Insanity x2 (A Trevor Philips Story)

9: Feelings

I parked my Rusty Rebel outside of Trevor's house, hopping out of the driver's seat to walk over to the door, knocking nervously, seeing Trevor's truck after hours of peeping out of my window to check. He was home, finally, after the Madrazo visit.

I took a deep breath, then swung the front door open. I found Michael on Trevor's couch, on the phone. I heard him say something about us laying low, I don't know, I wasn't entirely paying attention. I was mostly paying attention to Patricia in the kitchen area.

"Patricia?" I questioned, finding her mouth was duct taped shut. "What the—. . . " I sighed. "Fuckin' Trevor probably realized how cheap your husband pays, didn't he." I sighed. Patricia started to nod. I ran my hand through my hair. Michael was stuck here too because of this situation. Of course.

I poked my head into the bedroom to find Trevor knocked out on the bed, and sighed, removing myself from the room and going next to Michael, sitting next to him with my head in my hands.

"You okay?" he asked, clicking a button on the phone after finishing his conversation. When I lifted my head, I saw he was placing the device in his pocket.

"I—yeah. How late has Trevor been asleep for?"

"Since we got back from kidnapping Madrazo's wife. . ." His expression changed, turning thoughtful, and slightly suspicious. "Why are you here?"

"I bought a house two minutes away when I got wasted out here, and decided to keep it and remodel it. I prefer it over the Los Santos house."

"Why?" Michael questioned. I shrugged.

"Less people out here. And I don't need a big house. All the cars I have I got when I first started making money but I don't entirely need them. I only ever need three, the Banshee and Reaper are in the garage and the Rusty Rebel is in front of the house. . . Rebel gets used most often though. So really I just need one rusty truck and one livable house and I'm good. The other place is just storage.
Michael frowned. "Huh. Okay, guess we differ there. . . Remodeling with the money from the last heist?"

I chuckled. "No, I had Lester divide my cut into three, and distribute the money to you guys. I didn't do it for the money."

Michael looked baffled now at this point, and I could tell he was the most materialistic person in our group. I could tell he loved Los Santos more than I ever could, and he didn't understand my craving to throw out the money hungry attitude Los Santos' residents embraced.

He looked from me, to Trevor's room, back to me. I knew what he was thinking. "You're kind of like Trevor. . . Except you're not completely insane. And you're probably much cleaner, and you actually care to remodel your house instead of let it rust and rot." His words were bitter. He looked around Trevor's dirty home and scrunched up his nose.

I let out a very long sigh, then walked over to Trevor's sleeping form. I sat on the bed, and poked him in the chest.

He flew up into a sitting position, screaming out, "What the who the what!?" Once his eyes rested on me and he saw who I was, he relaxed and sighed. "Oh, hi." He grumbled.

"Can we talk?" I questioned. "I'm going to go to the store to buy more paint, you can come with me."

"Fine, fine!" he shouted, sitting up and standing up, storming past me. "Mikey, I have to go get some fuckin' supplies with Lucy."

I waved goodbye to Michael before I walked out of the home and into the hot weather, feeling my skin start to tingle as I let out a breath. I got into the driver's seat and waited for Trevor to get into the passenger seat, then drove down the street to a small, empty clearing. I parked right in the middle and turned to look at him.