Cold Blood

❥Chapter Twenty-five❥

Written by ChemicalWonderland

Everett's POV

I close the hotel room door behind me, entering out into the dimly lit hall. The walls are painted a pale blue, almost white. A few small lamps line the corridor, flickering occasionally, and to my annoyance. A petite woman wearing an apron works farther down the hall, broom in hand as she sweeps furiously at the carpeted floors. I think about killing her, but dismiss the idea a second later. Ash and I are trying to fly under the radar, and murdering someone would only draw attention. I decide to turn the opposite way, heading toward the elevator, supressing my hunger for murder.

Once inside the elevator, I'm surrounded by humid silence. It makes me feel like my thoughts are suffocating me, pressed in against my skin by the warmth in the air. What could I have changed about what happened back there? Should I have killed him? I know I can't alter the past, but sometimes I wish I could.

The moment just didn't feel right, like the setting wasn't proper, or like this isn't the last time we're going to cross paths. I hope it's the last time. If I ever do see him again, I'm going to kill him.

Reaching the lobby, I step out and cross over the room. The guy behind the front desk gives me a small wave, an impersonal yet friendly gesture.

I offer a half-smile, lowering my head and exiting through the doors. The sky has dulled, stained gray and flecked with wispy clouds. Rain is probably coming, which means I'll have to pick up food pretty fast.

I navigate through the parking lot to my impala, hopping in using a few swift movements. I shut the door with a loud bang, turning on the car a second later. It feels good to be behind the wheel, in my natural habitat. The air in the car smells faintly of metallic blood and bleach, smothered in layers of sickeningly sweet airspray to mask the morbid odor. The cushioned seats are a mix of color between very dark navy blue and rich emerald green, worn and frayed in places. The driver's side seat almost seems to mold to my body, like a natural instinct.

I pull out from the hotel, heading out onto the road. I see a fast-food restaurant a couple businesses away. I could walk there if I really wanted to, but I'm feeling lazy and I don't want to have to lug food back.

It takes me less than a minute to pull up to a place called Brady's Burger Joint. The exterior is made up of obnoxiously bright red and yellow tiles, with large windows cut into it that reveal a fifties style interior. A few cars are already parked in the small lot.

I drive into an empty spot, the car concealed by a large clump of overgrown bushes. I step out of the impala and head into the restaurant, instantly struck by the smell of french fries and burgers wafting heavily in the air from the small kitchens in the back. There's a bar lined with red cushioned chairs, people drinking milkshakes and laughing in the seats.

Tables litter the place, all gleaming metal and bright pop colors. A vintage juke box in the corner, no longer in use, just adds to the fifties vibe the restaurant reeks of. The workers at the registers have their hair slicked back or curled in some ridiculous fashion, and they wear old clothing that looks tacky to me. I resist the urge to roll my eyes and instead scan the menus posted against one tiled wall.

I decide on two classic adult meals, which include a hamburger, fries, and fountain drink. I go up to a front register where a girl with sleek black hair done up with a bow and too much red lipstick takes my order. She smiles too much.

I'm handed checkered blue cups with the restraunt's swirly logo printed onto the cheap plastic. I go over to get Ash and I's drinks, slapping thin caps over top them. My order is ready a minute later, and the lady calls out the fake name I gave her. I have to remind myself who I told her I was for a brief second. I thank her and grab the food quickly. The bags are in the same fashion as the cups, with the same pattern and words printed across the front. The paper is covered in a thin layer of grease, and I snatch up a couple napkins before I head out the door.