by Elle Casey
I really want to tell her to take her apartment and shove it up her fat, wrinkly butt, but I can’t. Rebel’s place is just a stop-gap measure, not a permanent solution. I can’t keep living next to my boss while I feel this way about him. It seems way too much like stalking for comfort.
“Whatever,” I say, blowing her off and accepting my temporary defeat. “I’m here to fix the door. I’ll do the wall another day.”
“You’re going to need tools,” she says.
I hold back my reply and go into the apartment, leaving the door hanging open. Slamming it in her face like I want to will probably only earn me some eviction papers.
“You still owe the rest of the rent,” she says from outside the door.
I ignore her and my urge to punch a brand-new hole in the wall, gathering up the rest of my things that didn’t make it into Rebel’s box collection and putting them in the corner. I can’t fix my door with her standing right there. I’m liable to put a nail through her eyeball if she’s too close.
She finally gives up on harassing me and leaves. I wait until I can’t hear her gasping for air and wheezing out phlegm before leaving my apartment and going down to Julio’s place. His mom is there and after a complicated game of charades and some truly awful Spanish, I have their family toolbox in hand. Less than a minute later, I’m happily banging nails into anything that moves.
That’s where Rebel finds me when he shows up with a pizza box in hand.
“Hey,” I say, banging the fiftieth nail into the doorframe, proud that I’m not shaking, sweating, or wanting to pee at the mere sight of him. The splintered wood is almost fully metal now, thanks to my handiwork, and I’m feeling truly badass over it.
“Hey,” he says, admiring my mad construction skills. “Hungry?”
Until he showed up, my answer would have been no. Now, I’m drooling, and I’m not sure if it’s the pizza or him that’s causing my reaction. “Sure.” I lean over and open the top of the box to peek inside. “Pepperoni. Classic.”
He walks in behind me and I hold my breath until he’s passed. He puts the box down on the sink and reaches into his pocket. “Is there a soda machine around here?”
“Maybe in the gas station on the corner,” I say.
“Be right back.” He leaves me there with his pizza and a heart full of confusion, change jingling in his hand.
He brought me dinner. He’s getting me a soda. What does this mean? Nothing. It means absolutely nothing. He’s just a good samaritan and I’m a charity case. I take deep breaths to calm myself out of any delusionary thoughts.
I hammer one more nail in while he’s going down the stairs, but as soon as he’s out of sight, I drop the hammer on the floor and race into the bathroom and look in the mirror. It’s pretty much hopeless, but I do my best to fix my hair and remove the smudges of mascara that have built up under my eyes. Maybe this is just charity on his part, but there’s no reason for me to make it painful on him by looking like a bum.
I make sure to be hammering again when he gets back. I’m so slick the way I play off looking cool and collected while inside my stomach is in knots.
He walks in with a six-pack of beer and takes the pizza box, heading over to the futon.
“Don’t sit there!” I shriek, dropping the hammer on my big toe. “Ow, motherfudge … !”
He freezes halfway squatted down. “Why?” He’s frowning at me.
“The sperm.” I bounce around on one foot, holding my bruised toe in my hand while I wince and grunt through the pain.
He stands straight immediately.
Putting my foot down, I take two limping steps in his direction. “I mean … ha ha … not sperm. Did I say sperm? I meant … worms. Yeah, worms. I saw a worm on it the other day, so I don’t want to use it until I fumigate it. De-worm it.”
He blinks at me. Just three movements of his eyelids up and down and I’m full-on confessing again.
I lace my fingers and put them on top of my head, breathing through the pain. “I got the futon from a guy I went to school with and he’s a total d-bag chick-user, so I just assumed that the thing has all kinds of … you know … residue from his life on it.” My hands fall to my sides. So much for being slick. I totally hate myself right now.
“Why’d you take it?”
