Eventually, the lights come up, signaling it’s time to go home, which is when I notice that Billy is slumped over in his chair on the other side of the bar.
Aaron gives his shoulder a shake, trying to rouse him. Billy is slurring and mostly incoherent. I slide off my stool and head their way. “You want some help?”
Aaron runs a hand through his hair. “All I have is my bike, and he’s not with it enough to catch a ride on the back. I don’t want to call Dee this time of night.”
“I live right next door. I’ll take him home.”
“You’re sure about that? It’d be a real big favor; might even put you on Dee’s good side, which is always a nice place to be.”
I laugh. “I kinda like her bad side.”
“I’m sure you do. She’s all fire, that one.”
It takes Aaron and me both to get Billy out of the bar and into the truck. He might be a lean dude, but he sure is heavy. He’s mostly passed out the entire ride home, head lolling back and forth, bumping off the passenger window every time we hit a pothole, which is often.
I pull into my neighbor’s driveway just after twelve thirty. The house is dark, which isn’t a surprise, considering it’s the middle of the week.
I poke Billy’s shoulder. “Hey, man, you’re home.”
He rouses and blinks a few times. “Huh?”
I point to the house. “You’re home. Time to sleep off the beer in your bed.”
“Oh. Yeah, right. Time’s it?” He slurs the words and fumbles with his seat belt.
“After midnight. Need a hand?”
“I got it,” he mutters, but he continues to struggle to hit the release button.
I don’t think he’s going to have much luck getting out of the truck and into the house without assistance, so I unbuckle my own seat belt and hop out. I grab his crutches from the bed and round the passenger side. By the time I open the door, he’s managed the epic feat of unbuckling his seat belt.
I’m in the middle of trying to figure out how I’m going to get his drunk ass out of the truck and to the front door without throwing him over my shoulder when I hear the sound of a screen door slamming shut.
“What the heck is going on out here?” Dillion’s hand is raised in front of her face to shield her eyes from the glare of my headlights, which are pointed directly at her trailer.
Her hair is a chaotic blonde halo. She’s wearing a pair of barely there sleep shorts and a tank that, thanks to the headlights, is basically see through. Her nipples are peaked against the white fabric, and my stupid eyeballs home right in on them.
And because I’m fixated on her and her outfit, I’m not paying attention to Billy, who’s decided he doesn’t need my help getting out of the truck. He knocks into me with an oof, and I barely manage to stay upright while Billy sprawls across the driveway.
“Oh my God! Is that Billy? What did you do to him?” Dillion’s flip-flops slap angrily against the gravel drive.
“I didn’t do anything to him.” I prop the crutches against the side of the truck and crouch so I can help him up. He’s sloppy and heavy, and I’m starting to regret driving him home.
“Billy, are you drunk?”
“I had a few beers, chill out, Dil,” Billy mumble-slurs. “Chill, dill. That rhymes.” He barks out a laugh and then proceeds to vomit, barely missing my feet.
“You got my brother drunk? What is wrong with you?”
I pin her with a look. Her attitude is getting tiring. It might have been fun to poke at her and get a rise, but I can only take so many accusations. I have enough of those to deal with without her stupid ones. “You have an awful way of saying thank you. I didn’t get him drunk. I found him like this and wanted to save you and your family the trouble of coming to pick him up at the bar.”
Her hands drop from her hips, and her anger deflates like a popped balloon. “Oh. I didn’t even know he’d gone out.”
“Apparently he did. You’re welcome for making sure he got home safely.” I round the front of the truck and hop back in, ignoring Dillion when she calls my name. I don’t have the patience left not to be the jerk she assumes me to be tonight.
CHAPTER 10
NOT WINNING ANY POINTS HERE
Van
I don’t see Dillion for the rest of the week, but she does leave me a twelve-pack of beer and a thank-you note for bringing Billy home from the bar. I’m still irritated with her, but I appreciate the beer delivery.
