“You’re out of toothpaste, asshole.”
Rolling my eyes in irritation at her borrowing my personal things, and knowing full well that I’m not out of toothpaste, I turn to face her, hoping it’s the last time. “I can only imagine.”
She sneers, “Don’t even dream about me.” What an airhead.
I mockingly smile. “Yeah. That’s not what I meant.”
“I knew what you meant!”
“You don’t.”
She stomps her foot and shouts, “You think I’m some stupid bimbo!”
Laughing, I fire back, “You did sleep with a total stranger.”
“So did you!”
“But I was sober.” Was not. “You were stupid enough to get drunk and get into a car with a random guy.”
“You don’t even know my name!”
I shrug. “Does it really matter?”
“Thanks a lot, you ignorant prick!”
Shaking my head, I counter, “Nope. Not my name. See? You don’t know mine, either.”
She puts her hands on her hips and erratically shakes her head. “How could you not know my name or kiss me, but were all too eager to shove your dick into me with no problem?”
I give her a dead look and state the obvious, “I keep it wrapped. No touching. Just fucking.” She glowers at me as I open the door to usher her out. “Anyway, maybe next time you’ll think twice about hooking up with a complete stranger. Don’t you know what kind of world we live in? I could’ve been terrible in bed!” I scowl in mock horror.
Her horror isn’t so fabricated. “Fuck you.”
Leaning my arm against the edge of the open door, I retort, “Been there. Done that. I’d rather not have another go, but maybe one of these guys moving my furniture will give you a whirl.” I sarcastically smirk at her and she smacks me across the face before moodily storming down the walkway.
That was uncalled for, but with an amused smile, I rub my stinging cheek.
Though, my smile evaporates when I walk into the bathroom to see the tube of toothpaste emptied all over my toilet seat, and the tube floating in the piss she left for me.
She was right. Fuck me.
CHAPTER 2
Shortly after 5:00, I pull into my dad’s driveway. Thankfully, there’s no sign of his black truck, so that gives me some time to myself. I’m going to need it and a whole lot of alcohol to get through these next two months.
Unloading a suitcase along with a case of Budweiser off the rear seat of my black Dodge Charger, I head to the front porch, hoping my dad remembered to leave a key for me under the mat. I really don’t feel like sitting around like some poor kid whose father forgot to pick up at school. I’ll sooner break a window.
“Well, it’s about time you got here!” I jump back, nearly dropping my beer, shaking it up in the process, which pisses me off.
“Damn it, Dash!” I snap as he expertly leaps over the porch railing, landing between two yew bushes. His bleach blond, floppy hair bounces as he trots over to me and takes the beer, of course. “My dad’s going to stab you in the face for screwing up his mulch.”
He waves me off, grinning like a jackass. “Nah. He loves me.”
We stop in front of the porch steps and I scoff, “Not that much.”
Dash points to his lightly freckled face. “He wouldn’t want to mess up this adorable mug now, would he?”
“Adorable,” I repeat with a laugh. “That you are. Just wait until you hit puberty.”
His jaw sourly drops. “Bite me, Jericho!” Oh, yes. Dash’s stupid nickname for me he picked up in Bible school during the summer before fifth grade. We’ve been friends since the first day of second grade when I saved him from a pile-on beatdown. A bunch of third graders thought it’d be fun to pick on the second-grade runt, who looked more like a kindergartner. I had recognized him from my class and felt bad for him, and since I was tall enough to take on the bigger kids, I did. I kept an eye on him after that, sort of serving as his bodyguard. All the teachers thought he was just precious. He had them fooled.
Dash hasn’t changed much at all over the years. Grown taller, but still slightly shorter than me, he’s forever a pre-pubescent adolescent, even at 30. Yet, he’s three months older than me.
Stretching to set my suitcase on the porch, I look back to the driveway before I ask, “How in the hell did you get here?”
He follows suit and puts the beer down on a step. “My mom dropped me off.”
