Boyfrenemy

by Sosie Frost

  Just like I wouldn’t lose myself in those chestnut eyes. I’d ignore that melted chocolate voice and forget the sweet kisses, the heat of his hands, the tickle of his beard…

  Rem texted me at seven. You didn’t stay for breakfast.

  The accompanying picture of a spilled bowl of cereal and half-bitten ham sandwich wasn’t the gourmet meal featured on the brochure.

  I shouldn’t have replied. Watching my figure. All those Gerber Graduates go right to my thighs.

  Rem wasn’t cutting me a break. You got plenty of exercise running away this morning.

  He was one to talk. Imagine how toned I’ll be once I’m in Ironfield.

  Won’t need to imagine if you send me a couple pics. Or if you stay here.

  Not happening.

  Tell me what I can do to keep you here.

  Oh, it was a dangerous, terrible question. Forget the palm fronds, swinging hammock, and Mai Tai. The only thing I needed from Rem were the three little words we’d had the foresight to never admit. Even Superman knew to avoid his Kryptonite.

  I smirked. I’m immune to your charms.

  It was a lie, but if it convinced me long enough to pack my last bag and head to the car, I’d spin a couple other yarns.

  No, I haven’t gained five pounds since Easter. Go head and splurge on the new purse—what’s fifty bucks to your infinite wallet? Your brothers will be fine without you. There’s no way they’ll murder each other in cold blood over the last Pop Tart in the pantry.

  Quint’s profanity echoed from the stairs. “Son of a bitch, Jules! Get your own goddamned breakfast!”

  The epic battle between Toaster Strudel and Cheese Danish would occupy most of Jules and Quint’s morning. That meant I had only one brother to worry about.

  The squeaking floorboards didn’t fool me. I dove for the towel on the back of my door, burst into the hall, and yelled as Tidus slammed the bathroom door in my face.

  “Are we teenagers again?” I pounded against the door. “I’m leaving today. I need to shower.”

  Life as the youngest of six—and the only girl in a herd of slobbering men—meant I lived on the bottom of the food chain. Scraping together the heels of the bread for sandwiches, growing up to wear Ninja Turtle handmedowns, and waking at all hours to secure a bathroom to myself.

  I pounded again. Tidus spoke over the hum of an electric razor.

  “Figured you’d use Rem’s bathroom this morning.”

  He thought he was so damn cute. But if I had shared some suds with Rem, he’d be the first at the cabin with a loaded shotgun.

  “Tidus, I’m serious. Can I please shower first?”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about Rem?” he asked.

  “What about him?”

  Tidus snorted. “You aren’t going to help him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  Because life didn’t run on hormones and rainbows. “There’s too much history.”

  “So?”

  “He singlehandedly torched the barn. The stress sent Mom into an early grave, Dad into a depression, and scattered all of you guys to the far corners of the world. I think I ought to be on my guard with him. Now let me in the shower!”

  On cue, the pipes squeaked. His ass wasn’t in the water, but he shouted anyway. “Sorry, Sassy. Can’t hear you! Get in the downstairs shower before Varius.”

  Damn it. I pushed off the door and pummeled my way down the stairs. The old wood creaked, and the railing wobbled and cracked—too many years of too many stampeding boys careening down the steps. I crashed through the kitchen. Jules slapped Quint’s finger out of his face.

  “Stay out of my shit,” Quint said. “You know that shelf is mine.”

  Jules wasn’t in a good mood, and he shared that fact with anyone who happened to be near. “Got your name on it?”

  Quint slammed the pantry door against the wall and ripped the shelf out of the wall.

  Cereals, oatmeals, and breakfast pastries scattered across the kitchen. A jar of pickles crashed to the floor. Good. My shower this morning would include scrubbing the scent of dill and mustard seed off my body.

  Quint slapped the hunk of wood in his hand. “Look, asshole. My name’s been there since 2002.”

  Jules kicked a jar of anchovies out of his path. The glass exploded into fragmented shards, and the fish mingled with the pickle juice. Fortunately, the tub of oats had cracked open. At least it helped to sop up the mess. Couldn’t say the same for the spilled bottle of whiskey, precariously teetering on the edge of the counter. Varius’s breakfast of choice. So much for the floor. And his liver.

