Come Down From Your Fences

Chapter 32

Dally shifted uncomfortably, trying not to disturb Sylvia, who was draped across him, pinning him to the bed. The last thing he needed was her waking up - wanting to talk and shit like that. Part of him wished she'd just vanish after they were finished, but she'd tried to guilt him into treating this like a real relationship this time around. He was tempted to tell her where she could put her so called real relationship, but he wasn't in the mood for some screeching chick arguing at him for hours on end. Easier just to let her think she was getting her own way - for now, at least. He wouldn't hesitate to stir things up once he'd had enough of her warming his bed whenever he needed it. If his calculations were correct, this particular corner of Tulsa should be seeing one hell of a fight between the two of them in roughly two weeks, three tops.

Sylvia stirred slightly and he froze, watching as her fingers curled against his chest, like talons preparing to sink into his flesh. As it was, the god awful blood red nail polish she wore made it look like she had just made a fresh kill - she probably thought she had him snared, but she was as dumb as she was easy. One nail was hooked around the chain he always wore; poised to snatch the St. Christopher medallion she coveted. She had asked him for it back last night, but he shrugged her off. He knew better this time - fool him once, he's fucked. Fool him twice ... whatever. Who gives a shit how the hell that stupid saying goes anyway?

So he laid there, staring at the ceiling as he listened to her breathe and moan in her sleep. Bored with the cracked, tobacco stained view, he looked down at Sylvia and studied her - really took a good hard look at the woman that had shared his bed off and on for the last couple of years. Somehow, she looked older than he remembered - like she'd aged ten years while he'd been locked up. He'd like to think it was because she missed him - but it was more likely the Lucky Strikes, Southern Comfort, and revolving door of guys.

There were lines around her mouth that he didn't remember seeing before, dark circles under her eyes that she did a piss-poor job of covering up with makeup, and wrinkles on her forehead that made it look like she was permanently scowling. Her hair was a fried, yellowy straw color that rivaled the ridiculous dye job Johnny gave Pony while they were on the run. It used to flow around her shoulders, loose and shiny - at least he thought it used to. Now it just sort of fell in a dry frizz that looked thin on top and haggard at the bottom. She looked tired and looking at her made him feel tired, too.

Sighing, he went back to studying the ceiling. At least that didn't make him feel like hurling himself off a cliff.

Without warning, the door to the make-shift apartment flung open and Dally realized there was something worse than a broad talking his ear off at the break of dawn. Tim Shepard was standing in the doorway with a look on his face that was a cross between an angry badger and a pissed off pit bull. Dally would have laughed if he hadn't been so startled to see him standing there.

Sylvia woke with a start, bolting up in bed, naked as the day she was born. It was a beat or two before she realized there was a third person in the room - a beat or two before she realized she needed to grab the sheet or something to cover up. Dally wondered why she even bothered - he was pretty sure Tim was one of the guys she was screwing behind his back during his frequent trips to jail. It wasn't like it was something Shepard hadn't seen before. Hell, Dally would lay money on it being something at least half the neighborhood had seen before. Even good ol' Buck was a likely candidate.

"What the fuck do you want?" he was about to ask, but Sylvia beat him to it.

"Well?" she demanded, one hand on her hip while the other clasped the threadbare sheet to her chest.

Tim didn't say anything. He blatantly ran his gaze down her body, his stance bored and indifferent. "None of your damn business."

Dally reached over and grabbed her clothes from the floor. They had thrown them there last night in their haste. He grimaced at the smell of stale cigarette smoke and cheap beer that still clung to them as he tossed them to her. "Here ya go, babe. Why don't you make yourself useful or something? See if Buck has anything in his kitchen for breakfast."