Preppy: The Life & Death of Samuel Clearwater, Part Three

by T. M. Frazier

  I pushed my index finger against his chest. “And yet...you never really grew up,” I teased.

  “Oh you got jokes now?” he asked, tugging on the hem of my shirt.

  “Some days.” I was about to turn back to the stove when my eyes landed on the thick scar cutting into his skin, slicing several of his colorful tattoos in half with a jagged white line that used to be crimson.

  Preppy lifted his arm to look at what had caught my attention and I felt the embarrassment creep up my cheeks. “I didn’t mean to stare, it’s just that it’s all healed now.”

  “You can stare all you want, Doc,” Preppy said, pulling me into his chest. “You can touch all you want too.”

  A sizzling sound caught our attention. The pot on the stove was boiling over. Foam spilled over the top, landing on the hot burner with an angry hiss. “Fuck,” I said, grabbing the pot with two oven mitts. I was about to dump out the water and half cooked noodles when Preppy stopped me.

  “Wait,” Preppy said. “Set it back down.” He turned the dial to the left, lowering the heat of the stove. “Do we have any olive oil?”

  I rummaged through a cupboard and found what he needed, tingles shot up my arm when our fingers brushed as he took the bottle of oil from me but it was hard to deny that I felt anything when my nipples were peaking against my shirt. If he looked over there was no way he wouldn’t be able to see his effect on me.

  Preppy poured a bit of the oil into the pot with the noodles and stirred it. Instantly the rising foam fell back down. “All fixed,” he said proudly.

  I cleared my throat and wet my dry lips. “Are you going to tell me why you have King and Ray’s kids?” I asked curiously, taking a package of ground chuck out of the fridge. Preppy took the package from me and had already washed his hands and was pressing out hamburger patties before I could protest.

  He shrugged. “Beats the fuck out of me. I was with King in his studio and we were going over some business shit. The next minute Doe, I mean RAY, calls King on his phone and then he’s asking me to watch the kids for a while because he has to go meet her.”

  “I hope everything is all right,” I said.

  “He didn’t tell me what was going on, but he didn’t have that ‘life or death’ look about him, and trust me I’m pretty familiar with that look,” Preppy said. “I’m pretty sure if they’re asking me to watch their kids though, it must be a sign of the zombie apocalypse.”

  “Must be,” I giggled, loving the interesting places his mind went.

  “Seriously, zombie apocalypse is seriously the only reason I could think of why they would want me to look after their little sex trophies when they’ve got lots of other people to call on.”

  “First of all, they’ve seen how great you are with Bo, so that’s Bullshit. Second of all, sex trophies?” I asked.

  “Yeah, you know, cause they’re a product of...”

  “Uh, I get it. I know how that works, Preppy.”

  “Oh DO you?” he asked, wagging an eyebrow.

  “Shit,” I said, as a realization kicked in. “The grill doesn’t work. It’s ancient so I put it to the curb with the trash last week. Should we make the burgers in a pan or bake them in the oven?”

  “Blasphemy!” Preppy shouted, gasping and looking around like he was making sure no one else heard me. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You do realize you’re in the south, right?”

  “Uh, yeah, but what does that mean? That doesn’t automatically give us a working grill.” I jumped up to sit on the counter, my legs dangling against the cabinet as I watched Preppy move around the kitchen with ease.

  “That means that us southern boys can pretty much make a grill out of anything,” Preppy said, plating the last burger. “I’m like a redneck MacGyver.”

  “Oh yeah? Prove it,” I said, teasingly.

  “What do you want to bet?” Preppy stalked across the kitchen, getting as close as he could to me with only the tray of burgers between us. My body zinged and hummed like a light being turned on for the first time in a long time.

  “What do you got? I asked, suggestively.

  Bo appeared in the kitchen, rubbing his eyes with the ball of his hand and yawning. “Bo, my man! Just in time. You must come with me so we can do man things!” Preppy said with as deep a voice as he could muster. He beat his closed fists on his chest.

  Bo smiled and was instantly awake as he followed Preppy out into the back yard. “Man the mac and cheese, woman! We will be right back,” he said, shutting the sliding glass door.

  As crazy and silly as that man could be, I wouldn’t have it any other way. It took a lot of crazy to put up with me and Samuel Clearwater was my kind of crazy.

  I finished up the mac and cheese and put it in the oven to warm while Preppy took all three kids through the back gate into the open field. They were gone for about twenty minutes when they’d come back carrying a clay pot and an old shopping cart.

  “Why do people always dump their garbage next to the tracks?” I asked as Preppy set the cart sideways over the clay pot.

  “What garbage?” Preppy asked, taking a step back. “This is a state of the art cooking machine, right kids?” All three kids nodded or cheered enthusiastically as they watched Preppy turn junk into a grill. A half an hour later the four of us sat on the steps in the back yard as the sun set, eating mac and cheese, and burgers cooked on a shopping cart.