I spend time emptying out the rest of the garage so I can get started converting it into a livable space based on the preliminary building plans I sketched out. It’s something I’m actually excited about and keeps my mind off what’s happening in Chicago.
Normally I develop structural plans and leave the building to someone else. But since I’m out of a job and every call I’ve made so far has come to a dead end on the employment front, contracting out the work would be a frivolous expense I can’t afford. Which means I’m going to do the work myself.
On Friday morning I get a call from Frankie to let me know that they’re coming to Pearl Lake and to make sure I’m well stocked on the booze front. He seems pretty damn excited about the party bus he rented, and I’m grateful that I don’t have to get the spare bedrooms ready for him and Chip. Especially since one of them would have to sleep in my grandmother’s bed. I’ve avoided going in there, apart from a couple of times since I arrived. It’s not that I think it’s haunted or whatever, but I’m not ready to face packing away her things. Her bedroom remains a shrine to her and my grandfather and all the years they spent together here.
While this place is full of memories, it’s also full of crap, and spiders, and an overwhelming amount of patterned wallpaper. It’s nothing like the pristine condo in the city that I left behind.
As much as I miss my job and the bustle of Chicago, there’s something to be said for the peacefulness of living here. Of not falling into the trap of feeling like I need the newest car or the nicest clothes, or the compulsion to keep climbing the social and financial ladders so I can be the best and have the most. Looking back, I don’t even know why I cared about all that. I haven’t even driven my BMW since getting here, preferring Bee’s truck instead.
It bugs me that I give a shit about what my friends will think of this place. That they might feel sorry for me because I lost my six-figure-a-year salary. My dad has always been the kind of guy who thrives on appearances. Part of it was to mask the damage losing our mother did to him, a way to look like he had it together when he was falling apart. Buying things was a Band-Aid for the partner he lost.
At six in the evening Frankie pulls down my driveway in the most ridiculously ostentatious RV I’ve ever seen. It’s a garish metallic purple with the words PARTY BUS scrawled across the side in gold letters. It looks like something a band would drive across the country.
He nearly clips the truck, which might be old and not in the best shape, but it was one of my grandfather’s and Grammy Bee’s favorite possessions. She taught me how to drive in that truck when I was fourteen years old, so it holds a lot of memories. The kind that aren’t replaceable.
Frankie parks the RV in front of the garage, turns off the engine, and climbs out. “The party has arrived! I hope your liver is ready for a workout this weekend!” He pulls me in for a hug and a backslap. “I’m sorry, dude—Chip’s balls are in her pocket.”
“Huh?”
Chip appears, his face screwed up in a grimace as he turns around and holds out his hand, answering my question without saying a word. Monica, his girlfriend, apparently decided to crash the party.
I arch a brow at Frankie. “What happened to the boys’ weekend?”
“It was the only way he was allowed to come,” he mutters.
She adjusts the brim of her oversize hat and attempts to strut across the driveway. It’s gravel and dirt, though, so her heels keep sinking, making her strut a challenge. “Wow.” She pushes her sunglasses up her nose. “This place is—”
“Rustic and awesome,” Chip supplies, and I’m unsure if he did it purposefully to cut off anything rude she might say or if he genuinely feels that way.
“I was going to say condemnable, but I suppose rustic works.” She air-kisses my cheeks. “I’m so sorry you’re stuck here, Van. I can’t imagine how awful it must be for you.”
“I’m surviving.” Monica is a socialite and very used to five-star everything. The party bus is her idea of roughing it. “Did you steal this thing from an eighties hair band?” I motion to the RV.
“Isn’t it awesome?” Frankie pats the side of it.
“It’s something, that’s for sure.”
The guys are totally into the whole “camping” situation. Honestly, the RV is probably as big as my cottage and is outfitted with two bedrooms, a full kitchen, and a deluxe bathroom. It means they don’t have to come inside the cottage, which is good, since the only thing I’ve done in there is sleep and burn grilled cheese sandwiches.
