“Deal. You still…” The hesitation in her voice filled me with guilt. There were some things a kid should never have to deal with, and I’d put my little sister through the ringer.
I stared at the custom Budweiser glasses on my dresser, the best and worst gift she’d ever given me. They served as a constant reminder of the promise I’d made. “Yeah. I’m still clean, Annie. You’d know if I wasn’t.”
Annie had been all sorts of worried about me while I was in rehab. Detox was a bitch, and I could only hide so much from her, even over the phone. Intending to make her feel better, I’d made the mistake of telling her about accountability partners. She latched right on to the concept, deciding I would be accountable to her. Knowing how much I hated lies, she made me promise not to take anything harder than CBD oil without calling her first.
There was no way in hell I’d make that call, no matter how bad shit got. I’d eat a bullet before admitting to Annie I was using again.
“Thanks, Cars. I love and miss you, but I’m glad you’re up there. You sound a lot better.”
“I love and miss you, too. I am better. I’m right where I need to be. You stay out of trouble, kid.”
“Funny. I was just about to tell you the same thing.” I heard a voice in the background, and all humor had drained from Annie’s voice when she added, “Mom said to tell you she loves you, too.”
Mom could declare that shit until she was blue in the face, but until she learned how to back up her words with actions, we had nothing to talk about. “What does she need?” I asked, wondering what her ulterior motives were this time.
Annie let out a dramatic sigh. “I don’t know. Probably forgiveness. I wish you’d talk to her.”
And I wished Mom would stop using my little sister to railroad me. “Let’s not do this today.”
“Okay. I should get going. Dina and I are going swimming.”
“Have fun. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Cars.”
She hung up. I tossed the phone on the bed beside me and went back to staring at my ceiling. Lying flat on my back like this, I could still feel the damage done to my spine, but the pain was bearable. Between Mila’s massage and my stretches, I was as close to comfortable as I’d been in a while.
I must have drifted off to sleep, because the next time I checked my phone it was just past five. I peeled myself off the bed and headed downstairs to see who was scheduled to make dinner.
Shari was in the kitchen already rolling out dough on the countertop. “Hey Hound,” she said, giving me a bright smile.
Shari was a few years older than me, probably around her mid-thirties. Blonde, with big, fake tits she liked to showcase by wearing tight, low-cut tank tops, she was the only person I knew who cooked in high heels. Then again, I was pretty sure Shari had been born in heels since I’d never seen her in anything else. I’d bet she fucked in them, but wasn’t curious enough to find out. Growing up in Vegas, I’d seen more than my fair share of fake body parts and wasn’t all that interested in seeing more. Despite my lack of attraction to her—or maybe because of it—Shari and I had developed a genuine friendship since I’d moved into the fire station.
“Hey. Can I help you?” I asked, eyeing her workspace to see if I could get a hint as to what she had planned for the night’s meal.
I didn’t have to be a super-sleuth, because she came right out and told me. “Wanna learn how to make homemade ravioli?” she asked, setting the rolling pin aside.
Before my injury, cooking had never interested me. But now I saw it as a valuable skill, something I could do despite my fucked-up body. I had no plans of becoming a chef, or anything fancy like that, but at least I could learn how to feed the club that had taken me in. “Abso-fuckin’-lutely. I mean, doesn’t everyone?”
“They should, for sure. Wash your hands.”
Once I washed up, she had me lay one sheet of dough over something that looked like an ice tray formed to create ice half-circles instead of cubes.
“Loosely, so it doesn’t thin out the dough when you press it into the holes.” Checking my work, she handed me a bowl of some sort of cheese and sausage mixture. “Good. Now fill the holes with this.”
I added mixture until Shari gave me a nod. Then we added another layer of dough and used a metal sheet press to cut out the ravioli.
“Harder and give it a little shake,” Shari said.
“That’s what she said,” I deadpanned, unable to resist.
Shari laughed. “I see you’ve been hanging around Trent.”
Wasp and Carly’s six-year-old son had no idea how perfect his inappropriate comedic timing was, but the rest of the club sure did. “Yeah, that kid’s a horrible influence.”
“On all of us,” she agreed. “He has me wrapped around his little finger. Seriously, I’d hide a body for that little hellion. Wouldn’t even think twice about it.”
“You ever think about having kids of your own?” I asked.
