The Devils Bargain | stuilly | billyxstu | stuxbilly

Chapter 17

Stu's door creaked open, revealing the room that he's had to call home for far longer than he was comfortable with, where the remnants of a lethargic day clung to the air, ripping the last of his energy out of him. His lanky form collapsed onto the bed, huffing when his body hit the hard mattress, shooting the air out of his lungs, a silent protest against the monotony that seemed to engulf his existence more often than not now. The day, young as it was, had already worn him thin.

In the stillness of his room, Stu grappled with growing loneliness but also boredom. Like a noose around his neck, it strangled him and left him itching for something more than the four walls that stared down at him. A sigh escaped him, a weary exhale coming with the knowledge that his days held no promise, no purpose beyond waiting for the return of his ditching best friend. Stu pondered, not for the first time, whether Billy actually cared about him and what he did, or if, for some stupid reason, he trusted him to be responsible enough to not check up on him.

He doesn't think it's the latter; Billy trusted him with very little and, at the same time, quite a bit. He was difficult to keep up with; he trusted him to not kill him in that kitchen, but he doesn't trust him not to kill some poor idiot and feels the need to remind him in his letter.

Pillows became his temporary refuge, muffling the world that, on its own, was already cutting the oxygen from his lungs. Groaning like a child into the fabric, Stu sought thoughtless peace in the embrace of a midday nap—anything to bridge the chasm between him and what he hoped was the quick return from the sudden milk run, a desperate effort to stave off the restless need to do something, literally anything—and yet, he could think of nothing that he could do right now, and he fell into a restless sleep.

Abruptly, the tranquilly shattered like glass as a series of sharp knocks reverberated through the room. Stu's eyes snapped open, his hair dishevelled, and there was a damp spot on the pillow where he'd drooled. He wasn't usually someone who drooled in his sleep, but he couldn't find it in him to care at that very moment. Night had taken up the once bright sky, making his room pitch black; had he seriously slept the hours away?

The ominous silhouette under the door, coupled with the authoritative thuds, roused Stu to semi-full consciousness, staring at the door and contemplating the situation. "Police, open up!"

Disbelief lingered in Stu's widened eyes. Surely, they couldn't have connected the guy so quickly to the motel; had the police bought a brain in the last 2 years? He had fleeting hope that they might move on without incident, testing their persistence until he couldn't anymore. "We know you're in there! One of the other tenants said they saw you come back."

Stu wasn't worried that this was him being arrested; he was sure if they were here to do that, they wouldn't be asking him to come out; they'd just burst the door down, shove a gun in his face, and cuff him.

So despite not wanting to open that door, a muttered curse slipped past Stu's lips, and he rose, head pounding—dehydration and prolonged slumber exacting their toll. As he stumbled towards the door, a realisation struck: he had left it unlocked. It swung open to reveal two officers, their stern expressions betraying the gravity of the situation. Guns holstered but visible, they exuded an air of authority that contradicted Stu's sleep-rumpled appearance.

"Hello, sir, sorry for disrupting your sleep," a younger officer offered, while the other, notepad and pen in hand, continued, "We cannot disclose the details of our investigation, but we suspect that there may have been an altercation here involving the front desk attendant, 'Bobby Roberts.' "

Stu kept a disinterested composure as the police spoke, not wanting to give anything away, but at the same time, he always liked playing with the cops, so he couldn't help the playful glint in his eye.