by Raven, Jo
Fuck, he’s totally right. I’m pissed because I finally found the girl who caught my eye, found out she works in this bookstore and nope, she didn’t run after me, or scrawl her number on my hand.
Never had this problem before.
This girl at the bookstore… I saw how she stared at me. She liked what she saw. Hey, I won’t even pretend to be humble. I look good, and I keep fit. My sis, Ev, often teases me that I’m like a rock star. I get any chick I set my sights on. They come begging for it.
Once a girl pulled down her shirt to show me her bare tits and had me sign them. Another time, a woman offered to blow me in the middle of a parking lot. Chicks honk at me from their cars, roll down their windows and ask my name, pretend to be tipsy in bars as an excuse for bumping into me and latching on to me.
And that’s fine. It’s all for fun. I don’t give a shit about that, even less lately, except this girl… what is it about her that won’t let me rest?
Something about the boldness of her gaze behind those sexy glasses, and the sweetness of her mouth, the uncertainty in her voice combined with that hot body, mostly hidden under her clothes…
“You said you’d meet me later to grab a coffee at Starbucks, and you never showed up,” I mutter, forcing my thoughts back to the present. “Did something happen?”
“Fuck.” He turns around to face me, and I lift my eyes. “I said I’d meet you? Man, I totally forgot.”
“Shocker,” I mutter. Jet is often distracted. But still I worry every time he doesn’t show up when he says he will. I have valid reasons to worry, trust me. “I was picking up a book for you. About bananas.”
“Bananas.” He gapes at me. “Are you fucking high?”
“You like bananas, man. Banana cake, banana ice cream. I thought you might wanna…” I wave my hand around, then realize I left the book in my backpack. “Read about them.”
He lifts a hand to scratch his spiky hair. His towel slips lower on his hips. “I’m not the reading type.”
“Yeah, but I thought—”
“Or the cooking type.”
“Shut up, okay? It’s a gift, motherfucker. Just have a look at the damn book and tell me if there’s something you like.”
“Never look a gift horse in the nuts.” Jet turns around, drops the towel to the floor and grabs his jeans from the bed. Black of course. Jethro likes black, and that’s an understatement.
“I’m pretty damn sure it’s in the teeth.”
“Same thing.”
Right.
As he slams the closet door shut and looks up, I give him a quick once-over. He looks… stressed out. Tired. Tense. Distant.
“Today’s your day off?” I sink down on his bed and land on something hard. “Ow, dammit.”
I remove a weird object, plastic, black—the last goes without saying. But what the hell is this thing?
“Gimme that.” Something flashes through Jethro’s eyes, something like panic. He snatches it from my hand and throws it into his closet, kicks the door closed. He leans on the closet, crosses his arms.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
I’m so doing a search of that fucking closet first chance I get. Need to know what got Jet so flustered. He does have his dark moods, which I have learned not to disturb, and has so many skeletons in his closet it’s like Halloween in there, but still. He rarely loses his cool.
“J?”
And why am I staring at his mouth? The fuck’s wrong with me today? “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. One hundred percent.”
But I don’t think he is. Something’s going on. “Rough week?”
He waves a hand back and forth, but not before I catch a tiny flinch. “So… about that nerdy chick. Tell me about her.”
“She’s pretty, I guess.” Her eyes were bright, her mouth lush, her body small and tight and hot in her crazy short dress and fuchsia leggings that matched her nail polish.
And she had glasses on. Did I mention the glasses?
“You guess.”
“Yeah. If you like the nerdy, pigtailed type.”
“You do like that kind, mate.”
That’s right, I do. No one knows me like Jethro.
And… he said “mate.”
Yeah, something’s off. I squint at him. He grew up in Australia as a child, and although he moved to the States with his family when he was ten, his accent sometimes comes through, especially when he’s tired or nervous. Okay, seriously, what the hell’s going on today with him?
“So what’s your plan?”
“Huh?”
“To win over this girl.”
“I need a plan?”