  “You’re twenty-five fucking years old.” Jules grabbed the shelf and unsuccessfully attempted to wedge it into the pantry. It immediately collapsed onto the shelf beneath, tore a hole into two bags of chips, then clattered to the floor, dragging with it a bag of opened flour and ripped sugar. They stared at the mess, grunted, then returned to the fight. “Get your head out of your ass. We’re stuck here together.”

  Quint tripped over a wayward can of tomato soup but caught himself before his chin collided with Jules’ fist. “And who’s fault is that? What the hell do you really expect to happen here? All five of us under a single roof. Just wait until Marius’s tour is done. Once he’s stateside again, we’ll have a real war in this house.”

  “That’s the way Dad wanted it,” Jules said. “So get used to it.”

  “Dad’s dead!” Quint flinched as his voice carried, but he didn’t back down. For the first time, the youngest of my brothers must have felt a bit confident in confronting my father. Too bad Dad wasn’t here to defend himself.

  “Dad’s dead,” Quint said. “But we’re the ones buried under this fucking farm. We’ve got no income. No equipment. No goddamned clue how to do it on our own. And you—” He pointed at Jules. “You’re just as stubborn as he was. You don’t know a pitchfork from your prick, and you think we can just start a farm?”

  The same fight every morning. I could practically quote Jules now.

  I sighed. “We have a chicken.”

  “Yes, we have a chicken!” Jules gestured through the kitchen window to the chicken coop rated for forty. Currently, it housed only a single guest—Helena.

  Quint laughed. “That chicken hasn’t laid an egg in a year.”

  “She’s working on it!”

  “What came first? Bankruptcy or the egg?”

  “Would you guys stop it?” I said.

  I shooed them out of my way and began the cleanup. I reached for the bag of sugar, not realizing the corner was tucked snuggly under Quint’s foot. The bag exploded. Granules of white plumed over the kitchen. Jules sneezed. Quint would probably go into diabetic shock. Fantastic.

  “I am not going back to the store for you animals before I leave. You’re on your own.”

  Jules furrowed his brow. “What do you mean, before you leave?”

  “I’m getting a shower. Packing my bags. And I’m leaving for Ironfield.”

  Only I had the ability to unify my brothers. Unfortunately, they ganged up against me. Quint crossed his arms. His eyes had a brighter quality—a playful sea foam that stirred itself dark when he wanted to get in someone’s face. Like now. Big mistake.

  “She gets to leave?” He turned to Jules. “You’re letting her leave?”

  “She’s not going anywhere.” Jules didn’t bother to fight. He grabbed a handful of soup cans and a bag of chips and tossed them onto the wrong shelf. The rest he kicked into the pantry, wrestling with the accordion doors which refused to shut on the bag of crumbling tortilla chips. “She’ll never make it out of Butterpond.”

  “I’m leaving today,” I said.

  “I got a fifty with your name on it if you can cross the county line.”

  “I’ll drive over it twice, make it an even hundred.”

  Quint held his arms out, gesturing to the mess. “What about us?”

  “You
guys don’t need me—you need a feeding trough. You’re better suited for the barn.”

  “Don’t worry about her,” Jules said. “She wants Triumph Farm to recover as much as we do.”

  Quint pointed at him. “You. You want this goddamned farm. Not me. Not Marius. Not Tidus. Not Varius. Hell, I’m not even sure Cas wants it.”

  “Don’t put me in the middle of this,” I said. “This has been my home the past five years. I’m the one who watched Dad sell equipment to pay for the bills. I’m the one who helped load the last two cows onto the trailer for sale. I’m the one who juggled the water and electric bills while Dad was sick. I did what I had to do, and now I have to get away from you all before you drive me insane.”

  Jules tore his Pop Tart in half and offered a piece to Quint. “See. She’s not leaving.”

  My phone buzzed. I checked the text.

  I’ll pay you more.

  Not for a million freaking dollars.

  I pointed at Quint. “You better get your butt to the grocery store once in a while before you claim a shelf.” Then I faced Jules. “And you can mail me my fifty bucks.”

