The Last Word

by Everly Lucas

  Mom’s on the other end of the sofa, motionless, wearing the same yoga pants and stained t-shirt she wore yesterday…and the day before that. Her stringy hair is slick with a buildup of oil. She stares at the TV with unblinking eyes, while a half-smoked cigarette rests on the edge of the ceramic ashtray Danny made in his fifth-grade art class. I stopped asking her to smoke outside a long time ago.

  Dad’s out back, as usual, working on the same decrepit Pontiac he’s tinkered with since I was a sophomore. He’d “rescued” it from the junk yard, hauling it to our house on a trailer fixed to the back of Danny’s truck. The rusted piece of shit hasn’t touched the road since. But it gives Dad something to do, at least.

  I’m sure the beer-filled fridge in the garage has nothing to do with him spending so much time out there.

  And Danny is… Danny’s out. Somewhere. I don’t ask, anymore, because I never like the answer.

  I watch my mom for a minute, and in that time, the only part of her body that moves is her chest as she breathes. She’s been in this semi-catatonic state since she lost her job last year, after too many unexcused absences and several written warnings.

  She and Dad are both on disability, now. These days, we live off their Social Security checks and whatever money I can bring in, but it never seems to be enough. Hence the naked hot dogs. Buns are a luxury.

  I’m still buzzing with energy, wide awake, and I don’t want to be the only one. Just for a second, I want my mom to show some kind of emotion. Anything will do. And I know just what to say to bring it out of her. “I saw Van today.”

  I won’t tell her he’s in my class. She and Dad would lock me in my room for the rest of the week if they knew. But those four words are enough to do the trick.

  Her head jerks in my direction so fast, I’m surprised her neck doesn’t snap. Her eyes—the same color green as mine—bulge out of their sockets, and her face transforms from colorless to an unhealthy shade of red in the span of a millisecond. “What did you say?”

  “I said, I saw V—”

  “I heard you the first time.” Lifting her cigarette from its tray and tapping off the trail of ash, she holds it to her puckered mouth with a shaky hand. “I’m surprised he’s not back in prison. Once a criminal, always a criminal.”

  I don’t respond to that. In general, I believe in rehabilitation, that everyone deserves a chance to do better, to be better. I’ve just had trouble applying that belief to Van Woods.

  “I never should’ve let that boy into my home.”

  “Mom, come on, I know you don’t mean that. He didn’t have anyone else back then.” I wonder if he has anyone now.

  She rolls her eyes, snickering at me. “Oh, all of a sudden you’re defending him? After what he did to this family?” She takes another drag off her cigarette. “He didn’t try to talk to you, did he?”

  “N—no,” I lie. “I don’t think he even saw me.”

  Nodding, she sinks back into her spot on the couch. “Good. With the way he panted after you in high school, there’s no telling what he’d try, now.”

  My mind flashes back to high school and one of those extra-vivid memories of him, when he told me, “I see you that way, Erin. I have for a long time.” Even now, my heart hurts to think about all the time we’d wasted. All those years we could’ve been together, loving each other. In the end, all we had were thirty passionate minutes on a freaking jungle gym.

  “You don’t have to worry about that, Mom. I’m sure I’ll never see him again.”

  “Good.” She stamps out the butt in the center of the ashtray. “God, if it’d been me, I would’ve killed him with my bare hands. This is all his fault,” she says, waving her hand, gesturing at everything around us. Decrepit furniture we can’t afford to replace. The three-year-old brown stain in the dining room carpet, from when Danny insisted he could cut his own food and ended up losing his grip on the knife. The chilling silence of a home that used to be full of warmth and laughter.

  The urge to defend Van bubbles up from God-knows-where inside me. Yes, Van driving drunk did massive, irreparable damage to this family. But even before then, Dad drank too much, Mom wasn’t happy, and Danny… In hindsight, that wheel was already in motion. Maybe he would’ve ended up killing it at college, graduating last spring and making a name for himself at some company. Just as likely, he would’ve ended up right where he is now.