At first it seems like things are going to be okay. At least until we sit by the campfire. Monica keeps making people switch chairs with her, depending on what direction the wind is blowing. She also can’t understand why she’s being eaten alive, and the drunker she gets, the louder she becomes.
“Ah! Why won’t these things leave me alone?” Monica slaps the side of her neck for what has to be the millionth time this evening.
“Because you’re delicious, babe.” Chip nuzzles through her mass of hair to bite her neck.
“Chip!” She swats him, but she’s giggling. Loudly.
I glance over my shoulder. It’s late, but it’s a Friday, so I’m hoping the noise isn’t a problem for my surly neighbor.
“Dude, I might be crashing in the cottage tonight if these two keep it up,” Frankie mutters.
“Just keep drinking, and I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Frankie makes a noise in the back of his throat but chugs the rest of his rum and Coke.
This whole drunk-affection gigglefest is Chip and Monica’s version of foreplay. Often the giggles turn into irritation when Chip gets too sauced, and they end up fighting. Which then turns into angry-loud makeup sex. We know this to be the case because we’ve dealt with it before. Not the actual act, but the soundtrack is impossible to tune out, because Monica has never been known for her quietness.
The giggle turns into another shriek, and Monica’s back to slapping her legs.
I did offer her bug spray, which she said no to because she didn’t want to put those kinds of chemicals on her skin.
Her volume increases with each martini she consumes, despite my requests to keep it down.
So I should not be surprised when my neighbor appears at the edge of the trees and scares the living crap out of Monica. Her chair tips over, and she loses her hold on her martini glass. Thankfully it’s made of plastic.
“Ahh! What the hell! I’m covered in vodka and olive juice and dirt! Chip! Help me up! There are bugs everywhere!” She grabs on to Chip’s arm and tries to scramble to her feet. I should mention that she’s wearing white jean shorts. At a campfire. In the woods.
Dillion, on the other hand, has clearly come from bed. Her hair, which is usually pulled up in a ponytail, is down, the curls framing her face and making her look like an angry angel. She’s wearing a pair of flip-flops, gray shorts that show off her toned legs, and a thin, worn tank that reads BEDHEAD IS MY NATURAL LOOK across her chest. As usual, it’s white, which means the glow of the fire highlights her pert nipples and the fact that she’s definitely not wearing a bra, just like the last time she chewed me out, for keeping her awake with my hammering.
Her eyebrows pop at the spectacle that is Monica, and she quickly shifts her attention to me. She props a fist on her hip. It seems to be her go-to move. “I get that it’s Friday night, and you’re reliving your frat party days or whatever, but you’re literally twenty feet away from my bedroom. It’s two freaking a.m., and unlike the rest of you, I have to work in the morning. Do you think you can wrap this up for the night or at least tone it down and cut the rave music?” She motions to the portable speaker, which is blasting Monica’s favorite club playlist.
Monica, who has completely lost her filter, scoffs and wipes away fake tears. “Aww. Does your shift at the gas station start early on the weekend?”
Oh shit.
Dillion’s lip curls, and she slowly turns away from me so she can angry glare at Monica. “Ex-freaking-cuse me?”
Monica’s lip turns up in a sneer, and I glance at Chip, who tugs on her arm and mutters, “Babe.” But she doesn’t heed the warning.
She waves Dillion off and slurs, “Tell the trailer trash to stop being such a party pooper.”
“Whoa, whoa, that’s not cool, Monica.” I push out of my chair and take a step toward Dillion, who looks mighty unimpressed, and for good reason. I look to Chip and Frankie to help me out here, but they don’t seem to know what to do. We’re used to Monica’s antics, but I don’t think we’ve ever heard her be so offensive to someone else.
There might not be much to Dillion’s frame, but she seems like she has the ability to get scrappy, and while Monica is forever at the gym burning calories, I don’t think she’d stand a chance against my neighbor. As much as Monica might deserve to get her ass handed to her for those comments, the lawsuit that could come out of that would not be in Dillion’s favor. It will also create more tension between us rather than less, and since I’m living next to her for the foreseeable future, I’d like to avoid pissing her off because my friend’s girlfriend is a jerk.
