Brick Shithouse

by Bijou Hunter

  “They’ve had sex four times,” she announced once. “Just four and they got lucky every time.”

  I nodded at her comment and then added, “More like three times plus the clusterfuck they named Colton.”

  Despite my brother being a squirt of diarrhea, I have no doubt Pop wanted to bring Colton along on this business trip. Mom said something about the boys heading south until she changed the plan and sent me instead.

  “You need to get away,” Mom whispered, hugging me tightly. “We all need you to get away.”

  Rolling my eyes, I couldn’t believe she found me more annoying than Colton. Was she nuts? My obnoxious behavior is because I’ve been wronged! What’s Colton’s excuse for smelling like a petting zoo?

  I’m happy to hang out with Pop, though. He isn’t like most people’s dads. Cooper Johansson enjoys pigging out on barbecue, driving too fast, and drinking more booze than is safe. He likes classic rock, gory stupid movies, and laughing at fart jokes.

  Today, his mind isn’t on partying. He leaves the highway at the first White Horse exit, barely slows at the stop sign, and speeds down a road filled with empty school buses returning from dropping off the town’s uppity kids. I hate rich towns. Despite Hampton College and the cash Pop’s club flushes into Ellsberg, most of our neighbors are butt-poor. I prefer penniless rednecks to pompous suburbanites.

  Our journey ends in the parking lot of a grotesque building next to an ancient Waffle House. Pop is off his Harley within seconds. He’s no doubt ready to get done with the “hello and how you doing” part of our trip. We’ll check into a hotel room and return tomorrow so Pop can talk details with Hayes.

  “Don’t say anything yet,” he tells me when I climb off my Harley. “Do you have something to cover your hair?”

  “Why? Are these people like those mountain men who’ve never seen a woman and will go nuts once their eyes set upon my amazing hair?”

  Pop doesn’t answer my question, even if he’s clearly dying to respond. “Put a hat on your head, keep your mouth shut, stay behind me, and don’t make any sudden movements.”

  “I feel like we’re meeting bears.”

  “Bears wouldn’t care about your damn hair, Audrey.”

  “Wouldn’t they, though, Pop? Wouldn’t they?” I ask while digging through my saddlebag for the red cap I brought along in case of rain.

  “As a kid, you wanted to run the club. If you still have any interest, you might want to pay attention.”

  Shrugging, I cover my head even if my hair remains clearly visible. I don’t get the point of the hat except to make me less appealing to the mountain men, but I’m done bitching this early in the trip.

  The door of the butt-ugly building opens and out steps two bear-sized men. I think my mouth flops open in surprise. Big men are a dime a dozen in my neck of the woods, but fucking shit motherfucker!

  The term “brick shithouse” was created for these men. I mean, my pop’s a big guy—tall, wide-shouldered, and muscular. Mom sure nabbed a hottie back in the day, and Pop’s aged as fine as expensive wine. But fuck me with a hot poker if he doesn’t seem like a midget next to Hayes and his even bigger son.

  “Johansson,” the older man says.

  “Hayes. We got in safe.”

  “I noticed.”

  Pop doesn’t say a word, but I know his body language. Hayes’s comment sends my pop’s stance from relatively tense to violence-prone. I hope my dad doesn’t punch the bear man because I’m not sure he can take him in a fight. Fortunately, we brought weapons, and I’m ready to throw down.

  Especially once Brick Shithouse Junior locks eyes on me and won’t let go. I try to look away. I’m no horny, fawning teenybopper hoping to hook up. No, I’m not interested at all in the very tall man with his broad shoulders and what looks like a rock-hard chest and a tight waist. Okay, so he’s hot. Yeah, whatever. I don’t care. He can be hot all he wants. That doesn’t have a damn thing to do with me. Yeah, whatever. Wait, I already said that.

  “Can I get a cup of coffee?” Pop asks Hayes, and I’m surprised because I didn’t think we were hanging out here and I don’t want to spend time with BS Jr. over here with his perfectly trimmed beard and those coal-black eyes. What the hell, Pop?

  Hayes gestures for my dad to come inside. I think to follow, but I don’t want to walk past the hunky bear asshole. Oh, and I know—for a fact—that he’s an asshole. Men always are. Even my beloved Pop is a huge jerk. He just happens to be awesome enough to overcome his jerkish ways. This guy doesn’t look as talented.

  “I’ll be back,” Pop says, glancing back as if he’s telling me goodbye forever.

  I shrug as if I’m barely paying attention. Remaining near my Harley, I pretend to check my phone, and then I look up at the cloudy sky. Yes, the sky is very, very interesting. I better keep looking at it and not the man walking toward me.

  “You’re Johansson’s daughter?” he asks in a rough voice that seems to echo as if he’s standing in a damn cave.

  “Well, duh.”

  “Which one?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I’ve heard things about your family. If I know which daughter you are, I’ll know what to watch out for.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” I growl, giving him my bitchiest glare.

  “I think you know.”

  No way do I want to tell him my name, but I know if I DON’T tell him that he’ll take my silence as fear.

  “Audrey. The youngest.”

  “I’m the youngest too.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You should.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re stupid. Do you know that?” I ask, hating him for looking so damn good and making me feel so damn bad.

  “More importantly, do I care?”

  “So my pop said Hayes gave his kids stupid names. Are you embarrassed to tell me yours?”

  “I’m Casper Hayes. Nothing fucking embarrassing about that, but my family calls me ‘Cap.’”