“Well, flashing your baby blues didn’t do the trick this time, did it? Not all chicks will drop their panties and lie on their backs when you enter the room, you know, no matter how good you look. Some girls like guys who give a fuck. Who bring them coffee, and ask them how their day has been.”
“I know that,” I say, irritated.
Because I sort of know all this, but I also did sort of expect her to drop her panties and, well. Bend over, maybe. Or wrap her legs around me.
Why the hell not? We’d both have had a good time. And this time it would work. I know it in my gut. I would let go, and I’d co—
“Unless you don’t care,” Jethro says, “any more than you did for any other chick.”
I probably don’t. Why should I? I don’t really know her.
So I get up, run my hands through my hair, refusing to think about it any longer. “How about we order pizza and play Call of Duty?”
A grin breaks out on Jet’s face. “You need to ask, fucktwat?”
Right. “I’m gonna kick your ass, buddy. Gonna make you my bitch.”
He flinches, and a strangled noise escapes him. “You wish.”
Okay, what the fuck? He sure is acting weird today. “It’s a fact, man.”
He shoves me. I shove him back, sending him stumbling sideways. “We’ll see about that.”
Jet’s more slender than me, always was, though he’s caught up with me in height. And I’ve always felt oddly protective of him, although Jethro can certainly kick ass, even better than I can. He's firecracker. Spitfire. Touch him, and he’ll knock you out faster than you can say motherfucker.
So I don’t worry too much, even if he looks tired tonight.
I wag my brows at him as I whip my cell out of my back pocket and hit the speed dial for our pizza delivery place. “Gonna lick you good. Flog you. You’re so screwed, my man, you’ll wish for—”
Jethro does a complete about-face and heads back to his room. His door clicks shut.
Whoa, dude. What in the world?
The call connects, and I put through our standard order, then disconnect and go after him. Without ceremony, I open his door and march inside. Screw not worrying. The fucker had better tell me what’s wrong, or he won’t know what hit him.
***
“Talk.” I’m looming over Jethro who’s sitting on the bed, hands hanging between his knees. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, mate.” Again that faint accent, drilling under my skin, a strange little itch. “Did you order the pizza?”
“Yeah, I ordered the damn pizza. Why’re you hiding in here?” I gesture at the familiar room—black drapes, black bedspread with white skulls. “What’s gotten up your ass?”
“Interested in my ass suddenly, are you?” He shoots a crooked grin at me, and I’m momentarily speechless. He didn’t notice me watching today, did he?
I mean, whatever. Dudes stare at each other all the time. Comparing dicks and shit.
“I’m interested in your ass planted in the chair in front of the TV so that I can kick it playing,” I clarify. “Wasn’t that what we said we’d do?”
“Sure.” He shrugs one shoulder. “I was just gonna grab a sweater. It’s chilly in there.”
Chilly? Is he fucking with me? It’s summer. We’re in T-shirts. I have no f
ucking clue what’s going on here, but I let it slide for now, because it’s Jet, and sooner or later he’ll spill.
Has to. We’re like brothers, dammit. Fucker will let me in all the fucking way someday, I just know it. I only need to be patient.
Like now.
So I don’t push him more. Instead, I grab his arm and yank him to his feet. “Pizza. Video game. Beer.”
“Now we’re talking,” he mutters and gamely lets me haul him out of his room and drop him on our worn couch. “Where’s the pizza?”
Have I mentioned that occasionally I want to strangle the idiot?
“I literally just called. Give it a fucking minute, will ya?”
“Did you get the one with the anchovies that I—”
“Yes, Jesus fuck, Jet, I know what you like, okay? Sit tight, pizza’s on its way.”
He relaxes marginally into the cushions, that crooked grin making another appearance, and something inside my chest unwinds.
Everything’s fine. A usual evening in the J&J household. This is my home, even more so than the one I grew up in. Don’t get me wrong. I love my parents, and my sister, but I never felt at ease there.