“Because, number one I was desperate, and number two I didn’t think of the residue problem until my friend Quin mentioned it.” I gesture lamely to the mattress. “I put plastic bags down on it, but they make me sweat and they slide all over the place.” Even better. Tell him how you get all sweaty while you sleep. That’s attractive. I’d bet a box of doughnuts that blonde doesn’t sweat ever.
Rebel puts the pizza back on the sink and the beer on the ground and walks over to a cardboard box. Pulling it apart until it’s flat, he lays it out on the carpet. “Sit.” He gestures towards it as he reaches over and grabs the pizza and drinks.
I walk over and sit down across from him on the box. The pizza and beer go in the middle. I’m nervous, but I’m still able to manage a smile. “Picnic.” I don’t exactly know why he’s here, but I’m not going to look cross-eyed at a free pizza and drinks too.
He separates a slice of the pie and hands it to me. “Eat up before it gets cold.”
I dive into my piece and roll my eyes heavenward at the chewy cheese and garlicky sauce. “Yum. Delicioso.”
“Dino’s. Up the street,” he says between bites.
“I recognize the boxes,” I say, tipping the top closed. “You had quite the collection at the shop.” I take another bite and chew away happily. This could be the best pizza I’ve ever had in my life. No wonder they eat so much of it.
Rebel leans over and I freeze. His thumb comes up and slides across my bottom lip, wiping a blob of sauce off. I nearly have a heart attack when he sticks it in his mouth next. But he goes right back to eating his pizza like he didn’t just rock my world.
Every chew he makes bulges out the sides of his jaw and emphasizes his strong, harsh features. I’m melting in his presence and all we’re doing is eating pizza. My ears are on fire. I’m in so much trouble.
I tap into my massive willpower to keep myself from wiping the sweat off my brow, and make an attempt at casual conversation. “So,” I say, clearing my throat to get the frog out of it, “big plans for tonight?”
He shakes his head, staring at me the whole time.
“Don’t you ever go out?”
“No.”
“Why not? Too tired working two jobs? How come you work at the club, anyway? Aren’t you making enough money at the shop?” I know it’s a personal question, but I have to get my mind off his mouth and his hands and visions of him going out on a date with that girl. Hopefully this distraction will do the trick. Dolph Lundgren has nothing on this man; my former crush is dog meat, the scum in my shower. Rebel is the real deal.
Do not stare at his dick. Look away. Look away! My gaze flicks away from the danger zone and up to the ceiling before settling down to focus on my pizza.
“No. Not too tired. I work at the club to help out a friend once in a while. It’s no big deal. Money doesn’t matter much to me.”
“You’re a nice friend.” After the words leave my mouth I realize that it’s completely true. He’s turned into my friend in a way. I didn’t really ask for it, but I got it anyway, and I’m not unhappy about it. In fact, I’m feeling kind of lucky right now. If I can’t be enjoying sexy time with Dolph Lundgren’s superior who also happens to be my boss, at least I can be his buddy. That’s way better, anyway. Friends stick around a lot longer than guys who get too close, and besides … he already has a girlfriend.
I smile when I realize that for the first time in several days, life does not completely suck. For the first time, I’m breathing easy in his company too.
“Thanks, by the way. For helping me out.” I glance down at the box. “For the pizza. The shower. The hot sexy jumpsuit.”
“Friend,” he says.
I
wait for him to finish what he’s going to say, but I wait in vain. I guess that was the whole thought.
“Friend.” I repeat, thinking I can spark more of a conversation by repeating his words.
“That’s what I am.”
“Well, technically, I guess you’re my boss. But you’re doing a lot more than a boss normally does, I think, so yeah. Friend. You’re my friend.” I rush to finish my thought, worried I’ve assumed too much. “If you want to be.” My heart is going annoyingly fast again. I get the feeling that I’m playing some kind of game, but I don’t know the rules or how to tell if I’m winning or losing. I take a big chug of beer and let out a burp that was supposed to be a lot quieter.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
I’m not expecting this question, so I hesitate in answering.
