Chapter seven – Just call me Mr. Clean
It took them a week, to finally right the cabin. Shooter had been working on the banister and had replaced the windows, which had required Mort to go into town. The hardware store worker had almost snorted his coffee out of his nose, when he saw the rumored murderer step into the store. It was the fastest trip to the hardware store Mort had ever endured. The windows, mirrors and the shower door were repaired. The coffee table was used as fire wood; a new one was bought at a flea market. Liana and Smithy; the twin females who had incurred Mort's wrath, hadn't shown up, a small relief for the trio. Rainey was mildly disappointed when Theresa didn't make an appearance. She was the only female he could stand; Amy hadn't left the best impression. Their days went back to the usual routine, Mort being forced into working on the novel, Shooter dividing his time between gardening and refurbishing the house and Rainey smoking and occasionally drinking. After one night of a particularly raucous alcohol binge, Shooter left his message. Rainey woke, half buried in the garden, the empty Jack Daniel's bottle sitting next to the shovel, which was stuck into the earth. He would have kept sleeping, if it hadn't of been for the sandaled foot nudging the side of his head.
"Rainey…." Theresa trailed, giving him a look of questioning. His head was pounding and the sunny glint off of the bottle wasn't helping the massive headache threatening to settle behind his eyes.
Rainey cleared his throat, and croaked, "A little help?" Theresa offered her hand, which Rainey grasped, her weight assisting him in his clamber out of his shallow hole. His robe was covered in dirt and when he reached for his cigarettes, he received a handful of soil.
"I've been drinking a bit." He said, in way of an explanation.
Theresa nodded, "I assumed as much. When I asked Shooter where you were, he said something about you ruining his soil with your blood alcohol content or something." Rainey's eyes went wide, at the mention of blood. His hands went over his body, checking for any open wounds. Finding none, he relaxed.
"I don't mean to be rude, but do you mind if we continue this conversation in say…half an hour? I really need to have a shower."
She gestured towards the back door, "By all means. Shower away." The pair entered the cabin, Theresa standing behind Rainey. Shooter had stopped the sand paper assault on the banister, when they entered the cabin and Mort's messy head peered over the railing in front of his desk.
"I'll stop drinking." Rainey said, slightly confused when the two men he lived with kept on staring. He turned, remembering Theresa.
"She's just going to….wait…for a bit, so I can get cleaned up," Rainey glared pointedly at Shooter, who ignored the poignant glance, "And then we're going to….." He trailed off, glancing at the petite red head behind him.
"And then we're going to go over to my place." She finished, slightly baffled. Rainey turned and nodded, facing the two men giving him the eye.
"Well, I'll be back." He began to descend the stairs and stopped, halfway up. Mort and Shooter remained in place, still staring at the woman he had left standing just inside the door. Shaking his head, the dirt encrusted writer entered the bedroom, wondering if he had sentenced Theresa to an early death. He shucked the muck encrusted robe, deciding to retrieve the red head waiting for him downstairs.
A/N: I could also picture the shovel/dirt thing. Woot. I feel like dannnnncing.
