by B. B. Hamel
Might as well try not to disappoint my fans.
“Are you talking about me or the flowers?” Her smile turns a little mischievous and I get a glimpse of the Lizzie I remember from when she was younger. Funny and immature but whip-smart and quick with a dig.
“I’m definitely talking about you, little rose,” I say.
“Rose?” She arches another eyebrow at me.
“Pretty and thorny. Quick to bite.”
She laughs. “So you do think I’m pretty.”
“Careful. We’ll be living together for a while.”
Her laugh is bitter like ice in black coffee. “Not like that ever bothered me before.”
I raise an eyebrow, mind reeling for a second. “Royal, did that fucking bastard ever…?” I trail off as she laughs, shaking her head.
“God, no,” she says. “Royal never, ever touched me.” She pauses for a second, fingers coming to her black eye. “At least not like that. No, I was thinking about mom’s boyfriends.”
“Boyfriends,” I say.
“You know, the young guys she fucks around with when Royal pretends he isn’t looking. Or when he’s too drunk to care.”
“I hear something along those lines.” I keep my face straight, trying not to pity the poor girl. Fact is, her mom has a pretty horrendous reputation for sleeping with any guy under the age of eighteen. I hear she hires them to clean her pool then takes their virginity, which is the most fucking cliché thing imaginable. I figured it was all bullshit, although even Ezra admitted once that there may be some truth to it. Now though, I’m pretty sure most of that insane shit I heard about probably really did happen.
“Come inside,” I say. “You hungry?”
“Why does everyone always ask me that?” she grumbles as she climbs to her feet. I help her the rest of the way, my hand lingering on hers as we step in through the patio door. I slide it shut behind us and head into the kitchen, Lizzie shambling along behind me, blanket trailing along the floor like a skirt.
I pull out some eggs, some spinach, a little cheese, and some red peppers I chopped up but didn’t use last night. “You eat eggs?” I ask, cracking one into a bowl.
“I guess so,” she says, sitting down at the counter and leaning forward on her elbows. The blanket falls down around her shoulders and I glance at the low-cut tank top she’s wearing, her breasts pressed together, white and full and fucking beautiful, better than my plants.
I look away quickly, willing my cock not to get hard. I crack another egg, mix them up, get a pan nice and hot, add a little pat of butter, and start the omelet. When it sets slightly, I add cheese, spinach, and the red peppers before flipping and letting it cook.
When the cheese melts, I put it on a plate, give her a fork, a knife, and a napkin, before grabbing a beer from the refrigerator for myself.
“People always want to feed me,” she says.
“You’re skinny,” I note.
“I’m not that skinny.” She frowns, taking a bite. That bite turns into another, and soon she’s wolfing it down.
I smile and watch. “Slow down,” I say. “You’re not that hungry, remember?”
“I didn’t say that,” she answers, mouth full. “I said everyone tries to feed me. I’m always hungry.”
I laugh, taking a long pull of beer.
“Your mom cook?”
She snorts. “Never. We had a cook named Yolanda for a while, she was amazing, but my mom thought she stole some silverware so she fired her.”
I shake my head, unable to stop myself from smiling. Another suburban rich lady cliché. “You stopped eating after that?”
“Nah,” she says. “Just went out a lot.”
“You can’t cook?”
“I can make ramen,” she says defensively. “The good kind, I mean.”
“Oh, fancy,” I say, smirking. I take another quick pull on my beer as she finishes her dinner. “You’ll have to make it for me sometime.”
“All I need are the packets, some water, and a microwave.” She grins huge at me, and I laugh.
“Real fancy,” I lean up against the counter and it’s strange how relaxed I feel. Normally I have to smoke a whole joint to get to this place, but tonight I didn’t even bother finishing half before I stubbed it out and balanced it on a pot outside. For some reason, I don’t feel the need to be stoned around Lizzie.
“I like your place,” she says. “I’m guessing you put it all together.”
“Most of it,” I admit.
“I saw Ezra’s room. It’s a mess. He was like that as a kid.”
“Annoys the hell out of me,” I admit.
“You’re full of surprises.”
I sigh, smirking a little as I sip my beer again. “You think I should live in a crack den then?”
“Probably,” she says, shrugging, face betraying nothing. “I mean, you are a drug dealer, right?”
I wince a little. I’ve been called worse, much worse. Fuck, I think of myself as a thug and a druggie, so what’s the problem with her thinking it too? But for some reason, hearing it come out of her mouth hurts.
“I sell weed legally,” I say. “Not a dealer.”
“Not anymore.”
I laugh a little. “You’re tough.”
“I have to be.” She motions at the black eye. “It’s how I got this.”
“Yeah, well, drug dealers can be neat and stylish, too.”
She nods a little bit, eyes roaming the tattoos snaking up along my arms. I let her get a good look before returning the favor, eyes lingering on her chest. She catches me staring and I don’t try to hide it. She blushes and looks away.
“You should be happy,” I say. “If this were Ezra’s place, you’d be sleeping on empty pizza boxes on an air mattress. At least now you have a comfortable couch.”
“Good point,” she says, sighing.
“Why were you out on the patio, anyway?”
Hesitation. It’s written all over her. She doesn’t want to tell me why she was out there, and I can tell I hit a nerve.
“No reason,” she says. “Just fell asleep.”
She’s lying, it’s obvious, but I don’t push. “I don’t blame you. Nice out there after the sun goes down.”
“Yeah,” she says. “Really nice.”
We watch each other and I marvel at how different she is, but also how much she’s stayed the same. I think about myself back then, back when I spent time at her house with her fucked-up stepdad and her fucked-up mom, and I can’t picture the guy I was. Drug dealer, burnout, asshole, thug, playboy, I was all that and more. Now I’m a legit businessman, but it’s hard to shake the reputation.
I want to ask her how she ended up here, how she got through what happened. I heard about the accident, I think everyone in San Diego heard about it. Poor girl, poor wounded girl, that’s what everyone said. Ezra stayed mostly quiet, and as far as I know, he never once visited her in the hospital. I thought it was fucked up at the time. I guess I still do.
I don’t get the chance though. The door opens and Ezra storms in, looking even more manic than usual as he throws his keys down in a dish.
“Sister!” he calls out. “Sister!”
I sigh and give her a strained smile as I slip out of the kitchen. Ezra comes rolling in, laughing and chatting like a madman, and it’s so obvious that he’s on fucking drugs that I can’t imagine she doesn’t notice. But she doesn’t say anything either, just goes along with his stupidity.
I sneak away. I don’t want to deal with Ezra when he’s high. Let Lizzie take that bullet. It’ll be how she pays her part of the rent.
I head into my room and find an old half-smoked blunt tucked into my sock drawer. I lie down on top of my comforter and light it, pulling in the old, dry weed. It’s rough and I cough, but it’s better than nothing.
If I don’t smoke this shit now and pass out soon, I’m afraid I’ll end up sneaking out into the living room in the middle of the night and do something stupid.
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