by S. Ann Cole
“Huh?” I fight back a laugh. “‘Manly man stuff’?”
“Yeah.” He sets the water bottle down on the side table. “Lifting tires and chopping wood and shit.”
“Chopping wood—w-what are you talking about?”
“Don’t worry about it, baby. That’s why it’s manly man stuff.” He dives onto the couch and slides up next to me, then sweeps a loose tendril from my face. “You missed big daddy, huh? Missed these guns?”
This time I can’t help it, I burst out laughing. “Baby? Big daddy? What is wrong with you this morning? You’re being weird.”
A delightful grin splits his face. “I’m just high off you, sweet thing.”
At that, I narrow my gaze, then lunge at him. I grab his arm and twist it to check the underside and, as I figured, there’s an ace of clubs tattoo, not spades. “True.”
“Dammit,” he grumbles. “What gave me away?”
“You mean aside from the nonsense you just spewed?” I ask, dropping his arm. “It was the grin. Trent doesn’t ‘grin’ unless he has a reason to. You, on the other hand, dish them out like free condoms.”
He makes a face. “That’s a really weird analogy.”
I frown, then agree. “Yeah, true.”
He folds his arms behind his head. “So, how’s it going, wild thing?”
“Eh, same old-same old,” I say. “Except I’m not wild anymore. I’m so tamed I need a cane.”
“And how’s the guesthouse renovation coming along?”
“Great. But man, it’s a lot of work. Trent’s making sure I work off every penny of that debt,” I tell him. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking about renaming it. Use ‘Bed and Breakfast’ instead of ‘guesthouse’.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Barefoot Runaway B&B…?”
His gaze drifts to ceiling as he thinks about it. “Hokey, but charming. I like it,” he says. “But your grumpy boyfriend would have to sign off.”
That makes me snort. “Boyfriend? Where’d you get that from?”
He looks me over with a frown. “No?”
“No!” I half-shout, as if it’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. “I slept over because Maggie ditched me after Tripp’s fight last night and Trent didn’t want me to be at the house alone. Plus I was really tired so we…came…here…” With each word, I realize how ridiculous the whole thing sounds. True’s popped eyebrow doesn’t help, either. “Okay, I know how all that sounds, but your brother and I aren’t hooking up.”
“You’re in his clothes,” he points out.
“Because I had nothing to sleep in!”
“Okay. I believe you.” He gives me a curious look. “Would you hook up with him, though?”
“God, no.” The lie almost gets lodged in my throat.
“Why?” he asks. “Because you’re still in love with Tor?”
“I was never ‘in love’ with Tor. He was my first. Who the heck knows what kind of hormonal teenage nonsense I was feeling back then. But I know for sure it wasn’t love, because it was too easy to walk away after what he did,” I say. “I guarantee you, though, that whatever I felt for him back then, I don’t now. I’d probably stab him in the eye if I saw him right now to be honest, so he better not come walking through that door, too.”
“He won’t,” True says through a chuckle. “He’s abroad, on a job. Me, I live right next door, so I’m always here.”
“You do?” I whip my head to the huge glass windows, trying to get a glimpse of the house next door. “Is it a twin thing? Like, you can’t be too far from each other or something?”
He shrugs. “Maybe.” His gaze drops to my necklace. “Is that the necklace Trent gave you on your sixteenth birthday?”
Involuntarily, I reach up and finger the locket. “Yep.”
“Wow. Why do you still wear it?” he asks. “With all the money you’ve made counting cards, I would’ve imagined you’d replace it with something fancier.”
“Two reasons,” I say. “One, because Mama’s pic is inside and this necklace is how I keep her with me whenever I’m away. Two, it’s super sentimental to me. Being that it’s the first authentic thing anyone’s ever given me. Real gold. At the time, getting a gold necklace was a big deal for me. To own something that wouldn’t change no matter what. I can tell you I felt like a princess for months after he gave me this.” I laugh. “Sounds stupid now, I know. But I said I would never, ever take it off until someone gave me something better one day.”
