He's dying.
He didn't think about everything he failed to accomplish in life, but he more pitied himself for getting nowhere. He had thought of so many magnificent and amazingly bone-chilling ways to die, but instead he ended up with a knife in his...
Mickey peered up at James while chugging down a cold bottle of water, feeling drops run down his chin and disappear under his dirty tanktop. He let out a content sigh once he replenished his thirst and twisted the cap back on the bottle. James watched him. "What's up?"
"In pulling out for an hour, think you could cover for me?" James asked, a cigarette between his lips.
Mickey squinted at the few cars lined up. "Sure, why not. You headed somewhere specific?"
James exhaled the smoke from his mouth and gave Mickey an amused look. "Nope. Nowhere special."
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"Bullshitting on the job, huh?" Mickey asked, making James laugh.
"With a job like this, who wouldn't?"
"So the family death was bullshit too, then?"
James's face lost emotion, his eyebrows dropping and eyelids becoming more hooded than before. He looked down at the ground and swallowed, flicking the cigarette to the concrete. "No, it wasn't."
His voice sounded just as petulant as he looked. Mickey's throat went dry, mentally hitting himself. "Oh- shit, man... I'm sorry. I'm a fucking idiot, just ignore me seriously-"
"It's okay," James interrupted, clearing his throat. He stood up and pulled his uniform over his bare arms, buttoning it up over his tank top that matched Mickey's. "Dean's inside taking interviews. I'll be back later."
Mickey cursed under his breath as James walked away, a feeling of guilt creeping up his spine. Mickey and his big fucking mouth. "James!"
James turned around slowly and stood silently. He motioned with his hands, what?
"If you uh, ever need to talk," Mickey advised awkwardly. "Like, for advice or something or just to vent. I'm here."
James nodded, not looking directly at Mickey. He shoved his tattooed hands in his uniform pockets and walked away. Mickey watched as he left, still a little raw from the previous situation.
"Mickey Milkovich."
Mickey turned his head, raising an eyebrow at the dirty, disheveled kids before him. One held a baseball bat in his hand and the two others held pocket knives and clenched fists. He glanced up at the kid who spoke with an uninterested look. "The fuck do you want?"
"You don't remember me?" The kid asked with fake innocence. His friends chuckled.
"Lotta dirty faces around here, but let me try and see if I can remember all your names," Mickey pretended to think for a second before pointing at the kid with the baseball bat. "You must be Jackass. How could I forget you?" He moved down the line. "You must be Twat, and you're Assbreath. The famous trio."
All three boys grit their teeth and held tightly onto their weapons. "Very fucking funny, Milkovich. I see you changed up your look, you look like more of a bitch than you did before."
