Grant pulled his Jeep up next to a familiar dark blue Camry and killed the engine. He undid his seatbelt and just sat, thoughts going a hundred miles a minute in his brain because clearly he wasn't quite sick enough of them yet to leave off. He lit a cigarette and smoked it slowly, savoring it. Once he got inside the cabin—if he got inside—Cary wouldn't let him smoke, and if he dared to mention it, all he'd get was another cancer stick lecture.
Shit, if the whole damn thing went the way he wanted, he would probably have to give up smoking entirely. That was going to suck hard, but he'd deal with that bridge later.
For the moment, his only concern was speaking with Cary. Grant took another drag and contemplated the cabin. He was pleased as fuck he'd found it, but goddamn if it wasn't the saddest looking excuse for a house he'd ever seen—and too many years in foreclosure meant he'd seen some shitholes. If the only bathroom was an outhouse, he was going to cuff or tie or tranquilize Cary and drive to the first Motel 8 he could find. Even love was not worth a fucking outhouse.
Shaking his head at himself, Grant finished his cigarette, put it out in his car ashtray, and clambered out, grabbing his duffle from the back and pocketing his keys. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he strode across over-grown grass up to a front door that might have been blue once to judge from some flecks, but mostly just looked like faded shit.
He rapped lightly, waited a couple of minutes, then pounded more loudly and waited a couple more. Then he pounded again and called out, "Open the fucking door, Cary!"
"Federal Agents, open up!" he called, just to be a dick. When even that did not elicit a response, not even so much as a 'fuck you, Masterson', he decided that Cary must be either passed out drunk as a goddamn skunk (or certain other animals, anyway), or he wasn't in the cabin.
He tested the door and rolled his eyes to find it wasn't even locked. Making note to razz Cary mercilessly later for such carelessness, Grant slipped inside and closed the door behind him. Then, just because he was a dick, he locked it.
Snickering to himself, because as fucked up as shit had been lately, some things never changed and never would, he went to make himself at home. First stop was the spare bedroom, because even if he had no intention of using it, and even though he was a dick, he wasn't such a complete asshole that he'd invite himself into Cary's bedroom.
Putting his things away, Grant changed into a fresh t-shirt because his current one had gotten a nice dousing of soda when a fucker in a Porsche had cut him off. He pulled on his dark blue long sleeved t-shirt because he knew it matched his eyes and fit well and he knew that Cary knew these things too. Still smirking to himself, belongings settled, Grant picked up a folder he would be needing in a little while and commenced with the snooping.
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