9. Chapter 9

Everything Billy has that’s important is stored away in Indianapolis, in a big ass lockbox in one of the lower vaults. Well, not everything— he still has a box in Chicago, too, and another one in Los Angeles, but the one in Indianapolis is the closest, and has certain necessities that the others don’t, like his birth certificate, his social security card, and even a few crumpled photos.

He clears the box out completely, taking the fifteen grand and the manilla folder of documents with him before driving back to Hawkins. He’d played with maybe making a little bit extra before he left the biggest city within a six hour drive, but decides against it. His kind of work starts when the sun goes down, and he doesn’t like the idea of just leaving fifteen thousand dollars in small bills to rot in his car while he stands on a street corner.

So no. He just drives back, two duffel bags tucked securely in the trunk of his Camaro as he zips down the highway like the goddamn Bandit, just because he can.

He pulls up to the Byers’ house at about eight and groans. Harrington’s there, probably along with Dustin and the whole little gang, and that’s just fan-fucking-tastic. He debates for a moment whether or not to leave his shit in the car, but decides against it. This town might be a little white bread for his tastes, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t someone dumb enough to try and break into his car.

Sighing to himself, Billy pops the trunk, collects his bags, and heads for the door.

“Billy!” Joyce greets when he walks in. “How was the trip? Got everything you needed?”

“Uh, yeah.” Billy realizes belatedly that he had forgotten to tell Joyce where he’d be today. Well, he supposes Hopper handled that for him.

“Well, that’s good,” she says. “There’s leftover chicken pot pie in the kitchen, if you want some. Steve apparently took it upon himself to cook today.”

She sounds a little miffed about that, so Billy gives her a little smile.

“I ate on the way,” he lies. “How was Max?”

“Oh, fine.” Joyce pauses, glancing down the hall towards Will’s room. “She seems pretty happy that Steve decided to visit. I know you boys don’t get along, but—”

“Yeah, I think I’m just going to take this to the room and go to bed,” he says, gesturing at his bags. “If that’s okay with you, ma’am.”

“I told you, call me Joyce,” she says, rolling her eyes. “And of course you can. After all that driving, you must be tired— just go see Max first, okay?”

Billy nods because he can’t sigh. Harrington’s hanging out with his little sister, and in order to see Max, he has to look at that bastard’s smug face and not break it. This sucks.

He dumps the bags in the room he and Max are sharing along with the file and pauses in front of the mirror hanging on the closet door. He looks tired, bags under his eyes and hair free of its usual hairspray and teasing. He didn’t bother with his usual open button-down, either, preferring an old Mötley Crüe t-shirt that’s seen too many washes.

God, he looks like shit, but hell, Harrington already saw him today, so you know what? Fuck it.

The door’s open when Billy goes to Will’s room, but he knocks on the doorframe anyway.

“Billy!” Max shoots up from her spot on the floor and launches herself at him, a blur of red hair and pink that hits his chest full force.

“Holy shit!” Billy stumbles backward, on arm instinctively wrapping around her as the other reaches for the doorframe to keep them from falling.

Max pulls back, looking up at him accusingly.

“You didn’t tell me you were going to Indianapolis,” she says, frowning. “Why did you go?”

“Bank,” he says shortly, carefully pushing her off. “Had to get some stuff.”

“What kinda stuff?”

“Stuff that isn’t your business.” Billy cuffs her over the head gently, a shadow of what he might have done a week ago, before her mom was dead. “Now that you’re all caught up, I’m going to bed. For the love of God, don’t wake me up.”

Max squints up at him, frown deepening further, then looks back to where Harrington and Will are still sitting on the floor, watching. Will, Billy finds, looks equally confused, but when Max looks back at him, there’s realization on her face.

“Yeah, okay,” she says, stepping back. “Good night, Billy.”

Billy sighs.

“‘Night, twerp.” He nods to Will over her shoulder, ignores Harrington completely, and turns on his heel.

Fuck, he hates that guy.

He collapses onto the bed fully-clothed, the same way he’s done the last few days. Tomorrow after school, he’s going to count out everything he’s got, and then he’s going to take Max to the mall and get them clothes. Sleeping in jeans is okay once in a while, but four, soon to be five nights in a row is starting to get annoying.

He falls asleep between one breath and the next.

