonight.”
“Fine,” Peter says, miffed. “Go hang out with your fucking sister and Grandma. That sounds like a grand old time.”
“Jesus, a guy gets blue-balled one time . . .”
“Go home.”
Without a word, he strides into the bathroom and closes the door. I look around the entryway, aghast. No, I’m not being dismissed like that. Not tonight.
I pound down the hallway.
I swear to God I’ll—
The door opens in my face. Peter grips a bottle in his left hand. When he reaches me, he extends his arm. Naproxen.
“Saw your grandma’s hands,” he says.
I extend a hand to accept the gesture, but Peter rears his arm back and hurls the bottle at the door behind me. I gasp as it breaks open when it hits the door. Pills scatter across the floor. I stare at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Rage is apparent on every inch of his red face.
He bares his teeth and says, “Fix your own fucking problems.”
With that, Peter turns around, struts into his bedroom, and shuts the door behind him.