“I’m assuming you never got that something better?”
“Nope,” I say. “Every nice or authentic thing I’ve ever owned since this necklace, I bought myself. So yeah, I appreciate this necklace a lot.”
At the sound of the door opening and closing again, we both swing our attention in that direction. Two sets of footfalls this time and judging by the click-clacking on the hardwood, they’re women’s.
The newcomers come into view a few seconds later. Monica and Tillie.
Taken off guard by their presence, I sit up straight.
True doesn’t. He remains sprawled on the couch with his hands behind his head, and drawls sluggishly, “Hey, Mom.”
“Hey—Oh, I…” Monica stutters when she sees me, just as caught off-guard as I am.
“Lexi!” Tillie exclaims, rushing over and diving onto the couch. She throws her arms around me. I hug her back, the ever-excitable bouncing ball of joy that she is.
“Well, um, if I’d known you would be here I would have brought more,” Monica says, holding up a large lunch bag.
“More of what?” I ask.
“Red rice.” True bounds up from the couch and snatches the bag from Monica’s hand. “Mine’s in here, right?”
“Yes, Trueman. You’re always here, so I packed yours with your brother’s so I wouldn’t have to make two trips.”
“That’s because you always come here first,” he complains. “You just drive right past my house and leave me over there to starve. Better yet, you drive past us all the way to Venice, to your favorite son. But don’t worry, I’m gonna find me a nice Jamaican wife to cook me some Jamaican food whenever I want it.”
Monica rolls her eyes as if she’s used to this, while Tillie throws a Sour Patch at him and says, “Shut up, you spoiled, overgrown baby. You’re always bitching about something.”
“Hey! Language,” Monica admonishes.
As True heads to the kitchen to unload the lunch bag, Tillie picks up the remote and begins flipping channels, and Monica moves to sit at the far end of the couch.
She’s watching me with a crinkle between her brows. Having an idea of what she might be thinking or gearing up to ask, I blurt, “There’s nothing going on. We went to see Tripp fight last night in Venice. Maggie came along but Tripp invited her to a party afterward, and since we live together and I would’ve been at the guesthouse by myself, Trent suggested I come here for the night. Also, I was very, very tired. I didn’t even want to go to the fight. I told him I was tired and he begged me to go and so…yeah...”
True’s stifled laughter travels from the kitchen, while Monica blinks at me, processing my word vomit.
“Okay,” she says, slow and even. “But you know, you’re not sixteen anymore. You can do whatever you want. It’s none of my—our—business.”
“Not true,” True butts in from the kitchen. “It’s our business, ‘cause we need to like who we’re welcoming to the family. And I like Lexi for Trent.” He pops the lid on one of the containers. “Oooh, baby. Oxtail and golden fried chicken with rice and peas and fried plantains? Ma-mi, I love youuu.”
“He says that every Sunday,” Tillie says around a mouthful of Sour Patch Kids, “no matter what’s in the dish.”
Before I can ask, Monica explains, “I cook and drive down to bring them dinner every Sunday.”
“Really?”
“If it were up to me, they’d starve,” Tillie says.
Monica shrugs. “It’s the one thing I look forward
to. Otherwise, the only time I get to see them is Christmas and Thanksgiving because they never come to see me unless they want something.”
“Untrue,” True calls around a mouthful of food.
“Very true,” Tillie affirms.
“You said Trent went to see Tripp fight?” Monica rallies back to me. “I’m surprised. Not supporting Tripp’s violent hobby is one of the few things Trent and I agree on.”
“I think it was to make good with Tripp,” I say. “He said Tripp’s been giving him crap about it.”
“And I’m assuming the woman we just left at Tripp’s place is your friend?”
I hadn’t checked in with Maggie yet to know if she went home last night or not. “Maybe.”
“Tall, skinny, high cheek bones like a runway model?” True asks Monica.
“Yep,” Tillie answers.
“Yeah, that’s Magnolia,” True says. “Our old friend from high school. She used to come to the house sometimes.”