Here, with Jet, I do. With pizza on the way, video games to be played, Jet’s eyes lighting up with mischief as he grabs the controls, and despite the sharp sliver of the memory of her—the sexy girl at the bookstore—this is gonna be a damn good evening.
***
I want to see her again.
The thought fills up my mind, expands and contracts, randomly flashes through my thoughts like a light saber randomly as I go through my day at work.
It shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. I should be fucking focused on learning and on making a good impression. I breezed through college on my scholarship and sports and fun, and treated my business studies as a necessary evil.
Well, now the evil has taken over my life. Okay, it’s not that bad, but finding the requisite excitement is tough. Landing a job at a multimillion corporation with branches everywhere in the world is a good thing. Even if my tasks are limited to secretarial stuff so far. Write letters. Type up stuff. Make photocopies. Make phone calls.
Hey, it will get better. I will be given more responsibilities, climb the ladder, learn more about the company and its goals. I know it’s my first job, and time is of the essence. Patience, is what my parents keep telling me. And they’re right.
But when was I ever known for my patience?
And when was I interested in oil, natural gas and investments? I love running, playing video games with Jethro, chasing chicks, reading about ancient history, checking on my little sister—who’s not so little anymore, as she often reminds me—and cooking.
Hey, sometimes when thinking bogs me down, doing something with my hands helps. I sort of switch off, and at the end of it, there’s something good to eat, too. Win-win.
Besides, I’m in charge of feeding Jethro, who often forgets that breathing isn’t enough sustenance. Fucker owes me. I hope he appreciates it.
Speaking of doing something with my hands… Even better would be to use them on the girl at the bookstore. Why didn’t I ask her name? Why didn’t I ask her out?
Next time. I’m going back, and I’ll do what Jet said. I’ll win her over.
I grin as I get up and march down the corridor between offices to the printer, to collect my letters. Nia waves at me from the reception desk and adjusts her cleavage. Girl’s got impressive tits, and a pretty face, but I’m not interested. I hope she’ll get the message one day.
Jimmy nods at me, mimics having coffee, and I shrug. He’s nice, but he’s coming on too hard. Wouldn’t be the first time, and Jet always fucking laughs at me when that happens. Well, fuck it. I’m not into guys. Only chicks do it for me.
Speaking of chicks… I may need more books. About cooking, and sports, world history, and just about anything, probably. As long as a certain pigtailed girl with glasses can help me out… I wonder if she plays videogames, if she likes fantasy. Maybe history, too?
I stop so suddenly outside the printer room I almost fall over.
What the fuck? I’ve never given a chick more thought than how to take her clothes off as fast as possible. Do it fast, get off fast, walk out and forget about it. Why am I so curious about her? I’ve only met her once. She wasn’t even dressed in anything sexy.
Her hair was in pigtails, for chrissakes.
I’d tug on them. Lift her short skirt. Spank her ass. Tell Jet to hold her while I go down on her and—
Fucking shitballs. What’s wrong with me these days? Tell Jet to hold her—to be there? This is sick.
It’s got to stop. If I don’t, I may need therapy, or someday Jet will find out about these new twisted fantasies of mine, and he’ll be out the door before you can say banana.
Also, I should stop thinking of bananas. Even if Jet likes them. Because guys shouldn’t like phallic-shaped fruit, okay? Not straight guys, anyway.
And I’m as straight as a one-way road, for all the good it does me. I haven’t been out with a chick since forever. Haven’t had sex since fuck knows when. My dick has probably shriveled and fallen off, and I didn’t even notice.
Checking nobody is looking, I pat my package, reassured to feel my dick is still there. Phew. Maybe it was the stress of finishing college, the small crisis I had, and the new job. Well, it’s time to remedy that. Time to—
Oh shit. Oh SHIT, the manager is staring right at me through the room window, a scowl on his face, and my hand… my hand is still on my crotch.
And I think, goddamn fuck, not again.