“Or don’t tell me.” He drains half a bottle of beer in one long group of swallows, and I get a little distracted watching his mouth do its thing. Catching a glimpse of his tongue makes me almost gasp out loud.
Holy shit. My chest and stomach are burning with lust. Think unsexy thoughts! Stella! Armfat! Golden-toothed pawn shop employees! Phew. That was close.
I shake my head and blink really hard a few times to get my brain back on track. “No, it’s not a secret. I’m … uh … from a town called Sunol near Silicon Valley. I lived up in the hills in kind of an isolated area.” There. That took care of it. Think about that place and those people and that’ll get rid of every sexy thought you could ever hope to have.
“You’ve got family there?”
“Not anymore.”
He lifts an eyebrow but says nothing. It makes me feel compelled to explain.
“My step-mother lives there. My father died last week.”
He puts his pizza down and looks at me for a few seconds. Then he leans over and pushes on my knee a couple times. “Sorry. That sucks.”
“Yeah.” I nod my head, not trusting myself to say any more on the subject.
“You get along with her? His wife?”
I shake my head.
“She just left you here, didn’t she?”
I look at the ceiling, willing the tears not to come. They’re threatening though, so I drop my pizza, get up, and go into the bathroom. I run the water and wash my hands for a few seconds until I don’t feel like crying anymore. When I come out, he’s put the pizza box off to the side and he’s working on his third beer.
“Sorry about that,” I say. “I still lose it a little when I think about that stuff.”
“Understandable.”
I sit down across from him and crack open another beer. I’m starting to feel the first one and I’m looking forward to feeling more from the second. Or less, depending on how you look at it. I’m starting to not care what I say or how I say it, and that’s a good thing as far as I’m concerned.
“How long’ve you been in LA?” he asks.
I take another swig of beer. “Almost four years. College.”
He nods.
“How about you?” I ask.
“Been in LA all my life.”
“You must know a lot of people.” I remember Mick saying something like that. I wonder what kind of people they are. If they’re anything like that blonde woman, they’re no one I’d ever hang out with.
He shrugs.
“Tell me about your girlfriend.” My face heats up as I realize what I’ve just said. Very cool. So smooth. Well done, cat-pee.
“What girlfriend?”
“The girl at the club door. At your second job. The blonde.” I’m holding my breath, waiting for the crushing pain of reality to bulldoze me.
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
Joy fills my heart and soul, warming me to my bones. He’s probably understating their situation, considering how she was practically peeing on him to establish her territory, but his explanation is good enough for me. I’m not going to press for details and make him regret saying it to me, either. A change of subject is definitely in order.
“Tell me about your brothers.”
He doesn’t answer right away. It appears as if he’s lost in thought, and I’m beginning to think he’s just not going to respond at all when he finally starts talking.
“Mick was just a baby when he got into the system. I was already with Emily when he showed up. So was Colin. First the State took Colin, and then later Mick. He was scrawny and sick. His parents were meth addicts. He’d been exposed.”
“Exposed?”
“They had a lab. When he was taken in, he was under the influence. Had to detox.”
“Oh. God. That’s … horrible.” I’m picturing little Geneva being wasted on a drug I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole, and I cannot imagine the kind of people who would let that happen. I’ve lived a very sheltered life, and I’m totally okay with that in this moment.
“Yeah. But he bounced back. He’s tough. Always has been.”
“Why do people call him hellion?”
“Because he likes to party.”
“Party in what way?”
“Drink mostly. Dance. Play around.”
“With girls or something else?”
“Girls.”
“Isn’t that dangerous? Him drinking and partying when his parents were addicts?”
“He knows what he’s doing.”
“And what about Colin?” I finish my second beer and reach for the third. Rebel leans over and twists it open for me. My heart flutters with the intimacy of the act, and then I feel stupid for thinking that it was anything but just politeness on his part.