“When you were what ages?” she asks.
“Dunno.” He shrugs. “Sixteen maybe. She even dated Trent, Mom. You really don’t remember her?”
“Trent never introduces me to anyone he dates, so, no.”
“That’s ‘cause I don’t date.”
We all swing our heads to the left to find Trent striding in. There’d been no signal of his arrival. No sounds of the door opening and closing. No footfalls. He’s just…here. Moving toward us with quiet catlike grace. In his usual all-black garb—long-sleeved thermal, black jeans, boots, and ball cap—he had to have been working.
Our eyes connect, and the immediate flutters and unfurling in my stomach are the exact reason I should have known earlier that True wasn’t him. Because I’d felt nothing whatsoever, not even when he touched me. That should have been the biggest tell.
Before, I used to be able to tell them apart by certain identifying mannerisms. But now, there’s no way I’ll ever mistake one for the other again. My reaction to Trent gets more and more visceral each time.
He goes to Monica and dips to kiss her cheek. “Hey, Mom.”
True walks out of the kitchen with a Tupperware in hand, forking food into his mouth as he regards his brother. “You went into the office?”
“Yeah. Bentley had the shits so I covered his shift.”
True points his fork. “I told him not to eat from that new food truck. Everyone who eats there get the shits. We need to report them, get an inspector up in there.”
I make a disgusted face. “How can you even talk about someone having the shits while eating?”
Trent points a finger at his twin. “That better not be my food you’re eating.”
“It is,” True lies, shoveling another forkful into his mouth. “Hmm, all this juicy oxtail just for me.”
Trent looks to Monica. “Mom, really? I asked you not to put our food together.”
Before Monica can respond, he produces a taser and lunges at his brother. True darts off in the other direction and Trent chases him.
Monica groans and rubs her forehead.
“He falls for it every time,” Tillie mumbles, bored. “He makes it so easy for True to mess with him.”
“So, uh, this is what you miss?” I ask Monica with a hearty grin.
Trent and True battling over food is very reminiscent of the old days. I figured Monica would’ve been overjoyed that they’ve finally grown up and moved out with all their nonsense, but apparently that’s not the case.
“I’m clearly a masochist,” she says, shaking her head. “Glad to see you here, though, Lexi. Now don’t be like my sons. You should come visit often now that you’re back.”
“I will,” I promise.
“What you need is a man, Mom.”
“Tillie!” Monica chides.
Tillie laughs. “What? It’s true. You keep pushing away everyone who shows interest. Do you think Dad would have wanted you to die old, bored, and lonely?”
“I’m not talking about this with my sixteen-year-old daughter,” Monica says through clenched teeth.
“Fine,” Tillie concedes. “Well, at least talk to Lexi.”
Um… I keep my mouth shut. Monica is like a second mother to me, so I don’t think I want to be talking to her about her love life.
Fortunately, Trent and True return, sparing us an awkward conversation.
Some forty minutes later, Monica and Tillie hug us goodbye. Trent disappears upstairs and True watches television on the couch with me. When I ask for him to share some of his food with me, he gives me a resounding no, telling me that it needs to last him “for dinner tonight and tomorrow.”
I gape at him. “You’re telling me you can’t afford to buy—or even cook—dinner tomorrow?”
“You don’t understand.” He shakes his head at me as if I’m slow. “Leftover Sunday dinner is what makes Monday worth surviving through.”
I kick his leg. “You’re ridiculous.”
When he eventually falls asleep beside me, snoring into the cushions, I quietly ease off the couch and go in search of Trent.
I find him in the bedroom I’d woken up in, sprawled across the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He must’ve showered since he’s now wearing sweat shorts and a wife-beater.
I walk over to the bed and sit down at the end, making sure there’s a large amount of space between us. “Hey.”
Slowly, he turns his gaze from the ceiling to me, and my heart thuds loudly from having his full attention on me. “Hey.”
“So,” I start, “I woke up in your bed this morning.”
