My mom. I laugh out loud at the thought, and Rush glances over. “Who’s that?”
“Lucky,” I say under my breath just as I shoot off another text her way.
My mom doesn’t give a rip what happens to my man parts or me. Haven’t seen her in years.Not sure why I confessed that. I’m sure Lucky couldn’t care less that I have a virtual relationship with my mother that consists of her Facebook updates and a monthly Skype chat. I happen to know Lucky’s own mother has passed away. I’m pretty sure Lucky would do anything to have a virtual relationship with her mom, and now I feel bad for rubbing it in—not that I meant to.
“Lucky, huh?” Grant pipes up from the back. “You’re getting awfully close to the fire, my man. You two should hang out with Ava and me sometimes. Ava would love it.”
“Lucky would hate it.” Because she seems to hate me. But she does seem to enjoy the art of hating me. Even I’m a little amused by her efforts. “Trust me, she’s a hurricane that none of us should have anything to do with.”
She texts back.Sorry about that. My parents weren’t perfect either so I get it. How about I buy you coffee sometime, and you can tell me all about how you sucked it up and took it like a man while some dude drove a spike through your winky? I promise I’ll do my best to pretend to care.
“Winky?” Eli reads from over my shoulder, and I’m quick to tuck the phone to my chest.
“You mind? This is a private conversation.”
“It might be private—hell, you might be in denial about how you feel, but one thing is for sure. You’re getting sucked in at a hundred miles an hour by that hurricane force you keep complaining about.”
Rush chuckles at the road ahead. “Me thinks he doth protest too much.”
“All right, Shakespeare, get us home in one piece.”
I text back.Coffee sounds nice.And leave it at that.
Everything about Lucky sounds nice right about now, but I’m not Grant, or Rex, or Knox, or Jet. I don’t need a significant other to give me all the feels. Nope. I’ve seen the flip side to love, and it ends badly. I’m not putting my balls on the chopping block for anyone—not for Lucky, that’s for damn sure.
She pings back.Then it’s set. I have a date with the prince! Goodnight. Hope you can sleep with that bag of ice on your crotch. When it’s time to urinate and fire comes shooting out of your nice new hole, just keep telling yourself I make good decisions!
I fire right back.I do make good decisions. On second thought, I’m talking to you, aren’t I? Thanks for sponsoring my new existential crisis. Night.
A silly grin springs to my lips all the way back to The Row.
I do make good decisions—that’s why I chose not to inflict myself with another orifice. And that’s why I choose to inflict myself with Lucky’s special brand of torment.
Wait—Lucky isn’t a good decision—is she?
I hit my bed and think about that—aboutherall night and well into the morning.
Winds are picking up. A storm is headed in this direction.
Hurricane Lucky is about to hit land, and neither my black heart nor I want to get out of her way.
Netflix and Chill
Lucky
Aweek blows by, and I spend most of my time in class or at Think Ink trying to dodge the cameras that are taking over my brother’s life. All I do is sit there for three hours straight, studying at the counter as if it were the library. I’m not sure why Jet thought I would be a good fit for the shop other than the fact he actually wants me to earn my way through school. I suppose I do save him the trouble of paying someone else, and he’s forever giving me cash, so this kills two birds with one stone. And, of course, there is always the standard go-to answer when it comes to Jet and me—this is a great way to monitor my time from five to eight p.m. I’m not sure what else he thinks I might be doing during those nefarious hours, but in truth I think Jet just likes to keep me close.
On Monday, the community interaction project is another thorn that’s about to pierce my side. Come to find out, this community-based project I signed up for requires me to actually interact amongst the community. Go figure.
Rush emailed my assignment last night, and I’m to show up at Hollow Brook Middle School between the hours of twelve to one so long as it doesn’t mess with my schedule. And considering I have a break between eleven and two, this small window in which I usually pass time in the food court will now be spent hauling ass across town and wading through a bunch of seventh graders. I’m still not sure whether to consider this a blessing or a curse. Harper was assigned the women’s shelter, and Rush says he has the boys’ club. Nevertheless, I’m to meet my partner in middle school crime at the main office at noon sharp to discuss what our task might entail and get acquainted with school authorities. I went to Hollow Brook Middle School myself, so to be back on campus, volunteering no less, at my old stomping grounds makes me feel a bit heroic, if not like a well-put together adult. I’m neither, but that doesn’t seem to make a difference.
Heading to the main office on any campus to discuss anything with authorities sends my adrenaline soaring and my heart palpitating as if I’ve just been caught red-handed after hosing down the gym with a can of spray paint. I’ve never been in trouble, not in a major sense, and most certainly not in the scholastic sense. Mostly because when you get down to the brass tacks, I’m a good girl. And, if I ever did do anything even remotely rebellious, there would be Jet to contend with. If anything, my brother was a tour de force that blew out any rebellious flame in me before it could ever turn into a blaze.
I head into the large blue building, among the smell of old schoolbooks, something just this side of glue and crayons, the faint after scent of body odor—or maybe it’s burrito day in the caf? A large glass door with the wordofficestenciled on the glass greets me, and my heart gives one last rollicking thump as I make my way inside. A mob of kids moves past me—it’s scary how baby-faced everyone looks after you leave the establishment for a few years. I try to maneuver around the mob and stumble, landing chest first into a familiar looking body.
I look up, only to meet with those hauntingly familiar emerald eyes.
“It’s you.” It comes out depleted of emotion, but for some reason, my heart kicks up a few hundred notches and drums straight into my ear.