“Which one? The lesbian or the experimenting, straight one?” I have to laugh at his frowning face. Dash’s mom is a former-stripper-turned-lesbian florist. Dash and I were 13 when his strip-club-owner dad split from Dash’s mom after she made that small announcement. When Dash told me about his mom’s declaration, I thought I knew what it meant, but wasn’t 100 percent sure, so we consulted our school library’s Encyclopedia Britannica for that explanation. Much to my amusement and Dash’s horror, I was right.
“Why? You have your own car, your own apartment, and your own life for that matter. Why’d your mommy have to give you a damn ride?”
“Her car’s in the shop, so I let her borrow mine.”
“You let her drive your brand new car?” I shake my head in disbelief. I wouldn’t let Dash drink water in my Charger for months after I bought it. “Why didn’t you keep it and take her where she needs to go?”
He shrugs with a lazy grin as he leans against the railing. “I’m not a damn taxi.”
“So, you let her be one?”
“She raised three boys. She’s used to it.”
The old man wearing overalls across the street yells a hello from his mailbox. Forgetting his name, I limply wave back and quickly look away so he doesn’t think I’m interested in boring chitchat about his lawn tractor or gout; instead, saying to Dash, “Ok. So, that begs the question: How do you think you’re getting home?”
His grin takes an evil turn, and I testily roll my eyes. “You owe me, Calder.”
He laughs, putting his hand on his chest. “You love me.”
Shaking my head at the porch post I’m holding onto, I mutter, “Not even close.”
Crossing his arms, he asks, “How’d last night go with Lindy?”
Releasing my grip on the post, I take a deep breath before walking back to the car. “Oh. Was that her name? It should’ve been Loony because she was batshit crazy.”
He follows me. “I thought she seemed nice. Drunk, but a nice drunk, at least.” Always the optimist.
Reaching into the backseat again, I drag out a box. Pivoting to face Dash, I roughly hand it to him. “Why in the fuck did you let me go home with her? I was drunk off my ass.”
“Yeah, you were.”
“So, I guess I should thank you for being my taxi last night.” I grab another box and shut the door with my ass.
“Yep. Anytime.” We start walking and he offhandedly asks, “Why do you have boxes when you’ll only be here for two months? Don’t you have your shit in storage?”
“The movers put some of my clothes in boxes and I didn’t know if I’d need them or not, so I brought them. Is that a problem or are you taking inventory?”
“You brought more clothes than my mom owns.”
“Yeah, but most of hers are G-strings and push-up bras.”
“Eww! Not anymore!”
I laugh. “It’s not all clothes, dipwad. I threw in other things I might need.”
“Oooh. Anyway, you don’t usually drink that much. I was surprised. You’re usually the sober party pooper.” I hate being vulnerable to people, especially in public. Last night was a rare exception and I got grossly carried away celebrating my new job. That’s why I don’t drink to get plastered in public and I definitely don’t bring anyone home with me when I’m sober. If I leave with anyone, I sweet-talk them into going back to their place or getting a room.
I sneer, “Someone has to be sober, since you can’t handle your liquor.”
We again reach the steps, but this time, I go up to the
porch and set the box down on a chair to look for the key.
“That’s not true!”
Lifting the mat, the key is thankfully there. I grab it and unlock the door. “It is, too. You can only handle liquor as long as it remains in the bottle.” He growls in protest and I probe, “What about Duquesne? I don’t remember how drunk he was.” I pick up the box from the chair and go inside, setting the box on the floor, against the wall. Dash puts his on top and we go back outside for my suitcase and beer.
“He wasn’t. All he had was pop, which is stupid since I was the DD. What an asshole.”
Wheeling my suitcase through the door, I affirm, “That bitch of his is sucking the life out of him.”
“She’s not all that bad. Give her a break. I don’t get it. Why are you two like oil and water?”
“She’s more like an oil spill.” I take the beer from Dash and put it on the kitchen table, not wanting to waste more time than I have. Returning to the living room, I drag my suitcase upstairs.
