“I hear you.” I wipe the grime off my face with my shoulder. “You’re still gonna let me hang out at the garage, right?” I give him a mock fist bump. “I don’t have classes, so you can up my hours if you want.”
“Sounds good. I’ll let you pick up Saturdays, half the crew bitches they need the day off. No overtime, though. I have to hang onto what little of my balls that I have left.”
“Got it,” I say walking out of the grease pit where I’ll be spending the rest of my days. “Appreciate it.”
Appreciate it. I shake my head at the lie. I’d give anything to have turned in my monkey wrench. How did I go from a business major to college dropout groveling to work on weekends? A patch of dark clouds moves overhead unnaturally quick, and I can’t help think that the world—all of time—is speeding by too fast for me to feel safe anymore. I’d work seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day just to have five more minutes with Benji. First thing I’d tell him is to stay off that damn bike.
I kick the tire on a Harley on my way out.
“Watch it!” Joe shouts from behind, but this time I don’t apologize. I head upstairs and throw all of my crap, and that of my dead brother’s, into six oversized trash bags and toss them in the back of my truck just as the rain lets go of all of its pent-up grief. By the time I make it to downtown Jepson, the back of my truck looks like a swimming pool. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere that I’m too lazy to pick through.
Jepson is one of the fastest growing metropolitan cities around, and, like any metropolitan city, if you make enough left turns, you’ll end up in the hood, AKA the crap neighborhood I honed most of my life skills in.
There it is, the clapboard bungalow I once called home. The lights are on in the tiny two bedroom stacked house that’s more vertical than it is horizontal. The houses on the street are so narrow it’s become a haunt for modern day hippies, the artsy fartsy type that sit out front getting stoned all day, looking to the sky for inspiration. Pops is sort of old school around here in that he bought the house with his first wife. She died of ovarian cancer, and he’s stuck his head in a bottle ever since. Enter AA and that’s where poor unfortunate soul number two comes in—my mother. She was his AA leader and, apparently, not a very good one. She hooked up with Ronald Daniels, dreamer extraordinaire, until death chased her down two years ago through an untimely stroke. It was a freak thing, much like her marriage to my father. And now she and Benji are together in the hereafter. I’m not sure why I find so much comfort in that other than the fact they don’t have to worry about things like rent anymore or whether or not to risk the band’s only big break by taking a sweet girl out in a hot air balloon.
I make a face at the tired looking house with its chipped paint and broken screen as I head on in. Not locked, no big surprise there.
“Pops,” I shout. A cigarette burns in the ashtray on the coffee table. That seems to be a decorating staple around here. It’s a wonder he hasn’t long since burned the damn place down. The living room is stifled with smoke, and I fan the air trying to catch a decent breath.
“In here,” he grumbles from the hall as the toilet flushes. “What the hell you doing?” He sputters and coughs as he stumbles out of the bathroom. He’s thinner than he was just a few weeks ago, granted we don’t see each other but a few times a year. He’s aged decades the last few years alone. His hair is all but gone, long and gray on the sides. He’s shirtless, his chest sunken and sickly looking. His eyes are ringed with dark circles, his lips purple and bloated. He’s a walking corpse, looking as shitty as I feel.
“Just dropping a few things off if you don’t mind.”
“Try again. I don’t need any more of your mess. I’ve got a boarder. A man named Jeff. Decent guy. Pays rent, too.”
“Relax. I’m not looking for a place to stay.”
“Good”—he barks as he passes me by. His body odor smothers me, ripe as an onion with the welcome hint of vodka begging to sanitize the air. “Because you’re not going to get it. I’ve got enough trouble without having you on my back.”
I head over to my old room and crack open the door. Bunks are still intact. Both made. A pile of dirty clothes sit in one corner. An older laptop sits on the desk, and it draws a frown from me.
“Out!” He picks up a broom with half the bristles missing and jabs me in the ribs. “I know what you’re up to, and it ain’t happening. Once you turned eighteen you weren’t my problem anymore. You got that? You see that crack you just crawled in from? You’re welcome to crawl right back out.”
I pause a moment looking right at his glassy eyes. “You’re wasted. I can smell the booze from here. Don’t bother calling to apologize tomorrow. It’s already forgiven.” I head for the door. “So about the shed.”
“No!” he roars, slamming the door behind me.
The rain presses down around me, but I don’t bother moving for a good five minutes.
After all, I’ve got no place to go.
Perfect Stranger
Annie
Digital Studios is quickly becomingmy favorite and least favorite class. Tristan stands by my side as we dissect a camera from yesteryear while the professor explains the marvels of technological advances.
So you weren’t telling the truth?Tristan signs in lieu of what the professor is saying. I guess that’s the advantage of signing. We can have a conversation regarding just about anything right here in the open.That was just some random dude?
I smile up at him. It took Tristan a few good hours to work up the nerve to go there, the least I can do is give him the truth. I wonder what my brothers would think if I dated someone like Tristan? Not that I’m dating Blake. I hardly know the guy. I can, however, attest to the fact he’s got a chest made of steel and a grip of iron when it comes to saving a damsel in distress. A wry smile creeps up my lips. I happen to have an aversion to weak heroines—at least when I read. And here I’ve inadvertently become one in my own story. The thought makes me want to vomit. I’m not weak. In no way am I a damsel in distress. Yesterday was just a fluke. Blake just so happened to be there when I needed him. My stomach explodes with heat as if letting me in on some deep, dark secret. I glance down. I get it. I’m hungry for Blake on a psychological—correction, sexual level. Well, too bad. That’s not what I signed up for this semester. I’m at Whitney Briggs to get an education, not a broken heart.
He’s not my anything,I sign.He’s more like a stalker. I wince because, for one, I’m totally joking.I met him yesterday morning, and it’s just a fluke that he’s the lead singer of the 12 Deadly Sins. My brothers and I own the Black Bear, so I sort of had to be there.
Sort of had to be there? My lips twitch at how defensive I came across. So what if Tristan knows I’ve got the hots for the guy? My body flares with heat. God. I try to get my bearings. I do not have the hots for anybody. That’s Kaya’s territory. I’m calm and rational, and the first to point out that lust is the hotbed in which STDs breed.
Oh, so that little get together afterwards was just a business meeting, huh?He teases.
Sort of.My brothers and their Hulk-like aggression floods back to the forefront.I don’t know. I don’t think I’m quite ready for a relationship just yet. How about you?I glance to the curvy, toothy Johanna and her glittery friend Courtney who haven’t stopped their lips from moving since they set foot into the classroom. I’ve seen the way Johanna has been sending open invites to Tristan and to just about every other guy in the class including the professor.I think there are a few people in this very room that might be ready to have a relationship with you. I glance back at Johanna, and she turns quickly pretending not to see. It’s fine. I’m used to it. For some reason being deaf has effectively been a cloak of invisibility. When the world doesn’t know how to classify you, it renders you invisible. It’s not just like that for me, so I try not to take it personally.
