by B. B. Hamel
Of course, those insane violent tendencies make him a great security guard, but those same tendencies make me very careful around the big man.
“Head on up front if you don’t mind,” I tell him. “I think Lane’s alone up there.”
“’Kay,” he grunts at me and lumbers off down the hall.
I sigh and crack my neck, a bad habit. Marvin comes scurrying out from storage, arms full of product. He gives me a little grin. “Hi, Jonas.”
“Marvin, that better be for a big order,” I call after him.
“Sure, whatever!” He disappears around a corner. He’s a short guy, skinny as hell, with a rat-like face. He’s an ass kisser, but I like him anyway.
I sigh and head in the opposite direction. The smell of coffee and weed lingers heavy as I pass by the door that leads into the shopfront. We sell lattes and vape pens here at Half Pipe, and sometimes I’m not sure which is the drug and which is the perfectly legal stimulant. I’ve seen way more people tweaked up and going fucking nuts off drinking too much espresso than I’ve seen anyone wrecked by a little pot.
I roll past, not wanting to get bogged down with all that. I push open the heavy doors and step out into the bright, sunny California day, shielding my eyes for a second before I spot a group of guys in skinny jeans and sneakers holding skateboards and smoking a skinny blunt.
I roll over to them, a scowl on my face. One guy looks up as I approach, a short, compact dude with dark skin, a patchy little goatee, and crooked teeth. He cocks his head and passes the blunt, smoke curling from his lips.
“How many fucking times do I have to tell you idiots?” I say as I approach.
Don’s face doesn’t betray anything as the last of the smoke leads his mouth. “What’s that, boss?”
“Quit smoking weed out front. Y’all look like fucking hoodlums.”
“We are hoodlums,” this skinny, tall dude with bright eyes says.
“You don’t have to look the part.” I snatch the blunt from his fingers, too fast for him to pull away, and suck in a nice hit. I let it out as I hand it back to Don, who laughs and stubs it out.
The skinny guy, this kid named Vinny, scowls at me. “I don’t get what the problem is. You’re a fucking weed place, man.”
“I know what we are,” I say to the kid. He’s barely eighteen, with acne scars on one cheek and a nasty black eye from falling while trying to land a ten-stair kickflip a couple days ago. “But weed’s legal now, so we have to try and act like it. I mean, shit, half my customers are soccer moms and bored dads. I don’t want you idiots scaring them away.”
“No problem,” Don says, nodding and grinning the way he does. “We got you, boss.”
I let out a sigh. It’s hard to be pissed at Don, considering he’s the future of this whole fucking town.
I take out that stack of twenties and thrust them at him. His eyes go a little wide. “For a camera,” I say.
“Why?”
“Heard Shrink dropped one.”
Don frowns a little and glances at Vinny. Clearly I wasn’t supposed to hear about it.
“I’m not mad,” I add. “Just buy a new camera. I get that shit happens. Tell Shrink if he breaks another one, he’s paying for it.”
Don’s grin comes back and he takes the money. “Yeah, boss, I got you.”
“Good.” I take a breath and let it out. “Decent day. You trying the ten gap again, Vinny?”
“Fuck yeah, I am,” he says, nodding, his eyes a little blazed.
“Good.” I look back at Don. “Make sure you hit it too, and get it on fucking tape.”
“Sure, okay. I got you.”
I sigh again and nod, knocking him on the shoulder. That’s pretty much all Don ever says, but it’s all he needs to say.
The guy’s a five-foot-four Vietnamese kid, nineteen as of last week, and he’s the best damn skater in the whole fucking state. He’s fearless with foot skills I’ve never seen before and the ability to get up on railings most guys wouldn’t even bother with. I once watched him hold a manual for five minutes, his front wheels in the air as he balanced himself perfectly, guiding the board down hills and around obstacles.