Outside my bedroom door, Dash stupidly says, “You need to find yourself a girlfriend. You’ve had maybe three in your life, but none of them lasted very long.”
I scowl at him before walking into my nearly empty, blue and beige bedroom. All my sports posters and football pictures are long gone. “Why in the hell would I want a damn girlfriend? Having one is a hassle. I don’t need one to validate me, make me look like a schmuck or tell me how to live my life. Damn. I have my dad to do all that for me.”
“You don’t want to eventually settle down and get married? Have kids? We’re 30. We’re supposed to be thinking of that kind of thing.”
Parking my suitcase next to the bed, my face crumples. “Are you smoking crack again?” I feel like I’ve walked into an Oprah Winfrey interview. He sighs and looks around the room. “Where in the hell is that coming from? You don’t even have one.”
“Yeah, but I wish I did.”
“Maybe you should scout colleges, since you look closer to their age anyway.” I smile, knowing that’ll piss him off.
“Up yours, Jericho.”
I laugh and check my watch as he sits down on the bed. “We need to get going. I want to get out of here before my dad gets home.”
He dubiously wrinkles his nose. “Why don’t you want to see him?”
I fling my arms out. “Are you fucking serious? He’ll grill me and then go on about Hadley. No, thanks. He has two full months to drown me in that shit.”
“Why do you hate her so much? She’s always been nice. I remember when you two were close.”
Lifting my blue Indianapolis Colts hat, I sigh and run a hand through my light brown hair. “I don’t hate my sister.” Hadley has never overtly done anything wrong to me. It’s just that living in her glorified shadow can be overwhelming. I mumble, “She didn’t do anything.”
“But you act like she took your last beer and kicked you in the nuts.”
Baffled about his statement regarding my supposed behavior, I pull my lips to the side. “Ok…”
He leans back, making no effort to get off his ass. “Do you think you’ll see her during your stay at Casa de Beckett?”
Putting my hands on my hips, I nod. “That’s a definite. My dad will make sure that happens.”
“Is she seeing anyone?”
I grimly laugh, surmising that he’s using an angle. “Oh, no way in hell you’ll ever be dating my sister. I don’t care if she rents a billboard, begging for a date.”
He scowls. “That’s a little much.”
I cross my arms and shrug. “Whatever. I told you she’s dating a sportscaster.”
Dash sits up. “She’s still with him? Are they getting married?”
I cringe. “Shit. I hope not. They’re better off just living together, even though they’re not right now, I don’t think.” I blow out a huff of air. “Come on, Dash. Marriage is for the birds.”
“You hate everything. Jeez.”
“Especially you right now, given that you won’t shut up and get your ass in gear.”
He continues disregarding me and again looks around the room. “Remember all the time we spent in here playing video games?”
I proudly grin. “You mean, all the time you spent in here getting your ass kicked?”
“Hey, I was good at some.”
“Yeah, Mario Paint and Wheel of Fortune.”
Dash finally stands. “Well, you can still kiss my vowel.”
“Why don’t you buy a clue first?”
“I have an F. Now I’ll buy a U.” We both laugh, but abruptly stop when we hear the front door.
“Shit!” I angrily whisper.
He spits out a laugh, which if he had a drink, it would’ve been all over my face. “What are you, 16? Your dad is cool. Anyway, what’s the big deal?”
Pushing up on my cap, I quietly sneer, “I guess the only place we’ll be going now is to a funeral home because he’ll talk us to death.”
Hearing him bound up the stairs, I continue to glare at Dash as my dad enters my bedroom. His scratchy voice says, “Hey, bud.”
Turning to see him smiling, I give him a quick one in return. “Hey.”
Adam Beckett is tall and lanky with brown eyes, graying brown hair, and an even grayer beard. From old pictures of him in high school, wearing his basketball uniform, he pretty much still looks the same, only with grayer hair and lines around his eyes. Without the gray hair, he could pass for someone years younger, even looking too young to be my dad, probably. For the most part, my dad is reserved. My sister takes after him in that regard.