Chapter Three
JETHRO
I’m so little I fit inside a cupboard in the kitchen, among the pots and pans. My chin is resting on my drawn-up knees. My vision is restricted to a tiny circle. I press my eye to the hole, shivering. I don’t wanna watch. But I can’t look away as the shouting becomes louder, deafening, as objects crash, and she screams.
She told me to hide when it starts. Told me I’m safe if I’m hidden.
But nothing hidden ever remains so, and nobody is ever gonna stick around and keep you safe. Sooner or later you discover that you only have yourself.
Fuck them.
Fuck everyone.
Fuck this guy with the aviator sunglasses who’s buying a cheap beer for his wife.
Fuck the kid with the Pokemon T-shirt who’s running around waving somebody’s cell phone.
Fuck this concert, and especially fuck the chick who’s trying to shove her tits into my face as I pour her drink.
“So you work at Stanley’s Bar?” she says in a weird nasal-whiny voice, chewing her gum and popping a pink bubble in my direction. Her hair is dyed a washed-out red and is held up in two pigtails.
Vaguely I wonder if this is the girl that Joel met at the bookstore, and if I should start worrying about his taste.
I drop ice into the plastic cup and thrust it in her direction. “I’m here, right?”
“You sure are!” She giggles, and fuck this concert.
Wait, have I said that already?
“Anything else?” I bite out, because I’m paid for this gig, and boss man is right around the corner. Can’t afford to be fired before my time here is done.
“Can I have you, wrapped and with a bow?” Her friend is approaching now, attracted to the stupid high-pitch giggling, no doubt.
Ah, gimme a break. I lean over the stall and give her a toothy grin, the angry fire burning up my neck. “How much?”
“Pardon?” Her giggles die, and a look of uncertainty passes over her face.
“I said, how much would you pay for me? I’m kind of expensive.”
“You’re funny,” her friend informs me. It seems I’ve rendered her giggly friend speechless. Go figure.
“Trust me,” I tell her, meeting her gaze and holding it. “I’m not funny at all.”
They put the money on the table and wander off in silence.
I lean back and huff. It’s sunny again today, a
nd it’s pretty warm. The park smells of grass, and beer, and piss, and even though the groups playing have taken a break, my ears are still ringing and my head throbbing.
But this is a job. A job is always good. Bucks in your pocket. No time to sit and brood.
Brood about this fucked-up week. I don’t even wanna think about it, in case it gets worse. Can it get worse?
Shut up. Don’t jinx it more.
I tap my fingers on the blue cloth covering the stall table, then give in and rub my eyes. Man, I’m beat. Between all that happened in the last two days, a bad night’s sleep and standing in the sun all day with the music booming right behind me, I’m ready to call it a day.
Only five more hours.
Yeah, baby. I can do this. I can do anything I put my mind to. Joel always says so, and that son of a bitch has a firmer grip on life than I ever have.
Joel who doesn’t know I’m here, because then I’d have to explain why I’m not at my other job, and hell, no. Not in the mood to explain today. Not until I’ve found a solution. A more permanent solution than this damn stall at this damn concert.
Did I mention I’m pissed? Grumpy cat, Joel calls me sometimes, but hell, I’ve got plenty to be grumpy about today, all right?
“Hello!” a chirpy voice says.
“What?” I snap and then realize where I am and what I should be doing. “Shit, sorry. What can I get you?”
The sun is in my face, blinding me, turning her into a blurry outline as she says, “Two Coors, please.”
Her voice is soft and feathery, a relief after the screeching voice of the previous customer, and when my eyes adjust to the light, I see her, and something hot shoots through my chest—and down to my dick, because these two are connected, just FYI.
At least when it comes to pretty girls smiling at me, especially after the shitty days I’ve had.
“Two Coors coming right up,” I say. “Coors Light?”
“There’s nothing light about me,” she says, and I pause, my hand in the cooler, my brain firing uselessly.
What she says sounds like so much more. More than I ever thought I’d hear on a day like this, at a place like this.
Or anywhere, ever.