“Uh huh?”
“So…how did I get in here?”
He cocks a brow at me. “You walked in here.”
“I did?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Obviously.”
“You stumbled in here at sunrise, complaining about the light streaming in through the windows,” he informs me. “Climbed right under the covers and started snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
His smile is small. “Yeah, Hellcat, you do.”
“Whatever.” Then, I frown. “There are two other rooms, and I would have had to pass both of them to get here. Why would I have come all the way to this one?”
He watches me for several deafening heartbeats, before he replies, “Ask your subconscious.”
“What?”
“You can consciously make a lot of defensive decisions and excuses, but not only is your subconscious autonomous, it’s also honest.”
My laugh is nervous, anxious. “What are you talking about?”
Shifting onto his side, he props his head up with one hand. “What do you want, Lexi?”
“What do mean?”
“Like in general,” he expounds.
Through a light laugh, I tell him, “To not owe you anymore, for one.”
“Okay, say I released you from the debt, where would you go? What would you do?”
My shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “Who knows. I’m a wanderer, a risk-taker, a hustler.”
“You wanted to be a news anchor,” he reminds me.
“Yeah, then life happened,” I snap, chafed and annoyed. “That ship has sailed.”
“Have you stopped dreaming?”
“Damn straight. What’s the point? Life’s shit. I either make waves, ride waves, or endure the ones that engulf me.”
After a long moment of silence, he says quietly, “A lot of your fire’s gone, Hellcat. Don’t know if I love it or hate it.”
“And I couldn’t give two damns what you love or hate.” I straighten up from the bed. “I’m gonna get ready. Are you taking me home or should I call a cab?”
He doesn’t answer, he just stares at me with those penetrating dark eyes. Heated. Loaded.
In my mind, I want to turn and walk out. But physically, I’m rooted, staring back, my breath quickening with each passing second, my stomach tightening.
Again, he asks, “What do you want, Lexi?”
“Noth
ing from you,” I somehow manage to say, snapping out of the trance he locked me in.
I turn and start to leave, but before I know what’s happening, I’m on my back on the bed and he’s hovering above me, his elbows pressed to the mattress on either side of my head.
“What are yo—”
“I don’t think it’s starting to sink in for you yet—or maybe you’re just willfully ignoring it. But let me be straight: I want you. I’ve always wanted you. I know you have not always wanted me, but I know that …now you do. ‘Cause what I’m feeling right now is too fucking insane to be one-sided.”
By the time he’s done, I’m panting as if I’ve just ran a marathon. “You want to fuck me?” I breathe out. “Is that it?”
He makes a quick tip of his head to the side. “Well, that’s one of the things I wanna do, yeah.”
“What are the other things?”
“Give me you and you’ll see.”
“You’re right,” I say, breathing heavy. “I do want you—well, to fuck you. But I don’t think it’s anything more than that.”
His head dips so his lips hover just above mine, the heat of his breath caressing my lips. His fiery gaze locked on mine. I undulate beneath him, needing friction, but he’s just out of reach. Arching up, I lift my head to meet his lips, but draws back in time, denying me the connection.
He shifts off of me and goes back to the way I found him. On his back, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ll take you to Pasadena. But I’m beat, so lemme get in a quick nap first. Go get ready.”
Wait, what? That’s it? How did we go from being so hot for each other the walls started sweating, to… this? Talks of transportation and a nap.
See? Good to know his mercurial assholeness carries over to intimacy as well.
“Sex wouldn’t have been a good idea anyway,” I say bitterly as I peel myself up off the bed and start out of the room. “I slept with your brother, and you slept with my best friend. Would be kind of messed up, if you ask me.”
~
Trent’s “nap” lasts over three hours. I must have made a bazillion trips up the stairs to check if he’s awake. But he must’ve been really tired with how deep asleep he is.
Eventually, I give up checking, kick off my boots, and unplug my phone from his charging station. I’d found it completely dead in my purse earlier when I was getting ready and fixed it on his charging station to get some juice.