  “Just set my check on Dad’s desk.” He laughed. “I know you, Cassi. You can’t leave. This farm means more to you than anyone.”

  That didn’t make it right to stay.

  I had places to go. A life to live. And brothers to get out of showers.

  Fortunately, I knew where to find the hot water heater. Varius and Tidus could do their soul-searching in the backyard pond. I rushed to the basement, fiddled with the controls, and counted the minutes until the profanity rained from upstairs.

  Rem’s text buzzed in my hand. What’s Ironfield got that I can’t give you?

  I helped myself to the upstairs bathroom, ignoring a grumbling Tidus, and locked the door behind me.

  I texted back with a smirk. Peace of mind.

  Nothing more peaceful than the mountains.

  Not during mating season.

  I’m nothing if not purely professional.

  Right. Sure, you couldn’t wait to seal this deal.

  Nothing would deter this man. He immediately replied. Name the price, Sassy.

  More than you can afford.

  What if I promise you a priceless experience?

  Then you’d morally bankrupt me.

  I could imagine Rem’s grin. All the more reason to put the phone away…wherever I could find room.

  Colognes, razors, electric trimmers, toothpastes, and boxer briefs of every color cluttered a bathroom that had been mine for years. I fished a used q-tip from my peppermint scented candle and cleared a spot for my towel. What had been organized was now destroyed and manhandled. The shelf behind the toilet clung to a single screw with a hope, prayer, and the good fortune of the old farm house. My trinkets—candles, a potted plant, a mirror—were abandoned under the toilet bowl.

  Seat up, of course.

  Gross. I’d leave them there.

  I stripped and sat down to do my business, careful to rest my feet only on the driest portions of the bathmat. Tidus hadn’t left me many options, and I prayed the moisture was from him leaping out of an icy shower.

  At last, I had a moment to take a breath, clear my head, and relax.

  Crack.

  The shelf behind me creaked and smashed downwards, clocking me in the back of the head. I lurched, crashing onto the floor.

  Punched while peeing. I rubbed the concussion away and sighed. Never thought I’d need a Life-Alert necklace just to use the bathroom. Help, I’ve fallen, and I haven’t mopped the floor in two weeks.

  On cue, Rem persisted. His offers were getting more desperate. Or maybe more fun.

  Name the favor…dinners out, foot massages, other sundry and immodest deeds that I’d willingly degrade myself to offer.

  I could think of quite a few favors now—a clean bathroom, super glue to recombine the scattered shards of my dignity, and a wild and animalistic night of pure sex like I’d imagined so many years ago.

  At least I had a cold shower.

  I rushed through my routine, splattering my cheeks with some makeup, tossing on a simple sundress, and gathering my hair in a ponytail. I balled my dirty laundry in the corner of my luggage then sat on top to help it close. The latches whined before clicking, but it was done.

  Finally.

  I gripped the handle. The loop promptly ripped off the suitcase. The luggage cluttered to the floor, breaking a hinge. The entire mechanism failed.

  The spring-loaded compartment burst. The contents exploded from the suitcase. Panties flew everywhere. The rest of my once folded, now knotted clothes followed suit.

  Jules shouted from downstairs. “Cas, where did dad keep his tax returns?”

  Hell no. One cold shower, a concussion, and a busted suitcase weren’t stopping me. I galloped down the stairs to grab a roll of duct tape.

  I passed the office and called to Jules. “Bottom cabinet, under E for Extortion.”

  “What about his old feed orders?”

  “Under C for Critters.”

  “It’s going to take me a week to find any of his paperwork!”

  Probably longer, once he realized Dad opted against sorting his years chronologically in favor of classifying each harvest as good or bad. Dad had never once touched a computer, and he hated calculators. His business contracts were pre-arranged with lifelong friends who’d provided feed and equipment over a beer, a wink, and gentleman’s handshake.

  And Jules thought he could pick it up in a season.

  I mummified my suitcase with a layer of duct tape and considered tossing a strip over my mouth. God only knew what horrific words would come out—like, Hang on, Jules. Let me help you. Or Sure, Rem, I’d love to stay and watch those two adorable little girls.

