The Hellhound Duke [Part1/2]

Chapter 4

Lucas

I watch Dr. Spades as he struts away, his long black tail swaying in time with his rounded hips, sixty bucks in my shaking hand.

Marcus slowly comes down the stairs, stopping at the second-to-last step. "Which one of you's still here?" He yells, making me flinch.

I take a second to answer. "Me."

He comes into view, wearing long, gray sweatpants and a blue t-shirt, a thin, hooked tail trailing behind him. "Oh, good," he sighs, lowering his voice, bags under his eyes. "I probably should've cleaned up before I changed."

I spin around, thinking about the conversation. Even after the guy's assurance, I still feel terrible. "Yeah, in case your dad waltzes in. Those don't look too bad on you, though."

"Butterin' me up for more cocktails, I see," he jokes, taking the dirty glasses off the counter, pausing when he notices the fifty-dollar bill. "What's this? He paid for your shit?"

"A hundred and ten bucks, man. Pulled it out like it wasn't nothin'."

"Damn. The fifty's for me?"

I shrug. "Sure, whatever."

He sets the glasses aside, then splays out the delicate silver-colored bill in the air.

"What are you doin'?"

He doesn't look away, scanning the front. "Checkin'."

"For what? Counterfeit?"

He puts it down after a peek at the back. "Looks fine," he finally looks up, shoving the cash into his pocket. "Old bills, though."

I'm still confused. "Why'd you do that?"

"I get weirded out when people just give away money. You gotta be careful with strangers, L," he holds up his right hand, wiggling his index, middle, and thumb, looking at me through the space where the fourth and fifth should be. "They can mess you up good, if you let 'em."

"He's being nice," I argue. "Don't be so paranoid."

"I'm not saying that guy in particular is a serial killer, Lucas. Just be careful, okay? Don't get too attached. You're a decent customer... when you pay, I guess."

I take out my plastic wallet and stuff the bills in there, hopping off my stool. "I'll watch my back, Marcus. See you some other time. Need help cleaning up?"

"No, get the fuck out." He yawns, turning off the lights above the bar, getting a white cloth from underneath. "I hope I don't see you, aight? Get your shit fixed and stop comin' here every other day. It's not healthy."

"No promises," I grumble, heading out the door, looking around for Dr. Spades in the parking lot. I don't spot him; there's only my car and Marcus'. "Bye."

It feels like forever before I pull in the driveway. The bedroom lights in the house are completely off, the upstairs windows dark, with curtains and blinds drawn. Thankfully, the side door is still unlocked, meaning I won't have to break in or wake them all up by punching the doorbell. 

My bed is the couch in front of the broken TV in the garage. I toe my shoes off by the door and relish in the silence, running my hands through the fur on my head and stretching before I flick on the lights that dangle from the ceiling.

My watch reads 11:35, yet it's broiling in here; the garage has no AC, and the few battery-powered fans I bought turn off after four hours to save charge, all of them pointed in a semicircle around my bed. I hurry to power them back on, sitting down and bathing for a second in the cool, rushing air before I undress.