  But I need someone to blame who isn’t a member of my family, someone I don’t have to look at and interact with every damn day. I need it. And Van is far from blameless, so why not heap all the responsibility on him? He gives me someone to hate, somewhere to direct all the anger and resentment eating away at my soul.

  But as much as I’d love to deny it, the damage is done. I’ve spent too much time with Van these past two days, rediscovering, little by little, who he is instead of the villain I’d painted him as. No matter how hard I fight it, my perception of him has started to shift, and I know—I just know—it’s shifted for good.

  Eight

  Seeing Erin this morning was just as shocking as when she walked in that first day. After she slapped me last night, I watched her turn and leave the bar, soaking up the sight of her, thinking I’d never see her again.

  I fucked up, pushed her too far. Yeah, I wanted to rile her up, but I didn’t mean to set her off like that.

  I was sure she’d had enough of me, that she couldn’t stomach being near me for one more second. But she’s spent the past eight hours two feet away from me, not throwing me dirty looks or cursing me under her breath. She's back to giving me the silent treatment, but the atmosphere between us has changed. The hostility is missing.

  Maybe she’s trying a new tactic, pretending I don’t exist. I don’t think I could handle that. I’d rather she slap me, scream at me, and rip me apart than ignore me.

  Fuck it. I’ll find a way to force her to acknowledge me. I might get my ass handed to me in front of all these people—again—but I’m good with that. It’s not as if I give a shit what they think of me. Erin’s opinion is the only one that matters.

  Greg has us mixing Long Island Iced Teas with fake well liquor. Using the free-pour technique he taught us, I hold each bottle upside down over a highball glass and count to three, measuring out three-quarters of an ounce of vodka, gin, rum, triple sec, and…not tequila, apparently. That bottle is empty.

  I could easily ask the girl to my left, but I turn the other way, tuck my thumbs in the front pockets of my jeans, and tip my head at Erin’s row of bottles. “Can I borrow your tequila real quick?”

  I’m hoping for another blowup—some sign she still gives a shit. I’m even prepared for more stone-cold silence, but she shocks me, meeting my eyes as she passes her bottle to me. She looks at me with, I don’t know…not anger. Not disgust. Whatever it is, this is the first I’ve seen it from her in a long time. It trips me up so bad, I forget to say thanks.

  She focuses back on mixing her cocktail. “I’d apologize for making you look like a pussy in front of everyone last night, but I’m not sorry. That was too damn fun for me.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Fuck. Why the hell did I say that? And why did I have to sound all Barry White with it?

  Maybe because sparring with Erin did it for me in a way nothing else ever has. I stroked my dick as soon as I got home last night, getting off on the sting I still felt on my cheek and the memory of the heat in her glare. I’ve never been into any freaky shit, but unfiltered, undiluted, uncensored Erin Kenny is, without a doubt, my new kink.

  Her eyes widen and she blushes, but she smiles. She fucking smiles.

  What reality am I living in? Because it sure as hell isn’t the same one as yesterday.

  When Greg announces the end of class, instructing us to clean up and get the hell out of here, Erin dumps the contents of her highball glass in the sink and washes it before grabbing a rag and wiping down her station. I figure my time with her is up, but she hesitates. “Yeah, well…I think I got th
e slapping stuff out of my system. I’m not usually so violent.”

  I bust out laughing—full and booming and not at all forced. I haven’t laughed like this since before the night of the crash, and I haven’t felt like myself until right this second. That core, essential part of Erin I told her she never lost—maybe I have something like that, too. Maybe it was hiding out, waiting for Erin…waiting for the biggest pile of bullshit to ever come out her mouth.

  “You? Not violent? Do you not remember high school? Your fists were fucking legend.”

  “Oh, come on. I wasn’t as bad as all that.”

  “You took down more people than the wrestling team.”

  A corner of her lips curves up in a sexy smirk. “Yeah, well, that’s because they sucked.”

  “Truth.” Finished with my cleanup, I lean my hip against the counter that runs along the wall behind the bar.

  Erin and I hang back as Greg heads to his office and everyone else leaves for the day. On their way out, they all watch us with wide eyes and dropped jaws. Last they saw, Erin was at my throat, and now we’re teasing each other. In a playful kind of way. Honestly, I’m as confused as they are.