I turn away from the two kids and head back toward Half Pipe. I’ve been trying to get a decent video of Don for months now, but every time we get some footage, something goes wrong. Either they don’t get Don doing some amazing trick, or someone drops a camera, or Don gets hurt and can’t ride for a few weeks. I’ve only managed to put up a few short clips on YouTube, which are getting a lot of love, but he deserves better.
As I head back inside, something catches my eye. It’s a body, huddled up against the side wall of the Half Pipe, a duffel bag at its feet. I step around the corner, ready to tell the bum to fuck off, but my anger dies in my throat.
The girl looks up at me with beautiful green eyes, her thick raven hair spilling down along her shoulders. Her lips are full and frowning as I notice the bruise.
Black, I think as she cocks her head at me.
“Lizzie?”
Her frowns changes into a slight smile. “I didn’t think you’d recognize me.”
Of course I would, I want to say, but I swallow that. Of course I’d recognize the fucking gorgeous little sister of my best friend. The last time I saw her was almost two years ago, her gorgeous, tight little ass practically shining in the high afternoon sun. Ezra told me to stop staring, we were just there to say hey. She rolled over onto her back and arched an eyebrow at me, her friends all pretending like they didn’t recognize me. Ezra bent down and said something to her, but I wasn’t listening. I was too busy staring at her, trying to figure out how Ezra’s awkwardly pretty little sister turned into that gorgeous fucking woman.
That was two years ago. I was twenty-three and she was eighteen. I heard about the accident, happened not long after I saw her. She hasn’t been around since.
“I recognize you,” I finally say. “You waiting for Ezra?”
She nods a little. “Yeah. He said… I could call.”
I stare at her and she falters under my gaze, hugging her knees a little tighter against her chest. The memory of the day Ezra got kicked out of his house comes back at me. She was just fifteen the day her asshole stepfather Royal punched Ezra in the face and slammed his head against the wall. That was the day Ezra left and never looked back, and I went with him. He told her that if he ever touched her, she could come to him, or at least that’s what he told me in the Jeep as we drove off.
And now here she is, black eye and a duffel bag.
Fucking shit.
“Come on,” I say, bending over to grab her bag.
Her hand shoots out. It latches on to my wrist and pushes it away. I’m surprised as she leans forward defensively snatching her bag and getting to her feet.
“I’m fine,” she says quickly, slinging the strap over her shoulder.
I hesitate a second. I was just trying to be nice, but I can see the hint of wildness in her eyes, the fear and the anger, and a little bit of something else. Something wounded, something broken.
I decide to let it go. “Come on,” I say again, leading her inside.
I set her up in the front shop and tell Jane to make her whatever she wants. “Aye, aye,” Jane says, the tiny blonde girl saluting me like a sailor.
“Be nice to her,” I warn. “That’s Ezra’s sister.”
Jane pauses. “Seriously?” she asks.
“Seriously. See the resemblance?”
“Not at all.”
I grin at her. Where Ezra’s tall, blond, and muscular, Lizzie is thin, pale, and dark.
“Different dads,” I say. “Now be nice.”
“Got it.” She sucks in a breath. “Hell of a shiner.”
“Be nice,” I say again, walking away, back toward the office. Half Pipe is split into two halves: the front is a coffee shop, and the back is a weed distributor. My office is right in the middle, between the two halves. I push open the “Employees Only” door and shut it behind
me, sighing as I sit down in my chair.
I pull my phone from my pocket and stare at it for a second. I know I need to call him, but something’s making me pause. Ezra’s been off lately, and I’m not so sure he has the ability to handle something like his broken little sister showing up at his weed place with a black eye. I’m afraid he’ll go fucking ballistic and risk losing everything we’ve built.
Ezra’s my partner. We went into business, fifty-fifty, on the day he left home. We sold weed for the most part, back before it was legal, but we also got into the skate scene. Ezra’s good, almost good enough to go pro, but mostly he just got every skater in the San Diego area to buy their pot from us. Business boomed for years, and we managed to stash a ton of cash away for a rainy day.
