Cause and Effect

Chapter 15

atelophobia [A-tel-o-phobia]

(n). the fear of imperfection; the fear of not being good enough

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He hadn't really expected his first official job with the Van der Linde gang to be a week-long highway run. John could tell that Hosea must have threatened quite a few men for him to even be considered being brought along because he had almost been left behind twice now in Tumbleweed. 

"Hey," he grumbled, half-heartedly waving down the group that was a few seconds away from tearing off. 

They didn't have to like him, but they were trying to do a job here, or at least that was John's impression. 

Arthur was heading this job up, because when did he not, and he sat astride his bike now, hands shoved deep in his jacket, staring off into the hot desert sands. John slowly walked toward his borrowed bike, rolling his shoulders, and scuffing his worn boots on the dusty roads. 

"You done shoppin', Marston?" 

Bill Williamson. 

John couldn't stand the man, reminded him a little too much of his cellmate in prison. All rough, and aggressive, like he was trying to make up for something he lacked. 

He stared at the man now, shaking his head. "You done bein' a fuckin' bitch?"

Bill stared at him, and John could see the wheels spinning in his head as he tried to process the comment. John ignored any sort of self-preservation he thought he had and went at him again. 

"Takin' you a long-ass time, Williamson," he could feel Arthur's glare now. "You slow or somethin'?" 

He should have expected Bill to be quicker with his fists than with his mouth, but he still was taken back by the punch. He shot back, Bill yelling something, as he shook off the pain, hands coming up to separate Bill from himself. Days of tension snapped just like that, and they were having it out, right there on the dusty road, scuffling back and forth, throwing punches, and shoving each other into the dirty ground. 

Arthur stared at them for a while, before sighing, and getting off his bike. Slowly, he drew his revolver and leveled it at the sky. He squeezed the trigger, and the echo of the shot startled the two apart. 

"Do it on your own time." He drawled and stuck the gun back in his holster. "We got a job to do." 

John shoved Bill off of him, flipping him off to get one last word in, and brushed the dust clinging to him. 

"We're lookin' for some trucks comin' down this way," Arthur glanced around at the bikes huddled near him, folding his arms and scuffing his boots in the dirt. "We need money real bad, but I ain't needin' to tell you that."

Bill looked pissed off as he slouched back to his bike, pulling it up from where it rested in the dirt. He glared at John, who stared at him, as he pulled the pack of Marlboro Reds out of his pocket. 

"We patrolin', Morgan?" Javier leaned on his bike, arms dangling off the handlebars. "Otherwise, that's a lot of ground to cover."

Arthur shook his head, fingers scratching at a pealing leather seat. "We're goin' back to the informant Hosea got." 

"You'n'I both know that informant ain't shit." Micah swore. He was leaning up against the wall, cast in shadow. "All them jobs we took from him, got 'em stole right out from under us by the damn del Lobos. And now? We ain't lookin' to put a target on our back."

"Sure," Arthur nodded slowly, and Micah scoffed. "But we need money, Micah, you've been hearin' Dutch growl 'bout it. So we're goin' to talk to the man, and then we're goin' to pull over them trailers, and take what we can."