  Neither of us moves from our spots. Erin messes with some tools at her station, reorganizing them for no good reason. “You had a reputation, too, you know.”

  Oh, I know. But I bite my tongue, wanting to hear her say it. “You’ll have to refresh my memory.”

  She throws me a hard glare, fully aware I’m playing with her. “You know exactly what your rep was.” When I don’t relent, she huffs out a frustrated breath. “You were…you know…a total slut.”

  Holy shit. This girl slays me.

  I double over at the waist, laughing hard enough to give my abs a good workout. Erin kicks my shin—not violent, my ass—and I crouch down to rub it. As I straighten, I wipe tears from my eyes. My grin won’t let up, and my cheeks burn from smiling so wide. Those are muscles I haven’t exercised in way too long.

  “Laugh it up, whore.” Erin snatches her wet rag off the bar, holding it at both ends and twirling the middle. “Seriously, though. Was there a girl in our school you didn’t fuck? Besides me, that is.”

  As soon as she asks the question, she bites her bottom lip, like she’s trying to trap in the words a second too late. Her brows twitch, tensing at the middle.

  This is vulnerable Erin. If I hadn’t seen this side of her before, I wouldn’t recognize the signs. But they were there up in that tree, with the Rottweiler snarling and snapping up at us from the sidewalk. And they were there on the steps of the jungle gym on prom night, right after she kissed me not knowing how I’d react.

  I might have missed the last four years of her life, but I’d bet everything I own I’m still the only person who’s seen her like this. Even so, she doesn’t let her vulnerability show for long before she fixes her face, rearranging her eyebrows and tight lips into a mocking, “gotcha” expression.

  I stroke the coarse stubble on my chin, pretending to give her rhetorical question some serious consideration. “Hm… Let me think.”

  Lightning-quick, she releases one end of the dish rag, whipping the tightly twirled towel at my stomach. I barely feel it, but the blow hits its mark with a loud thwack.

  Just as fast, my fingers wrap around the rag, gripping it and tugging hard. Erin squeaks and stumbles two steps closer to me. Her gaze shifts to her right, and I follow it to the water gun parked in its holster on the bar. We race to see who can reach it first, and she beats me by a millisecond. Aiming high up on my chest, she pulls the trigger, soaking my t-shirt…then points the gun below my waist and fires.

  “Oh, that does it.” My hand flies out and steals the gun, turning it on her and giving her a head-to-toe shower.

  Water pools at her feet, and when she charges at me, hands out, trying to block the continuous stream, she slips and lands on her ass. Her back hits the floor next, then her head. After letting out an “oof,” she goes quiet.

  Falling to my knees on the wet tile, I lean over her. I brace myself on one hand, pushing damp strands of hair from her forehead with the other. “Erin… Erin, baby, are you okay?”

  She blinks once. Twice. Looking lost for a minute before she loses it, laughing hard, right in my face.

  Shaking my head at her—and secretly thanking the good Lord that Erin didn’t crush my nuts for calling her “baby”—I stand, taking one of her hands to help her up.

  Once she’s on her feet, her laughter dies quick—I haven’t let go of her hand, and I don’t fucking plan to. She backs up until her ass hits the sink behind the bar, and I follow her, stopping only when my body is as close to hers as it can get without making contact.

  Her jaw is locked tight, and her breaths come hard and fast through her nose. She gasps when I lean into her, positioning my lips in front of hers. It’s the sexiest fucking sound I’ve ever heard. Even sweeter is the fact that she hasn’t pushed me away or tried to move or even flinched. She’d let me kiss her right now, I just know it. But she’d end up regretting it.

  So would I.

  Besides, that’s not my mission, even if I am getting a kick out of teasing her like this.

  Instead, I cup her jaw and tilt her head to the side, getting a look at the back of it to check for blood. Seeing none, I turn her back to face me. Without releasing her hand or jaw, I tell her, “The only reason I ever fucked those other girls was because I couldn’t have you. And I don’t give a shit if it makes me an asshole, but every time I was with one of them, I imagined I was inside you. Making you come. Hearing you scream my name. You were it for me, baby. There was never anyone else.”