*.*

The problem with small towns is that one person’s business becomes everybody’s business, and when Billy walks into school that morning, he walks into a sea of whispers and stares, because, of course, everybody knows that his dad stabbed his sister’s mom.

Nice.

Billy ignores it, because he can, and for the most part, nobody bothers him, apparently too frightened by whatever rumors that have formed over the last few days to approach him. He gets through the morning without having to talk to anybody, because not even the teachers are willing to call on him in class, and it’s pretty great. However, that being said, he’s unwilling to brave the cafeteria when lunch rolls around, so he takes his packed lunch (thanks, Joyce, he feels about ten years old again) and heads out to the Camaro for some peace and quiet.

Except, somebody’s waiting for him.

“Byers,” he says flatly when he gets to the car. “What are you doing here?”

Jonathan shrugs.

“People are asking me about you,” he says quietly. “Everybody knows you’re staying with me, so they think I’ll tell them about, y’know. Figured it’d be quieter here.”

Ah, shit. Billy hadn’t even thought about that. He appreciates that Byers knows to keep his mouth shut, at least.

“Why aren’t you hanging around your car, then?”

“Well, I noticed nobody’s bothered you yet.” Jonathan offers him a small, uncertain smile. “I guessed you wouldn’t exactly wanna hang around with the basketball team today, so your car was a pretty safe bet. Nobody’s gonna try to ask me about you if I stick close enough.”

Which, okay. Good thinking. Billy might allow him this transgression, if only because it makes him snort.

“You’re an observant guy, Byers,” Billy says, moving to lean against the car beside Jonathan.

Jonathan hums.

“People think it’s creepy,” he says. “I see too much, stuff people don’t like. Plus, you know, I like to take pictures, which makes it even worse.”

“Yeah,” Billy says, arching an eyebrow. “I can see how that might happen.”

He looks down, digging into his backpack in search of the brown paper bag Joyce had shoved in his hand before she left for work this morning. Awesome, a ham and cheese sandwich. Thanks, Joyce.

Jonathan watches as he crams half the sandwich into his mouth, chewing loudly before swallowing.

“What?”

Jonathan shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just— you haven’t been eating much.”

Billy looks down at the sandwich in his hand.

“Haven’t been hungry,” he says. “But y’know, man’s gotta eat.” He takes another bite, a smaller one this time, and reaches for the water bottle Joyce had so thoughtfully packed alongside the sandwich.

“Yeah.”

The next few minutes go by in silence as Billy finishes his sandwich, chugging the rest of the water bottle before crumpling up the bag and tossing it over his shoulder, ignoring the face Jonathan makes at him.

“Smoke?” he offers, reaching for the crumpled pack he’d stuffed in his back pocket this morning.

“Ah, no. Don’t smoke.”

Billy arches an eyebrow.

“Really?” he asks. “That’s weird.”

“Why would that be weird?”

Billy shrugs, lighting his cigarette before stowing away his zippo.

“Well, I mean, it goes with your whole…” he gestures at Jonathan. “Y’know.”

Jonathan arches an eyebrow.

“I really don’t,” he says.

“Oh, for fuck’s— the whole edgy, misunderstood artist thing you’ve got going on.”

“I don’t— what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Billy chuckles.

“Don’t front, man— I’ve seen those Hunter S. Thompson books floating around the house.” He smiles slightly. “You don’t talk to anybody except your kid brother, his friends, your girlfriend, and her ex-boyfriend, which, another thing? That’s also weird.”

“Steve’s a good guy, once you get past the Polo shirts.” Jonathan pauses. “You’ve read Hunter S. Thompson?”

Billy shrugs.

“A dude who writes about doing crazy amounts of drugs and hanging out in Vegas? Hell yeah, I’ve read his stuff.” He pauses. “If you wanna up your game a little bit, I suggest going in for the Russian shit. The Brothers Karamazov fucked me up.”

Jonathan just stares, like he’s never seen Billy before, which is especially weird considering they bumped into each other on the way to the bathroom like, four times this morning.

“You like to read?”

“I’m not all hot bod and golden locks, Byers.” Billy smirks. “I’m not just graduating ‘cause I fucked Mrs. Grant, you know. I know my shit.”

“You—” Jonathan shakes his head. “You know what? I don’t want to know if you had sex with our sixty-three year old English teacher.”

Billy’s smirk widens into a full grin, and Jonathan shudders.

“You’re messed up, Billy.”

“Tell me about it, man.”