  The kids finished their food and started a squealing game of tag in which Oscar decided he wanted to be a part of, bumping between kids and practically hopping around as they ran from one side of the yard to the other.

  Preppy shifted next to me so that our thighs were touching. He took my hand in his and the warmth of his palm ran up my arm straight into my heart. “You know,” he said, caressing my hand with his thumb. “You’ve done a really, really great job with the place.” Preppy pointed through the sliders into the living room of the house. “I know you were talking about getting a job as a counselor, but personally I think this is what you should be doing. Building stuff. Designing stuff. Making old shit look new again. You’re amazing at it.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” I admitted, blushing at his compliment. “But it’s not as noble as being a drug counselor but I do love it.” I chewed on my bottom lip.

  “Noble isn’t really a thing where I come from,” Preppy laughed. “You don’t have to have a noble profession, Dre. You just have to be happy. Shit, you don’t have to have a profession at all. But if you’re really great at all this. And you should do more than furniture. Fuck, do a whole house. When you’re done fixing it up do the design of the inside, furniture and all. I’m sure people would snap that up real quick and there’s no shortage of houses that need fixin’ round town after the real estate market crashed.”

  “That’s a great idea in theory, Preppy. But houses are a lot more expensive than furniture,” I pointed out. “And you already managed to buy this one without me knowing.”

  Preppy tipped my chin up so our eyes met. “You leave that up to me, okay? Let me take care of you,” he said with sincerity in his sparkling amber eyes.

  I grinned like a schoolgirl. My stomach flipped. “Okay,” I whispered, because there was no arguing with Preppy. There never was. Even if his side of the argument bordered on the ridiculous, he would still win.

  Every. Single. Time.

  Even with a possible threat looming over our heads, I was still thinking how lucky I was up until the gate on the side of the yard squeaked open. Preppy and I stood and walked over to stand in the way of where the kids were sitting in a circle playing with ladybugs in the grass. The three of them were completely unaware of the bloodied man being carried by his shoulders into the yard by two of Bear’s bikers. His one eye swollen shut, his cheek split open, his hair coated in sticky red. His clothes tattered and stained. The bikers set him down on his knees on the grass.

  Preppy was the first to recognize him. He took a step forward.

  “Kevin?”<
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  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Preppy

  “What the fuck happened?” I asked, glancing between Wolf and Rev. “You two?”

  Wolf held up his hands defensively. “Not us, brother. The kid came limping up the driveway bleeding and beat to shit. Someone got him good, but it wasn’t us.”

  “I’m fiiiiiine,” Kevin moaned, dropping his elbows onto the grass almost like he was fighting the need to lie down.

  “Yeah, you look it,” I said, rolling my eyes. Stubborn son-of-a-bitch.

  Behind me I heard Dre shuffling the kids inside the house.

  “You want us to carry him in?” Rev asked, resting his hands on his belt.

  “We’re good here,” I said. “Thanks.” The bikers left the yard to go back to their posts at the front of the house.

  “Anything broken?” I asked, squatting down next to Kevin.

  “Just my spirit, my pride,” he groaned. I grabbed him by the elbows and pulled him up into a sitting position. He winced and hissed through his teeth. “And maybe my collarbone.”

  “Well, there’s good news and bad news,” I started. “The bad news is that there ain’t shit you can do about a broken collarbone. I know, because I broke mine twice and had mine broken twice more.” I paused. “Do you want to hear the good news?”

  “Suuuuuuure,” Kevin sang, looking up at me through his one eye that wasn’t swollen shut.

  “The good news is that you CAN do something about your broken spirit and pride.”

  I lit two cigarettes and passed one to Kevin. “Oh yeah? And how exactly do I do that?”

  I leaned in close. “You can start by telling me who the fuck did this to you.”

  Kevin’s face reddened with embarrassment as he told me the story of how he’d been robbed by a trio of douchebags over The Causeway he’d met up with thinking they wanted to buy weed. The guys were having a ‘boy’s weekend.’ Apparently, this ‘boy’s weekend’ included jacking my little brother of his stash, his bike, then beating the shit out of him for funsies.

  Kevin would be sore as shit for the next few days, but he’d survive.

  Too bad I couldn’t say the same for the douchebags.

  “Can you walk?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Kevin groaned as I helped him stand. “I think so.”

  “Good, then let’s go,” I said.

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s time for another lesson,” I said. “Except this time you’ll be the one teaching it.”

  “What kind of lesson?”

  “The most important one.” I was already unbuttoning the cuffs of my sleeves, rolling them up above my elbows. I pulled my gun from my pants and shoved it into Kevin’s surprised hands. I clapped him on the shoulder. “You don’t fuck with Samuel Clearwater.”

  ****

  We were on the beach watching the three bitches who jacked Kevin through an opening in the tall grass. It was dark, almost midnight, but the lights from the nearby hotel gave off just enough light to properly see our targets who were gathered around a small fire pit, drinking beers and laughing amongst themselves.

