Waiting Room
Hair of the Dog - Chapter 5
Previous Chapters:
***After this chapter, I’ll resume my usual topics/content for 1 or 2 weeks, then return with Chapter 6!
Waiting Room
Nine o’clock found Silas at the Kane mansion. She wore winged eyeliner with heavy mascara and a rare mist of perfume—tuberose, jasmine, and gardenia—as concessions to the occasion. A rockstar’s presence demanded certain efforts.
She touched the silver crucifix out of habit — a remnant of the household she’d fled. She kept it anyway, for comfort, even though her faith had long since left her.
She raised the skull-and-crossbones lock box in one hand and pressed the doorbell with the other. The large red door swung open. Johnny stood there — shirtless, beer in hand, a Sterling Stingray bass slung over his shoulder. Even though she’d only discovered Witch Mother earlier that day, still, she froze. A frantic Wikipedia deep dive, and a net worth search hadn’t prepared her for this.
His gaze swept from her crucifix to her combat boots, taking inventory. His dilated pupils reflected tiny twin versions of her, standing awkwardly in the doorway,
Acid crept up her throat. She swallowed. “Hello sir,” she said, her voice thin. “Is Davie here? She told me nine.”
He raised a brow and scratched his chest. “Davie split about an hour ago, sweetheart. She didn’t mention it?” His voice was a low rumble.
Her stomach dropped. “She told me to be here now,” she said, the sentence clipped and flat.
“Classic. That girl needs a fuckin’ reality check. She gets… distracted.” He gestured toward the entryway, where an actual red carpet led into the front room. “Come in if you want. Wait it out. She probably went to grab some people, bring ’em back.”
Silas stepped inside and followed the hall toward the living space. The house smelled of weed, incense, and Axe Body Spray. She perched on a dark green velvet couch. It was hard not to stare — leopard statues, a stripper pole and a wall-sized TV hovered at the edges of her vision. She reminded herself to breathe.
“Want something to drink, sweetie? Rum, whiskey, a White Claw?”
Damn. Do these people ever drink water?
“Whiskey’s fine, sir, thank you,” she said, keeping her voice light.
Johnny chuckled. “Good answer! I see why Davie likes you. But knock off that ‘sir’ shit — that was for my dad.” He headed toward the kitchen.
Silas pulled out her phone, thumb hovering over the screen like a hummingbird deciding which flower to choose. She tapped out a message to Davie, each keystroke a tiny act of hope against the growing knot in her stomach.
9:11 PM — hey i’m here. your dad says you already left?
Johnny returned with two Jack and Cokes. She wondered if she should’ve watched him make hers, then dismissed the thought. The man seemed more burnt out rock star than predator.
“So what’s your name again?” Johnny asked, leaning forward. “I’m shit with names unless they’re on a contract or a pill bottle.”
She laughed at the fact that he hadn’t asked before letting her in the house. She could have been a killer, but then again he was a man: he didn’t have to think about such things.
She told him.
“Si-las,” he repeated, dragging out the syllables. “That’s different. Biblical, right? Like the apostle dude?”
That got a genuine smile out of her. “I’m so damn impressed right now. You’ve got to be the third person I’ve met in my entire life to know that.”
“I was raised religious–”
“Same, same!” she stepped in.
He nodded, continuing, unbothered by the interruption, “If my poor parents saw me now, they’d schedule an exorcism.”
“Oh, trust me, I know! That’s mainly why I moved out here, I had to get away from the cult. The weirdness was too much for me.” She raised her cup, “If they knew I was drinking this…at least 100 floggings.”
Johnny threw his head back, laughing. “Ok, ok, so you’re new here? How’d you get mixed up with my hurricane of a daughter? You don’t seem like her usual crowd.”
Silas kept her eyes on the art across the room. “Some kids were hassling me, and she—” Her voice caught as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Intervened.”
“That’s my Davie,” Johnny said with a crooked grin. “Saving people and abandoning them in the same week.”
Her stomach flipped. “Is this what this is? A classic abandonment sesh? How long do you think I should wait?” she asked.
Johnny lit a cigarette, drained half his glass, and wiped his mustache with the back of his hand. “I don’t know. She’s unpredictable. I’ve thought about hiring a babysitter for adults. Do those exist? ‘Hello, 911, someone to watch my batshit daughter?’”
Silas tried to laugh but it got stuck. She sipped her drink and nodded.
“I guess I’m one to talk. She gets that from me: no concept of time, space, or responsibility,” he said, shaking his head.
Johnny’s eyes glazed. He fidgeted, then stood. “Well, nice meeting you. Stay as long as you want. Shot glasses are by the fridge.” He tossed her the remote. “I’ll be practicing in the back. Don’t need anything — won’t hear you anyway!” As he left, she heard him mutter, “Good luck.”
Once he was gone, Silas rose. Her jaw was clenched so tight her molars ached. The ice in her glass clinked as she drained the whiskey in one swallow. She set the cup down with a precise click against the coffee table. If the evening was a lost cause, she might as well extract something from the wreckage.
In the kitchen, she grabbed a shot glass — New Hampshire etched on it. She uncapped the Jack. The first shot went down clean; the second followed before the burn of the first faded. By the fourth in under twenty minutes, she knew it was best to stop if she wanted to get home in one piece.
“Never trust pretty girls with rich dads,” she muttered.
9:48 PM — I don’t know what’s up, but I’m heading home. Text me when you get this.
She ordered an Uber and snapped a picture of the living room while she waited — it was one of those moments that felt unreal without proof.
Outside, the night air hit her face. Nebraska’s sky was vast and clear, stars piercing the darkness like pinholes in velvet. Her ride pulled up — a blue Prius with a cracked windshield and a driver who barely looked old enough to have a license. Silas folded herself into the backseat. The driver’s ambient lo-fi playlist seemed to mock her with its chill vibes. Buckled in, she made the usual small talk, then went back to her phone. The whiskey sloshed in her bloodstream, making the screen swim before her eyes, but her anger steadied her hands. She typed with vengeful precision, each letter a tiny stab:
10:12 PM — I can’t believe you invited me to that party and left me at your dad’s house. What the fuck? Don’t text me back pls.
No read receipt. No reply.
—M