“I know.”
“–the six-month mark. And then we'll reassess everything,” he continues as if I never spoke, and like he hasn't said the same damn thing to me every time I've come. “Alright, now get the fuck out of here.”
No problem there. I get to my feet and step out of the tiny space my parole officer calls an office, not bothering to say goodbye. I want nothing more than to be done with this shit.
As soon as I get to my truck, I pull out a napkin and open my door. It looked fine this time, but I can never be too sure what's underneath the handle, and I don't have time to check.
I jump in and haul ass in the direction of the fish market. I was meant to stop there beforemy meeting, but one of my tires was 'flat' again.
After the first two times that it happened over the past couple of months, andafter checking the cameras, I realized that I didn't just buy a bunch of shitty tires, but rather, the 'welcoming' committee of this town was still 'welcoming' me with slashed tires.
Luckily I picked up a few extra ones last month for cheap and was able to change it right away. But the delay meant that the cooler with fish and ice in it in the back of my truck had to sit longer than I wanted. The fish will be okay, but Ting, on the other hand, is always pissy later on in the day.
I throw my cap on and then carry the heavy cooler down the aisles to where my usual guy is. If people are talking and pointing at me along the way, I don't hear it in this huge market. A lot of these people aren't even from the same town as me, but news travels far and wide, especially about people like me.
Taking a quick glance around, I set the cooler down behind his tables and open it up. There are no greetings, we're not friends, he just leans down and takes out one of the striped basses, inspecting it thoroughly.
“I give you four dollar a pound.”
“Four dollars? Come on, Ting. You're killing me.”
Big commercial boats can bring in tons of fish. A single fisherman – actually, fishermanis a bit of a stretch – with not all of the right equipment, only brings in a couple of fish each time, and this time it's after a few days of fishing.
“You take or leave.”
Frustrated, I rub a hand down my face. “Fine, okay.”
I don't exactly have any other options right now. Ting takes the fish I brought over to the weighing station, calculates the total, then writes me a check.
“Thanks,” I mutter, lifting the cooler that now only contains ice and water in it, ready to head home again.
When he's in a good mood, he's offered as much as eight dollars a pound. Half of that won't get me very far, especially from just the two fish, but I'll have to deal with it.
I have the perfect view of the dock and my boat when I pull up to my place and park on the driveway. Immediately, I'm feeling like shit again. Although admittedly, I've felt like shit ever since I was an asshole and ditched Remi on the dock, taking off right after she almost drowned.
Yeah, I remember her name from when she first told me at the store. It was the first time anyone had been nice to me in years. Obviously, she hadn't heard about me yet. But of course, I was a dick to her. It was only a matter of time before everyone in town told her about me, so there was no point in being nice back.
There's no point in trying to make friends here anyway. They've all made up their minds about me. And even if I did make a friend, they'd just fuck right off when I needed them the most anyway.
Being near an attractive woman is also asking for trouble, especially one as attractive as Remi. I remember what it felt like to hold her wet body against mine yesterday. I remembered in the shower last night when I took my dick in my hand and then again in bed. I'm obviously a sick fuck if I get hard over remembering the feel of her skin while I was rescuing her. It's messed up behavior.
It's not long after all of those thoughts that I also remember the fact that she trespassed onto my property and all those questions she asked me like she had any fucking right to. And then I'm pissed all over again.
Still, it doesn't stop me from feeling like shit about it all, the weight of my actions sits heavily on my chest, and for some reason, I'd like to know that she's alright. And that just pisses me off even more.
Shoving my truck door open, I push away all of those thoughts with it and stalk inside my home to find some painkillers. My head is throbbing, and I really should head back out on the boat again this evening.
I swallow down a couple of pills and stand at the kitchen counter, looking around the room. My place is small and has minimalistic furnishing. But it's all I need. One couch, one armchair, a coffee table, and a small round table with two chairs all sit in one room beside the kitchen. And then there's a separate bedroom and bathroom.
Feeling hungry, I decide to search the not-so-full cupboard for something to eat, settling on some cereal when I don't see anything else. After pouring some into a bowl, I head to the fridge for the milk, only to be met with an almost empty carton. Not enough for my cereal.
“That's just great,” I mutter.
I had told myself yesterday that I'd get some today, and now I'm paying for it. The sound of me slamming the fridge door shut sounds loudly throughout the small space.
“Screw it.”
I wasn't going to go into town today after already being out, but it looks like I'll be finding out if Remi is okay after all.