He looks over at Dash. “Good to see you, Dashiell.”
Without hesitation, Dash retorts, “Same to you, Mr. Beckett.” For some fucked-up reason, my dad calls Dash by his full name, and for the same stupid reason, Dash calls my dad Mr. Beckett. It’s too idiotic to even question them about it.
Dad asks me, “How was your drive?”
“In a car.” He frowns and I clarify, “It was the best drive of my life. It was action-packed, dramatic, and laughs all around. Something for everyone.”
“Alright. I get the point. You’re hilarious.” Dad looks back and forth between Dash and me with quiet suspicion. “How’d you get here, Dashiell? I didn’t see your car.”
I answer, “A stork didn’t even want him, so it dropped him off here. Surprise! It’s a bouncing, baby douchebag.”
Scratching his stomach, Dash grumbles, “Awesome, Jericho.”
Dad frowns again with an eye roll. “What are you guys up to now?”
Dash jumps in. “Jared and I were going to grab dinner. You’re welcome to join us.” Thanks a lot, Calder. I desperately refrain from rolling my eyes in my dad’s face.
Dad warily smiles. “Thank you, but I’ll let you two catch up.” Guilt unexpectedly washes over me. I see Dash all the time. There have been plenty of occasions I’ve stayed the weekend in Annapolis at Dash’s, but didn’t take the time to see my father, even though I didn’t live that far away in the first place.
Dash keeps it up. “It’s no problem. Rio will be there, too. It’ll be cool.”
“That sounds like trouble.” My dad shakes his head. “Some other time.” My guilt recedes as I realize exactly that will happen, if Dash has anything to do with it.
Wanting to get moving, before Dash schedules a nightly dinner with my dad, I glance at my dumbass friend and nod at the door. “We’d better go. You know how Rio gets when we make him wait too long.”
Dash scowls. “I doubt he’s there yet, and he wouldn’t care.” True. Hardly anything rattles that guy.
I widen my eyes at him and grit my teeth, wordlessly promising him a certain ass kicking if he doesn’t shut his damn mouth. Flinching, Dash wisely sucks in his lips, clamping his mouth shut.
Interrupting my wordless death threat, Dad asks, “You have the spare key, don’t you?”
I slowly look away from Dash. “Yeah.” Please don’t lecture me about what time I should be home. I just might have to
move into a hotel. In Philadelphia. Tonight.
“If you have too much to drink—”
I loudly sigh, displaying my irritation. “I know, Dad. Dash, here, said he’ll be my DD, so don’t worry.”
“I did?” Dash sadly questions.
With my hands on my hips, I clear my throat and glance down at the blue carpet, scrounging the last of my restraint from kneeing him in the nutsack.
Dad says, “Jared, I mean it. If you need a ride, call me.”
I agreeably nod at the floor, just to get him off my back. “I will.” I fleetingly glance up at my dad to see if he believes me. I’d ride naked in the back of Rio’s truck, hanging off the tailgate, before I call my daddy to pick me up like some teenager. Even back then, I never called him.
Doubtful, he nods and I silently let out the breath I was holding. Lying to my dad is an art I’ve perfected over the years. That may make me a typical person who lies to their parent, but I also know it makes me more of a horrible person than I already am because I keep doing it and have no remorse. I just don’t know how to be any different. I’m not even a friendly person most of the time. I don’t date. I’ll put on my mask and fake it when I see a pretty girl, but when I get what I want and I’m through with them, I get them as far away from me as possible. No strings. I cut every single one. I don’t even know how I’ve made friends and actually kept them. I’ve always had to be on the offensive because being on the defensive only exposes weakness to others. It’s a pre-emptive strike, really. I refuse to be a victim.
Not waiting around for more lectures, I brush past Adam Beckett and out of my room. When I reach the porch and hit the cement stairs, Dash shuts the door, trailing me in a rush. “Where’s the fire?”
Agitated, I pick up my hat and run a hand through my hair as I hiss, “Does your mouth have a damn leak?”
The Keys to Jericho Page 2