Then they legalized weed, and we decided to go legit. We took every single dollar we had, not even bothering to try and launder it, and opened up Half Pipe. That was six months ago, and so far we’re making more money than we could possibly deal with. That safe with fifty grand? Just one of five others like it, each packed with money.
The look Lizzie gave me outside as she snatched her duffel away comes back to me, angry and haunted. She’s fucking beautiful, not at all like all the tanned, boring, perfect surfer girls that plague every goddamn California city, but I can’t think with my fucking cock right now. The girl needs her brother. The last thing she needs is my dumb ass, fucking her up even more than she already is.
I dial his number and he answers on the third ring. “What up, man?”
“Ezra, it’s your sister.”
He hesitates. “Lizzie?”
“Yeah,” I grunt, wondering if he has another sister.
“What’s wrong?”
“She showed up with a packed bag and a black eye.”
He’s quiet for a second. He knows what that means, better than anyone else.
“I’ll be there soon,” he says finally. “I got some business, but I’ll be there soon.”
I don’t bother asking what he means by “business.” He’s been doing a lot of business lately without me, and I’ve been turning a blind eye to it. I got enough on my plate with running Half Pipe and trying to get Don signed. I don’t need whatever insane scheme Ezra’s cooked up now.
I remember the time when we were only seventeen and he found a box full of old dirty porn mags behind a dumpster. They were seventies rags, the sort of shit nobody was into anymore, big fat bushes and weird outfits, but he ripped all the good pictures out and tried selling them to local kids. He ended up getting caught and had to scuttle the whole damn box while running from a pissed off mom that threatened to tear his little pecker off.
He’s always doing shit like that. Sometimes it works out, like with Half Pipe. But mostly he just gets people threatening to rip off his dick.
“I’ll be there soon,” he repeats, and hangs up the phone.
I sigh and toss my phone onto a stack of papers. I lean back in my chair and squeeze my eyes shut, thinking about Lizzie in the other room. I try not to picture her the way she was two years ago, fucking fit and gorgeous and looking so goddamn bored. I wanted to fuck a smile onto her, and I know I could. She’s probably never felt dick like mine, not from the douchebags she went out with in high school. She was too damn hot not to have the frat boys all over her, and I guess she was into it, judging by the morons she was with that day.
But goddamn, she looked so out of place, somehow older and more refined. I wanted to pull her away and show her how to really have fun, but of course I didn’t. When Ezra was done with their conversation, we left, and I didn’t look back.
Now she’s here, in the flesh. She looks just as beautiful as she did that day, but with an edge, like she might scream if you brush against her shoulder.
I know she’s not my problem. Fuck, she doesn’t want me to be her problem. But she’s there in the other room and I keep thinking about that bored expression, and how fucking sexy it was.
Doesn’t matter. That girl’s gone, and the girl in my shop’s totally off limits, at least for now. Let Ezra deal with her. I’ll be good, get some damn paperwork done.
But as soon as I start trying to concentrate on budgets and shit, I get the distinct impression that this thing with Lizzie is very far from over.
2
Lizzie
For two years, I’ve barely left my room, and now I’m sitting in a crowded coffee shop attached to a weed store waiting for the older brother I barely know to swoop in and rescue me.
I feel pathetic. Maybe I am pathetic, I don’t know. I rub my right thigh instinctually, trying to knead out the pain I know will be there sooner or later. I can barely walk for ten minutes without limping, and I can’t go through a whole day without at least a little bit of pain.
That’s been my life, ever since the accident, one painful day after another. It’s gotten easier, or maybe I’ve gotten better at tolerating it, I don’t know. Two years is a long time to live with suffering, but it’s amazing how quickly people can adapt to all sorts of atrocity.
Even a pathetic, broken, wounded little bird like me. Those are the words Royal used, anyway, right before he punched me in the face, sneering like the drunk bastard he is.
I have to clench the table to keep from crying out. I’m in public, I remind myself. I can’t freak out right now. Rein it in, Lizzie.
