Page 67 of Bobby Green

Reg nodded and fought the burn in the back of his eyes. “They do,” he said gruffly. “That was a really good present, Bobby. Let’s save them.”

Fifteen minutes later, Reg had stacked most of them in the corner, relieved because they were only a little sticky on the covers and he’d been able to wash that off. He’d had to throw away a few, but they were small, and he made Bobby put the titles in his phone so they could find them again.

Then, while Bobby finished up the cleaning, Reg went and found V.

He knew where she’d be—she was always in the same place.

In her closet, crying.

This time, as Reg looked in, he saw a tiny bag of pills in the corner of the closet, and he wanted to smack his head with his palm like an idiot.

“You hid them?” he asked, hunkering down next to her so he didn’t look scary.

“I felt so good,” she whispered. “And then… you know. I heard them.”

“Voices,” he clarified.

“I know they’re not real.” She turned her face up to him, tracks working their way through the grime. “I just… I wrecked your present,” she moaned, wiping her cheeks on her knees.

“Why’d you do that?” Because damn. Bobby had left her something good, and she’d already opened it.

“There were bugs in them,” she whispered.

Reg held out his hand. “Give me the pills, V.”

She did, docile in her emotional exhaustion. He pulled out a dose and an extra sedative, figuring she’d need the rest and he and Bobby had earned the peace of mind.

“Swallow,” he told her, his voice flat. He wasn’t going to go get her water either, because he knew that trick. The lock was still busted on the door from the last time he’d had to break it down.

She dry-swallowed and showed him her tongue, over and under. He looked around her room and sighed.

It looked like the kitchen, minus the food.

“Get in bed,” he ordered gently. “I’ll start picking this up.”

“I’m hungry,” she begged plaintively, and he fought off a moment of terrible rage.

And swallowed it down, because that’s what you did when someone heard voices and was at the mercy of their imperfect brains. You swallowed that anger, because it didn’t do a goddamned thing.

“Well, you’ll have to wait until Bobby and I pick up the shit you threw on the fucking ground,” he said, his voice short but not sharp.

She slapped him—but not hard. “Don’t be rude.”

“I’m hungry.” It was the truth—they’d been planning to make sandwiches. “And I’ve got another hour or two to go.”

She let out a growl, and he had just enough time to dodge backward before she got him in the head with a shoe. He snatched the damned thing out of her hand—high heels, back from the days when she’d take the bus into town and go dancing—and threw it across the room. She wasn’t very strong, but he’d seen that movie where the guy got caught with a spike heel in the eyeball, and he wasn’t excited about having those in the closet anymore.

“All done?” he asked, his stomach gurgling.

“I hope the bugs eat you,” she snarled, and he stood up and hefted her out of the closet and over his shoulder, kicking and screaming as she went.

He reached to the top of the closet, where she couldn’t reach and mostly couldn’t see, and grabbed the box he’d gotten from the sex toy shop about a year after he’d gotten his job at Johnnies.

He’dwantedan actual straightjacket, the kind they used in the movies or in the more hard-core medical facilities, but apparently they didn’t sell those retail. What theydidsell—at least what he was familiar with—was bondage equipment.

The good stuff.

The padded cuffs that went around the bedframe and the anklets that left her helpless.