Spilled Blood by Brian Freeman Page B

with them in the morning. Right now, I just need to sleep.”
    “Of course, yes. I have another room for you. Do you need anything? I can get you whatever you want.”
    “Maybe a toothbrush and toothpaste.”
    “No problem.” The motel owner put his hands on his fleshy hips, and his golden face screwed up in disgust. “St. Croix attacks Barron, Barron attacks St. Croix. Where does it end? A pox on both of their houses, that’s what I say. I wore blue for three decades in San Jose. I saw this kind of hatred in the city, but I hoped I would never see it again.”
    “Whoever quits first is the loser,” Chris said, “so no one quits.”
    “It is too bad you are in the middle of it, Mr. Hawk.”
    “Olivia’s in the middle, and I have to get her out,” Chris replied. “You said you had another room for me?”
    Marco dug in his pocket for a key. “It’s the last room on the corner. I was up half the night on Friday repairing the plumbing in there, so it’s all new. The toilet, now it goes whoosh . No more floods. I’ll bring you some things, all right?”
    “Thank you.”
    Chris left the room without sifting through the remains of his luggage. He walked past the other motel rooms, where rain dripped from the roof into puddles beside him. The new room was sterile and empty, which was what he wanted. It smelled of lemon cleanser. He went to the bathroom sink, turned on the cold water, and splashed it on his face and ran his wet hands back through his hair.
    He stared at himself in the mirror. He thought about Hannah.
    She had said, “It doesn’t matter what you inject. It’s still addiction .” She was right. You can be addicted to adrenaline. You can be addicted to violence.
    He heard a knock on the door. It was the ever-efficient Marco, handing him a plastic bag of toiletries. He thanked the motel owner again, then closed the door and locked it. He dumped the bag on the counter of the bathroom: toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, mouthwash, bags of M&Ms and pretzels, microwave popcorn, a Bible, and a clean, folded pair of XXL underwear. That was life in a small town. Someone gave you their underwear if you had none.
    Back inside, he took off his clothes and lay on the bed. The room was black. The mattress was a stiff board. He stared at the ceiling, but he didn’t sleep. There was no way around it; he was a long way from home. He was an outsider, a foreigner, and the town of Barron was already sending him a message.
    Get out while you can.

5
    K IRK W ATSON SHOULDERED OUT OF THE OVERGROWN WEEDS NEAR THE Spirit River, bellowing “FUKYEAHHHHH” so loudly that the curse carried across the water to downtown Barron. He tossed his shoulder-length black hair out of his face. He had a long day’s worth of dark stubble on his square chin. He was shirtless, and he carried a long-neck bottle of Grain Belt, which he tilted and swigged until it was dry. With his other hand, he tugged up the zipper of his jean shorts.
    A teenage girl followed Kirk from the riverbank. She was as skinny as a stick, with dirty blonde hair. Her bone-white knees were smeared with mud. She wiped her mouth and shoved her grapefruit-sized breasts back inside the tight confines of her camisole. When she spotted Lenny Watson eyeing her pink nipples from the park bench, she snarled at him.
    “What are you looking at?”
    Lenny’s face blushed beet red. He stammered an excuse, but Kirk grabbed the girl’s hair and pulled until she screamed in pain.
    “Hey!” Kirk warned, jabbing a finger in her face. “That’s my brother there. You got that, Margie? He wants a suck, you open your hole and give him a suck.”
    Margie shrank as Kirk towered over her. “I’m sorry, Kirk,” she whimpered.
    Kirk shoved Margie toward Lenny, making her stumble in her block heels. “What about it, Leno? You want Margie here to swallow some squirt?”
    Lenny squirmed on the metal bench, but he shook his head. “Nah, that’s okay.”
    “This girl’s got a tongue