  They wouldn’t be laughing long.

  “What are you going to do?” Kevin asked.

  “You’ll see. Just stay behind me for now.” I took off my shoes and carried them in my hands, strolling by them like I was any other citizen taking a stroll to feel the cool sand between their toes.

  I’m not gonna lie, it did feel kind of spectacular.

  I’d just about passed them when I spun my head back around. The three of them watched as I approached. “Hey, how you doing, man?” I asked enthusiastically. “It’s been so fucking long.”

  In my head I’d given them names. Dickbag #1, #2, and #3.

  Dickbag #1, who was standing with his leg propped up on a log like Captain fucking Morgan, looked over at me and squinted. “Um. Yeah, it has been while, man,” he said, confusion all over his face as he tried to place me.

  “Come on in here, give your old friend a hug,” I said reaching for his hand and pulling him in for a bro hug. Except when he made a move to step back I reached for my gun and before he knew what was happening I pistol-whipped him across the side of the face, knocking him out cold. I covered my mouth with my hand. “Oops, I guess we didn’t know each other after all.”

  “What the fuck?” Dickbag #2 said, standing up from his chair.

  “You sit the fuck back down,” I ordered, training my gun on him. “Kevin, come on out here,” I called. Kevin stepped out of the shadows.

  Dickbag #2 swore. “Fuck.”

  “You guys have already met my brother, Kevin, right?” I asked, pointing my gun from one shivering dickbag to the other. “You guys must be from out of town,” I said.

  Dickbag #3 shook his head. “No, we’re from Coral Pines.”

  “Then you should fucking know better than to mess with me and mine,” I said.

  “Who...who are you?” Dickbag #3 asked.

  “Oh, shit, my bad. I didn’t introduce myself yet.” I cleared my throat. “Let’s start over. My name is Samuel Clearwater.”

  “Oh shit!” Dickbag #2 yelled. He tried to make a run for it but before he could leap over the log he was sitting on I fired, landing a shot in the back of his thigh. He crumbled to the sand and pressed his hand over the wound, wailing like I’d just killed his mama. I rolled my eyes. “Shut the fuck up. I’ve been shot like,” I paused to count on my fingers. “Well, at least like three times and it doesn’t hurt that fucking bad. Don’t be a pussy. Take your punishment like a man.”

  I turned to the Dickbag #3 “Tell him that being shot doesn’t hurt that bad.”

  “I’ve never been...” he started. I fired one off, pegging him in the foot.

  “Kevin, get your shit back,” I said.

  Kevin opened the cooler and pulled out a bag of weed and a stack of cash. “Got it.”

  “Now when this one wakes up, you two will need to tell him exactly how it feels,” I kicked Dickbag #1, rolling him over onto his back with my foot. “Ah, fuck it, I fired off a round into his arm. “He’ll find out when he comes to.”

  I turned to Kevin. “Shit man, I can’t believe I’ve taken all the fun from your first revenge shooting for myself. Get your ass over here you knucklehead.” Kevin walked over to me and I passed him my gun. “You ever fired a gun before?”

  Kevin shook his head.

  “Dickbag #2, stand the fuck up,” I ordered. When he wouldn’t stand I stomped over and lifted him up, propping him back into his chair as he continued to carry on like being shot hurts that fucking bad. “I wonder if your parents know their son has a fucking vagina,” I muttered, making my way back over to Kevin.

  “Okay, now you want to aim for his shin.” I stood behind Kevin and adjusted his hand on the gun. I lifted his arm so he was properly aimed at the target. “Stay exactly where you are,” I warned the Dickbag. “If you move even an inch he could easily hit you in the chest or head. That inch could mean the difference between an ouchie he’s hurt, and an oopsie, he’s dead.”

  He whimpered like an injured puppy. “Who the fuck is raising you kids these days? Is everyone scared shitless? Ya’ll should be fucking embarrassed. I’m going to write a strongly worded letter to our congressman regarding the massive vagina problem our youth is facing.”

  “What if I miss?”

  I shrugged. “Then he’s dead. Then the other two gotta go because you know, no witnesses left behind and all.”

  “No, please. I’m sorry. Wait!” The dickbag cried, but it was too late for begging.

  Kevin pulled the trigger.

  *****

  “I can’t believe you fell back in the sand on your ass!” I whispered, not wanting to wake Dre or Bo as I unrolled the hose from the holder on the side of the house.

  Kevin’s shot had hit sand about four seconds before he did. We’d left the three dickbags alive but not before warning them that next time that wouldn’t be the case.

  “I told
you I never fired a gun before,” Kevin muttered.

  “That’s all right, I think the first time I fired one I did the same thing except I fell into a thick thatch of sand spurs,” I said.

  “Really?” Kevin asked, sounding hopeful.

  “Nope. Not really. I was pretty amazing from the very first second I touched a gun, but that’s okay, we’re not all born naturals.” I twisted the nozzle. “Okay, now strip.”