“Great. Thanks. Pissed off. That’s what you want? I can get pissed off, Liev. Trust me.”
“Yeah? Go on. Show me.” He leans back on his porch swing, challenging me, like he wouldn’t mind if I lost it right here. I won’t, though. I don’t do that shit. I don’t yell or hit in anger. Hell, I don’t get angry. I’ll act angry for a part. But that’s different. It’s a choice, whereas the real thing…
Why the hell does my mind choose this moment to think of Twyla in that little yellow, come-stained bikini, skipping across the grass on her way to one workshop after another, racking up interest as she went. Thank god she left that goddamn anal class or I’d have broken something.
“Fuck, Z. You look like you’re gonna lose it.”
I stop pacing long enough to glance down at my body. It’s hot as hell out tonight, so I’m in clothes I can sweat in—shirtless, board shorts, with a mesh mask in my hand and a sports bag over one shoulder.
I’m playing tonight. With anyone.Everyone.“What?”
“Have you eaten today? Anything?”
“Sure.” The lie is easier than admitting I’ve been running around all day, distracted by Twyla. It didn’t occur to me once to put food in my mouth.
“Bullshit.”
Yes, so, he’s right though I’m not prepared to admit it aloud. Admitting I haven’t eaten—me, themy body is a templeguy. The man whose good looks were all he left home with and all that ever mattered—would be like waving a red flag in front of Liev right now. Or maybe a white one.
“I’m good. Listen, I’m heading down to—”
“Hold on a sec.” Liev stands and disappears into his house.
I wait more than a goddamn second. It’s been closer to two minutes when he comes back out holding a white paper bag. “Here.”
“What’s that?” I don’t move.
“Your dinner. Now shut up and eat it.”
My head’s already shaking side to side. “Man, you’ve got to stop trying to—”
“No, I won’t stop.” He steps forward, shoving the bag into my chest and letting me feel just a hint of his substantial strength. Liev’s a big guy. Shorter than me, but wide. Powerful. He hammers stone for a living, dammit. I prance around pretending to be other people.
“Eat your goddamn dinner, Zion. Or lunch.” He pushes harder, probably smashing whatever’s in the bag. “And then think long and hard about why you’re so pissed right now. After that, I want you to consider that maybe being pissed isn’t always a bad thing. A whole lot better than feeling nothing, right?” I don’t move. “Maybe pissed is the other side of some coin you’ve only just picked up. And maybe, if you throw that fucking coin away without turning it over, you’ll regret it.” Another shove and I smell him—sweat and dust and the iced tea he’s just downed. Salami, too, maybe. And something else. Something elemental and basic that I’ve noticed on him recently, but haven’t paid attention to.
I inhale just to be sure and there it is again. “You smell like Grace,” I tell him.
“Asshole,” he says, forcing the bag into my hands and stepping back. “Don’t talk about my woman’s smell.”
“Hey!” I look at him, his blue eyes in partial shadow, his face craggier than it looks in full daylight. He could be one of his own sculptures, right now. Pure stone, made mobile and alive by the hands of a true artist. “I don’t mean it like that. Sexually.”
His brows lift. It turns his sockets into bigger, deeper holes. Makes him intimidating. My best friend, barely recognizable. “How do you mean it?”
“I mean…” I huff out a laugh, feeling ridiculous. “I mean youalwayssmell like her now. And, you know, vice versa.”
His eyes narrow, their glint shifting. “Okay.”
“And it’s…” I shake my head, thinking of wolf packs. Of belonging. Of family. Home. I think of the day Ms. Tucker, Language Arts teacher, wrinkled her nose and said I smelled like an ashtray. I was nine. I felt the shame in my bones.
I think of the time I spilled Dad’s beer and he made me wipe it up with my sweatshirt. The only one that fit. The one I wore to school every day, two winters in a row. I think about how I must have smelled to the other kids, to the teachers. Like home, like my dad, sure, but for some of us, home’s not all it’s cracked up to be. “I don’t know. I don’t know what it means. Or why I said it. I just…Fuck.I’ve got to go.”
“Eat your sandwich.”
My hand tightens into a fist, balling up part of the bag before I force it to loosen again. “Whatever, Dad.”
Snorting, Liev reaches out and lightly smacks the back of my head, although it’s more stroke than strike. There’s no pain inflicted. Only affection. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”
“I don’t do regret,” I lie, heading down the steps.