  I slung my purse over my shoulder and hauled the suitcase off the bed. I made it to the stairs before my phone buzzed. I reached for it, juggled it in my hands, and then watched as it crashed, banged, and shattered down every single stair.

  Jules picked it up at the bottom, whistling as the screen spider webbed and fractured under his hand.

  “Looks like you’ll have to stay and get that fixed,” he said.

  “Not a chance.” The suitcase had no handle, and now I had no way to get it down the stairs. Screw it. I pushed the damn thing, wincing as it crashed through the bottom railing in a confetti of splinters. “I’ll get a new phone in the city.”

  “With what money?”

  “I’ll find a job.”

  “You have a job on the farm.”

  “I’ve seen the pay. I’m not working for your five-alarm chili, Jules.” I cast my brother a knowing glance. “If I stayed, I’d actually make money nannying for Remington Marshall’s two nieces. Would you like that instead?”

  Jules kissed my forehead. “I’ll tell the others you said goodbye.”

  I hauled the busted luggage out the door and tossed it into my trunk, managing to crush my favorite pair of sunglasses. My phone buzzed again.

  Do it as a favor to me?

  The car was loaded. I had plans. Friends waiting for me. Places I could stay. Jobs on the horizon. Maybe even a teaching gig at a prestigious preschool if my networking paid off. I couldn’t give up my one chance to get out of Butterpond because I still had feelings for a man who redefined the word flame.

  I slid into my car, regretting my decision immediately. The interior hardened with mud. Flecks of dirt, grass, and hay spewed from the air conditioner. My tank had plummeted to empty. A note waited on my dash.

  Borrowed the car to go hiking. Owe you gas money.

  -Tidus

  I’d kill him later.

  Butterpond had one gas station directly in the center of town. The two old-fashioned pumps offered everyone ten minutes of gossip per fill-up. Patricia Martin owned the station, the diner next door, and the debts of at least ten families in Butterpond—including my father’s. Kinder than a bank but less forgiving than a loan shark.

  To
day, Pat wore a garish straw hat with a bird’s nest and fake robins. She’d included a cross over her heart and her granddaddy’s .38 special on her hip. She grinned when she saw me—a beaming smile that only grew wider when presented with a credit card.

  “Miss Cassia Payne…” Pat was showing a bit of shoulder today. Her skin might have been a shade darker than mine, but no one but Jesus ever saw most of it. Modesty was a virtue, and gossip a sin, so Pat kept a close eye on the scales. “I just heard some dreadful news about you, sweetness. Lord bless you, I hope it’s not true.”

  “Hi, Pat.”

  She ignored my offered credit card. “There’s stories about you running around with that Marshall boy again.”

  Apparently, Rem was the most exciting thing to happen in Butterpond since Billy Bisco accidentally loaded his rifle with real bird shot for the civil war reenactment. The south rose that day, and the historical society was not at all pleased.

  “He’s just a friend,” I said.

  “Well, Layne Carlisle said you and that no-good Marshall boy were shopping together last week. Said your older brother had to come down and stop him from pawing all over you.”

  “That’s not exactly—”

  “If your poor Daddy only knew—Lord bless his soul—”

  I handed her the credit card again. “He wasn’t pawing on me.”

  She swiped the card and frowned. “Heard he had Emma’s kids with him.”

  “Yeah. He’s watching them.”

  “Good thing too. Not sure they’re okay with a bad egg like him, but they’re better off than with that girl.”

  “What do you—”

  The machine beeped. Pat had a way to look both mortified and exhilarated in the same breath.

  “Aw, sweetness. Your card is declined.”

  “What?”

  Pat practically salivated over the potential gossip. This would keep her high for a week. “Probably just a card error. The bank does that sometimes.”

  Not often. Just today.

  A cold shower. Concussion. Busted luggage. Broken phone. No gas. And now a rejected credit card?

  Good thing it wasn’t storming. Today was a good day—or a bad day—to get struck by lightning.

  I dug through my purse and pulled out the two twenties I kept in reserve. She took my money as well as pity on me.