weapons † hs

3. it's confidential

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The creaky, white door of my temporary-home apartment opens when I unlock it, practically coming off of its hinges. I've lived in here for nearly four days and I still don't understand how I'll get used to this place.

Sheriff McCarthy offered a car and this temporary place for me to stay in, and let's just say the saying 'don't judge a book by its cover' works in both negative and positive situations.

"You're staying at the Royal Complex," McCarthy had informed me as I made the travel here, and my hopeful little brain was thinking it'd be a decent place.

After all, "royal" means royal.

That first night when I checked in, I saw probably three rats in the lobby alone with traps everywhere. Literally rodent infested. The room is small and quaint with a light stench of something in the air, and I'm pretty sure I saw a condom wrapper on the floor before I kicked it under the bed.

Not to complain that Mr. McCarthy couldn't spend a little more on just a room with a bed for me, because I appreciate the offer, but even jail cells aren't infested with bugs and rodents, and those are complimentary with any criminal charge.

Why can't I just stay in Harry's fancy loft and kick him out to here. If he's the criminal we think, he deserves to sleep with the rats and the obnoxious young couple that lives to my right that has sex like there's no tomorrow where he would fit right in.

I am trying to be calm today. I'm usually a sweet person, but the nerve Harry has makes me want to choke him more than I already wanted to when I first met him out of frustration. I get it; the difficulty in suddenly being paired to some stranger who you will have to spend an undetermined amount of time with is a challenge that I understand. With a guy like Harry, I can imagine it's a lot more than that though. When I read through the files I was given, sure, I had some background facts and a picture of him, but the rest of who he truly is was all left to my imagination, which he can't seem to comprehend in his pea brain.

Over the week I got to think and learn about him, I pictured a short temper, and the reality is that it's almost extreme. I've met short tempered drug lords and angry criminals, but threatening someone with a knife when they don't get their way on something...

What a fucking baby he is.

Now that he sits helplessly in his house without access to his thousands-of-dollars-on-wheels, maybe he'll learn to respect me a little more...

"Dammit, Blondie!" The old man in the room next door to mine whines through the open window next to my door, just as I begin to leave. He is another person who within first introduction chooses to call me 'blondie'.

The rooms of this deranged complex are all next to each other like a motel, the doors facing directly the outside. And to think this morning I hoped to make it past him for once and down to my car.

The older man opens his door and peaks out, angrily staring at me as his hand holding his cane down for balance shakes ironically enough.

"Mr. Jefferson?" I question, fighting the urge to disrespectfully roll my eyes. "Something wrong?"

"You ruined my plant again!" he seethes, using his cane to point at me as he waddles out of his apartment to stand in front of me.