“Colin’s trouble, just like I said.”
“But how long have you known him?”
Rebel shrugs. “Ten years. Maybe longer.”
“Why is he so much trouble?”
“Bad past, like the rest of us, I guess.”
“But you’re not trouble.” I start to smile, but the serious expression on his face stops me.
“Don’t kid yourself.”
A thrilling shiver runs up my spine. “I’m sure that’s supposed to scare me off, but it’s not working.” The minute the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Not because they aren’t the truth, but because I know how suggestive they sound. He’s way more man than I can handle; I know this. I can feel it. But does that stop me from laying my shit all out there? Hell no, it doesn’t. I think maybe I’m the one who needs the Trouble nickname, not Colin.
“Don’t let the calm exterior fool you.” He reaches over to take my beer from me, but I pull it just out of his reach and he leans back again, rebuffed.
I lower my head and give him my best sexy look. “You don’t fool me for a second, mister silent but deadly.”
The silence stretches between us.
“Did you just call me silent but deadly?” he asks.
I start to giggle. “Oh, my god. I totally just did.”
He smiles too. And then he laughs quietly to himself, looking at the floor.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” I’m not positive, but from the expression on his face, I’m thinking that expression ‘silent but deadly’ means the same thing in his world that it does in mine, and I can’t think of anything less sexy than calling a man a quiet yet seriously stinky fart.
He’s still smiling. “Sure you didn’t.”
I reach over and push him. “Stop, I swear to God…”
He grabs my hand as I try to draw it back and halts my backward movement. “You swear to God, what?”
The laughter that was bubbling up in my chest disappears in an instant. Panic swarms over me and threatens to drown me in fear. “What are you doing?” I look at our hands touching.
He drops my fingers immediately and sits up straighter. His smile disappears and he gets to his feet.
My eyes follow his progress up. “Where are you going?”
He walks over to my door and opens it, checking out the frame.
I get up slowly and finish the beer while walking over to join him. I watch
as he inspects my nailing job.
“This isn’t going to work.”
“Says you.” I hiccup once, trying to hold in a burp. It’s not pretty when it comes out as both together.
He walks outside, closes the door, and with one punch, pushes it in again, demonstrating how the latch is not catching at all.
I grab the hardware store bag off the floor and hold it up. “Ah-ha! But you haven’t seen this bit of awesome yet.” I pull out the chain lock package and hold it up for his inspection.
“That’s not going to work either. It’s not strong enough.”
“Wanna bet?” I lift an eyebrow at him saucily, but he doesn’t go for it. My earlier freak-out has spoiled the mood, and that just makes me cranky. We were having so much fun and then I went and ruined it by spooking him. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Or maybe it wasn’t stupid. Maybe it’s exactly what I should be doing where he’s concerned.
“Get the rest of your stuff so we can keep it safe,” he says.
“I’m not sleeping at Colin’s,” I say, feeling like a spoiled brat but unable to stop myself. I’m mad at him, I’m mad at myself, and I’m mad at the world again.
“Why not?”
He’s frustrated with me, I can tell by his tone, but I don’t care. I want to push his buttons, and I’m buzzing enough from the alcohol to not care about the consequences much. “Because. It’s not my place.”
“It’s safe.”
“No, it’s not!”
His voice goes louder than I’ve ever heard it. “What do you mean it’s not? Of course it is.”
“How can it be?”
He frowns. “That makes no sense. I’m there.”
“Exactly!” I shout, throwing my arms up and then letting them flop at my sides. “You’re there!”
He takes a step back. “Are you … are you saying I’m not safe?”
“Duh!” I cross my arms over my chest. I really have no idea what I’m saying exactly. I’m just rolling with this nonsense because apparently all the stress I’ve been dealing with combined with beer and pizza equals one crazy chick breakdown.
“If that’s the way you feel about it.” He steps back out of the doorway to my apartment and gives me one last glare before leaving for the stairs.