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it? She lives in that trailer, doesn’t she?” Monica flings a drunken hand in Dillion’s direction.
“Wow, stereotype much?” Dillion gives me another unimpressed look. “You’ve got some classy friends, Van.”
I move to stand in front of Dillion, in part to act as a barrier between her and Monica, so she doesn’t end up clawing her eyes out. “I’m so sorry. She’s had way too many martinis and doesn’t even know what she’s saying. I didn’t realize how late it was, or that we were being that loud. We’ll take it inside.”
“Great. Thanks.” Her tone is flat.
The last time I saw her, I was the one irritated with her, but after the garbage Monica just spewed, it’s my turn to apologize. “I’m really sorry, Dillion.”
“Sure you are.”
She turns to head back to her place, and Monica mutters something under her breath that I don’t catch, but I’m pretty sure stupid bitch was in there.
Chip hisses her name, and Dillion spins around. “I’m stupid? You’re the idiot who’s been sitting out here moaning about being eaten alive. You’re wearing enough perfume to give someone an asthma attack. I can smell it from here. Do everyone a favor and use the bug spray so we aren’t subjected to your noise pollution.” And with that she whirls around and stomps back through the trees, flip-flops slapping angrily at the ground.
I sort of want to follow her so I can apologize some more and also so I don’t have to deal with Monica, who is now ranting about how bug spray causes cancer and her skin is too sensitive.
Chip takes her back to the RV, but even behind closed doors we can hear the bickering.
“I’m sorry, man. We didn’t mean to get you in shit with your neighbor,” Frankie says. “I can’t believe Monica said that. She’s always been annoying, but never cruel. Next time we’ll leave her at home. Who knows? Maybe this will finally put Chip over the edge and he’ll break up with her.”
“We can hope.”
They end up leaving first thing in the morning, mostly because Monica is mortified and hungover. Normally I’d let something like this roll off me, but in this case I don’t like that one of the people in my close-friend group could treat someone they don’t even know with so little respect. So I can’t say I’m all that heartbroken about the fact that they don’t stick around. I don’t need more problems than I already have. Especially not with my neighbor.
BEACH PARTY
Dillion
“You think you can give me a ride to the beach tonight?” Billy asks no one in particular as he shovels another mouthful of hash brown casserole into his mouth. His face is about three inches from his plate. He reminds me of a cartoon character with his mouth wide open and a conveyor belt dumping food down the hatch.
“I can drive you,” I offer.
Billy frowns. “You hate the beach parties.”
He’s right. I generally avoided them when I was a teenager, and the few times I did go, I ended up regretting it. There was the time Tucker had initiated one of our many breaks and ended up hooking up with one of the summer girls from the other side of the lake right in front of me. I’d retaliated by kissing some random dude in a game of truth or dare.
Was it stupid? Yup. Did I regret it? Yes and no. I made my point, and Tucker, being the idiot he was, immediately called an end to our break. Not because he’d seen the error of his ways, but because he couldn’t stand the thought of me with anyone else.
To this day I wonder about that boy. Did I ever pass him on the street in town without realizing it? Had I imagined the energy that had zinged through my veins and lit me up from the inside? That kiss had sparked a fire in me, one that had been stoked and snuffed almost as quickly.
Or maybe I’d been drunk, and it wasn’t as magical as I remembered it to be. I don’t even know his name. Or even what he looked like from the nose down, since he’d been wearing a ball cap, and all I could make out was his mouth. Beach parties on this side of the lake are always a drunk fest, lots of hookups and general stupidity, which I’m still not a fan of—see what happened last night with Van and his friends for details. That whole fiasco reminded me of those parties back when I was a teenage girl, looking for a way out. And I have a particularly sore spot over Van’s friend’s shitty comment. I hate that I’ve once again become the small-town stereotype I’ve tried to escape my entire life.
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