#ncfom

Note: Sorry for the gaps of time between each upload, life has just been messin’ with my schedule.

Part five: 

She takes some time to process his words, then: “My other contractor?”

She glares right at you as she inquires. The blue of her irises becomes as frosty as the arctic. And her eyebrows attempt to furrow, though her botox doesn’t allow it. Her jaw clenches enough to squeeze some ash from her cigarette out into her coffee.

Shit.

“What is he talkin’ about, number one?” she sternly asks. She takes a long drag of her cigarette, coughing a bit before spittin’ some phlegm into a napkin. You don’t watch long enough to see her do it. Instead you focus on the issue at hand.

You sigh at the unfavorable turn of events. 

Number one… Couldn’t have come up with anythin’ better, you hag?

Decidin’ to stick to your contractor’s code, you speak up, although hesitantly: “He’s gone. ‘Said he spent all the money he got.”

Though it might be a tad nervewrackin’, you’re not new to this. Maybe new to having someone like the man next to you as a partner—sort of, but not this. 

I’m just a contractor, didn’t mean nothin’ by it. ‘Not my fault you paid me for a job I’d already done.

A mantra you frequently tell yourself.

 It’s just business as usual to you. You really can’t be loyal to one handler; you aren’t that naive. After all your time doin’ what you do, you’ve learned that takin’ just about any job ensures you a stable income. You really can’t be selective if you wanted to. It’s like you’ve always believed, a picky dog is always the least fed…

Taking the frustrating news, Miss Abigail pinches the bridge of her nose. She doesn’t speak a word, ‘gives you some time to think.

You glance at the man. He’s as still as ever, the bloodshot in his eyes tells you that he hasn’t blinked in a while. They’re locked on her, just dead. You can feel a small hatred for him blossomin’ in your heart.

…Rat bastard. ‘Just had to go tellin’ my business.

Abruptly, his eyes shoot at yours. They force through the pools of your pupils and into your core. You shiver, though subtly. The threat of immediate death has passed, allowing you to stare back with a sort of bravery. There’s still a sliver of worry left in you though.

The diner lighting gives you a better look at him. His skin is pasty, pale. The light adds no warmth or friendliness to him at all. Only dimension. His features are strangely common—at least for a Texan, if that’s what he is. And he’s clean-shaven. 

The bastard shaves…?

Through the tunnel of your ear, you hear Miss Abigail sighin’. But you’re too focused on the man to care. 

His overgrown bowl-cut—or whatever it is—seems recently washed. It's shiny, smooth. But, there isn’t a distinct smell comin’ from it. Not really. You realize he doesn’t smell like anything actually. 

‘Reeks of dickhead, that’s for sure.

“Youse gettin’ my goddamn money back.” Miss Abigail scolds. She scowls—to the best of her ability at least. Your eyes are instantly on her. She just takes a drag of her cigarette, then continues:

“I gots a guy in Del Rio that owes me one. ‘Stays at some Cielito Lindo, Veterans Boulevard. Short, fat, bald older feller. Y'all gonna find him and press ‘em for a thousand. Tell him I sent you.”

She takes a sip of her coffee, still filled with some ash.

You can’t taste that?

“Del Rio’s far, Miss. Gone’ cost you, right fella?” you respond. Almost instinctively, you nudge the man with your elbow.

“Mm.” he grunts in…acknowledgement? You aren’t too sure.

She replies: “Yeah–yeah, I got it. Take your shit. ‘For the nights ‘head of you.”

She chucks a thick wad of cash at you. Usually this is the part you eagerly head to a motel with your partner, but your partner is…

Why lord, why?

You only nod and scoot off the booth, the man immediately follows. You don’t look back, too irritated at your predicament. As you head to the parking lot, the night looks darker than it did before. 

The things I do for money…

The crunchin’ of gravel and the familiar scent of asphalt remind you of the odd coin toss from earlier. You shake the thought and stop at the Caprice. You can see his reflection in the tinted window of the passenger’s seat, he looks back at you. 

Wanted to post something but I’ve got NO IDEAS so have this lazy doodle and some extra stuff I haven’t posted (+ my new pfp👀)

@/Lurplitz on insta & Artfight 0_o

He's really in a pickle now