I didn’t get to clean up before I was dropped back home, so there I was, sneaking (as much as anyone can really sneak in flip flops) my skinny ass up our long-ass driveway at, like, midnight, in my soaked little PJ shorts and cum-stained t-shirt that did jack shit to hide the little brown bullets poking out from my barely there tits, my face and hair a sticky mess, a mixture of jizz and puke lingering on my tongue. It wasn’t until I got to the top of the driveway that I noticed the dim light coming through a crack in the curtains. It had to be my dad. He didn’t often stay up this late, but realising he was up made me remember a comment he’d made to mom over breakfast about the West Indies (where they came from) playing cricket against Australia. Mom didn’t much care, but if it involved men playing with balls my dad would watch it. Well, like, sports balls anyway, not the kind of balls I liked. His enthusiasm for sports could be pretty entertaining and super cute, but now it was just. He drops Nash to the ground and tries to whip around with the carbine, but Nash quickly pulls the arm down with him. ‘No,’ Nash tells the man. Mason looks at him confused. ‘Give it to me and you get yours and Matthews’ asses the fuck out of here.’ ‘I ain’t leaving you Commander,’ Mason says defiantly. ‘The hell you ain’t. That’s a fucking order.’ Nash grabs the carbine and yanks. Mason refuses to give over the weapon, but Nash shoots him a pleading look and he lets go. ‘No you two get the fuck out of here and report back.’ ‘It’s an honor sir,’ Mason says. He turns and runs before Nash can have the chance to reply. Nash gets up and leans against a tree. Kazubeil hasn’t moved from its spot as it seems to have enjoyed watching the life fade from Bridges’ body. Now that it didn’t have a moving, struggling person under its feet it was turning its attention elsewhere. Toward Nash. ‘That’s right asshole. Come to daddy, bitch.’ Nash opens up on Kazubeil until the carbine is spent. He throws.
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