The little blonde barista girl comes over to my table, leaning against the chair across from me. “You sure you don’t want anything, honey?” she asks, blinking and smiling real sweet. I detect a slight southern accent but I’m pretty sure she’s trying to get rid of it.
“I’m okay, thanks,” I say softly.
“You just look tense, is all.” She hesitates then leans toward me, grinning. “I can get you something, you know, a little edible. Calm you right down.”
I shake my head quickly. “No, really. I’m fine. I just want to see Ezra.
“He’s coming,” she says, nodding. “But if you change your mind, let me know.” She hesitates a second. “Oh, and don’t mention the edible to him, okay? We’re not supposed to mix the two businesses. At least not openly.” She grins, winks, and goes back behind the counter again to take a guy in a three-piece suit’s order.
I watch her move around, effortlessly filling a drink and taking change and smiling like nothing hurts at all. Meanwhile, here I am sitting in a chair, knees pulled up defensively, and I can’t even breathe without thinking I might pass out soon.
Pathetic, wounded little bird.
I look around the coffee shop, at the guys in the short shorts and long hair tied back into buns and I feel like I’ve missed ten years instead of just two. I rub my thigh absently again as Jane returns with a tea I didn’t ask for. “Just in case,” she says with a wink.
I sigh. I don’t know what I did to deserve this. I try and shield my black eye from her, but it’s impossible. I feel like people are staring at me, the girl that fell from the face of the earth, suddenly back and bruised all over again. I sip the tea, and it’s not half bad. I try to curl into myself, but it’s not possible.
“You look like shit.”
I glance up at Jonas. He hovers over my table, face impassive but intense, gray-blue morning oceans.
“Thanks,” I say, glaring at him. “Like I didn’t know already.”
He pulls out the chair and sits down. I didn’t ask him to sit but I guess it doesn’t matter. He owns this place, along with my brother, the guy I’ve barely spoken to since he left home five years ago.
He made me a promise back then, a promise I’ve thought about over and over. Now I’m here to see if his promise meant anything, or if he’s as full of shit as my whole family is.
Jonas stretches his legs and I can’t help but glance at him out of the corner of my eyes. I let my hair fall into my face, trying to hide how I’m staring, but I know I’m failing miserably. He’s one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen in my life, even more attractive than he was back when we were younger. His hair�
�s short now, faded up along the sides and back but longer on top, combed aside haphazardly. Anyone else might look sloppy, but Jonas easily pulls it off.
“Wanna talk about it?” he asks.
I shake my head quickly. “Not at all.”
“Good,” he grunts.
“Did you just come over here to insult me or what?”
“Came over to make sure you weren’t scaring away my customers.”
I glare again, turning my face directly toward him. “I’m not scaring anyone. It’s just a black eye, okay?”
“Not the black eye that concerns me.” He looks at his fingernails like he’s bored. “It’s that sad pony look you got.”
“Sad pony?”
He shrugs. “You know what I mean. Wounded bird, puppy dog eyes, whatever. You look like you’re about to cry or punch someone.”
“Maybe both, if you keep this up.”
He looks up at me, still not smiling, but his morning ocean eyes lock onto mine. “I’d rather you slapped me than cried, if I had a choice.”
I don’t say anything for a second. I’m honestly not sure how to take that. I can’t tell if he just doesn’t feel like dealing with a crying girl, or if he doesn’t want to see me crying specifically. Doesn’t matter either way, to be honest. Jonas isn’t the kind of guy that’s going to make me feel better right now, and I think we both know it. That’s why he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than here.
And I can’t blame him. Who wants to have to deal with my crap? It’s the same, over and over again. Same mistakes, same tragedies. You’d think I’d learn, but no, I never learn. I’m a lot like my mom, I guess, more than I want to admit anyway.
I can still see the way she looked at me, both disgusted and regretful. ”You think this is what I wanted?” she said to me. “You think I wanted to end up like this?”