  I shouldn’t have told her any of that. Ever. Sharing that secret wasn’t fair to either of us, since we can’t change the past, and I still can’t have her. But I can’t bring myself to be sorry for saying it.

  A hot, red flush creeps up her neck, reddens her cheeks, and ignites her green eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised if steam started rising from the water trickling in long, slow drops over her skin.

  When she speaks, her breath is hot and sweet against my lips. “I hate you,” she hisses, her voice trembling and cracking on the second word.

  In my gut, I know she doesn’t mean it. She doesn’t hate me, not anymore. But as certain as I am about this, I’m just as certain that she wants to hate me. Maybe she even needs to.

  I need it, too. Without that roadblock between us, I’ll be short one crucial reason for keeping my distance. As it is—with my hands on her body and her resolve so breakable—I’m already losing sight of why any of the reasons still matter.

  So I force myself to remember them—the crash, the lies, my shattered dreams and bleak future. I refuse to let her into my life and risk dragging her down with me.

  My fool heart, which was close to throwing itself at her feet, sinks back into my chest. Backing off, I give her space to walk away. And she does.

  Clothes wet and plastered to her body, she grabs her bag and storms out. But no matter what she says, no matter how fast she runs from me, I know…I haven’t seen the last of Erin Kenny.

  Nine

  Finding Greg in the back office, I ask for a mop to clean up the mess from the water-gun fight before I call it a day.

  Stepping out into a thick wall of heat and humidity, I make the sharp left onto Baker Street, stopping short when I see Erin perched on the stone wall lining the sidewalk.

  She’s turned sideways, facing away from me, with her left leg bent and her foot propped on the wall. Her fingers work at the straps of her sandal, carefully undoing each one before slipping it off. Her ankle is red and swollen to almost the size of her calf.

  I rush to her side. “Shit, Erin, wh—”

  “I’m not talking to you.”

  God, she’s stubborn. “Fine. You can not-talk all you want. I’m gonna go see if Greg has a first-aid kit.”

  That gets her attention, and she looks up at me through the wetness in her bloodshot eyes. “Wait, no. I don’t want
him thinking I might sue or something. This was my fault, not his.”

  And this, right here, is one of the many reasons I love this woman. Erin Kenny might throw the first and hardest punch, but she won’t hit someone who doesn’t deserve it. She’s like a noble superhero, defending the weak and standing up for what’s right, ready to throw down in the name of justice. She’s ruled by her heart and her conscience.

  “It was our fault,” I correct her. “And I’ll tell him this happened up the block.”

  In the middle of massaging her ankle, she presses too hard on the joint. She hisses, then groans and drops her forehead to her knee. “Fine. But I’m still not talking to you.”

  Clearly.

  Five minutes later, I’m back with an ACE bandage and a small foil packet of Advil. I crouch down in front of her, facing the street. “Okay, climb on.”

  She sputters, “I—I’m sorry, what?”

  Glancing over my shoulder, I send her a wink, just to piss her off. “You heard me.”

  “Uh. No.” Her head swivels left to right and back again.

  “You want to walk?” I stand, step back, and sweep my arm across the cracked sidewalk. “Be my guest.”

  Maintaining her patented obstinance, she sets her left foot on the cement paver and sucks in a sharp breath, that small amount of pressure tightening her features. She rises, keeping as much weight as possible off the bad foot. Hands on her hips, she lifts an eyebrow like she just proved some kind of point. “See? I’m fine. Suck it, Woods.”

  She should really think twice before handing out an invitation like that to a guy who’d love to accept it.

  Not bothering with subtlety, I check out that body of hers for the hundredth time since this damn class started. There isn’t an inch of skin on Erin Kenny I’m not dying to suck. The inside of her wrist. Those perky tits. The soft spot between her neck and shoulder, with my nose buried in her curls, surrounded by the scent of her shampoo. Her inner thighs as I work my way closer to the wet warmth between them, her fingernails clawing at the back of my head as she begs me over and over to “suck it.”