  “If you don’t know why being named after a ghost is embarrassing, I don’t know if there’s any help for you.”

  The left side of his sexy mouth tugs up into a half smile. “Mom decided my name ought to start with the same letter as the twins’.”

  Casper the Friendly Brick Shithouse’s good looks have me so much on edge that hearing that wicked word—TWINS—sends me into a snarling rage.

  “Twins are the very worst people. They’re crimes against nature.”

  The hunky bear taps me on the head with his giant finger. “You’re lucky I don’t hit girls because some of my favorite people are twins.”

  “No, you’re lucky you don’t hit girls. If you hit me, I’d kill you so easy.”

  “Doubtful. You’re too tiny to do more than beat on my legs and maybe get in a shot to my balls.”

  “Smaller is better,” I grumble, never feeling shorter.

  “Yes, because Chihuahuas are known for beating down Rottweilers.”

  “Don’t you dare compare me to one of those purse dogs.”

  “You smell good and are really pretty, but I don’t know if I ought to ask you out on a date. You might be mentally unwell. At the very least, you’re twitchy.”

  “I wouldn’t date you if you were the last man on earth.”

  “Yes, you would. You want to date me right now. It’s fucking obvious. You should work on hiding your tells. Your face is giving away the whole farm.”

  “Shut up, jerk.”

  “Okay, but you’ll miss my voice once I’m quiet.”

  His casual arrogance only mocks my forced arrogance. “I hate everything about you.”

  “Check your tells, sweetheart, and try that again.”

  I punch him in the arm. He doesn’t flinch or react in pain. His dark gaze flickers to where I hit him, and then he looks back at me.

  “You’re wearing brass knuckles.”

  “Yeah, so what of it?”

  �
��Is that why you wear those silly fingerless gloves?”

  I frown at the pink mittens I bought at the Dollar Store two years ago. They’re pretty beat up, and the white snowflakes are mostly faded from too many washings. Despite these facts, I growl, “They’re not silly.”

  “I know you think that.”

  “You’re not cute. You think you are, but you’re not.”

  “Tells,” he says, gesturing at my face. “Work on them. You can’t let me know your entire life story every time you open your mouth.”

  I hit him again. This time my fist barrels into his broad, monster-sized chest. His response isn’t fear or pain. Instead, he burps.

  “You knocked something loose. Maybe do it again since I downed a soda earlier.”

  “I have never hated anyone more than I hate you,” I lie, having hated a bunch of people way more than I hate this sexy beast.

  Stretching his arms into the air and looking ready to grab the gray clouds, he sighs. “Since our dads are comfy inside talking about old-man stuff, I’m going for a sandwich. Want to come along? I’ll pay.”

  “Why would I want to eat with you?” I ask, instantly planning to ride away with this asshole. Of course, my pop will not be cool with that move.

  “Why wouldn’t you want to eat with me?”

  “You’re awful.”

  “Maybe so, but I’m also a handsome sonovabitch. And I offered to pay. That ought to count for something.”

  Cap stomps toward an impressively pimped-out black-as-night Harley. Choosing to ride off with him would be jaw-droppingly stupid. I told Pop I would behave. Of course, he ditched me with this super hot mountain of a man. If anything, Pop is the one at fault here.

  CAP

  I’m not a big believer in a woman’s mouth saying no but her eyes saying something else. That stinks of rapey-fucker justification and has never seemed true with any woman I’ve ever known. When my sister says no, she’ll defend that answer to the death even if she’s lying. Audrey Johansson, though, is the exception to that rule.

  Talking shit and throwing punches, she really, really wants to convey the image of a disinterested bitch. The problem for sexy, smoky-eyed Audrey is that her face is an open book. Her big eyes write her every feeling for me to read. Her plump lips don’t snarl like she hopes, but pout whenever her words don’t match her mood. In the hands of another asshole, Audrey’s tells might prove dangerous. With my particular form of asshole, she’s safe. Unless she hopes to keep me at arm’s length. If that genuinely is her plans, she’s thoroughly fucked, and she only has her perfect face to blame.

  Audrey’s obvious interest in me—only reinforced by her aggressive stance and quick punches—inspires my offer to buy her a sandwich. Usually, I wouldn’t ditch Dad during business. On the other hand, he taught me to follow my gut, and it’s saying I should get this woman alone ASAP.

  On the way to the sandwich shop, Audrey more than once tries to cut me off with her Harley. I don’t react, and I swear she pouts at my lack of anger. She’s desperate for my attention—good or bad—and I have to wonder if she was deprived as a kid.

  Fortunately for Audrey, I’m a one-woman man, and so she’ll get plenty of attention from me. First, I need to make her stew a little, though. I know how spoiled brats tick, and this diva is undoubtedly in the running to become their queen.

  We park behind the Something Else Sandwich Shop and walk around the side of the building. Audrey’s short legs need to work double time to keep up with me, but I don’t slow down. She wants me wrapped around her finger—and I’m cool with that destination—but she’ll need to work for my devotion first. A man needs to be romanced after all.

  “Why do you hate twins?” I ask once we’re inside the shop.

  I keep my gaze on the wall menu rather than the better-looking Audrey because I sense she very much craves my attention on her.

  “I’ve learned they’re evil, that’s all.”

  “My brother and sister are twins. My sister’s oldest kids are twins. My brother’s son and daughter are Irish twins. My youngest niece and nephew are called cousin twins since they were born weeks apart. None of them are evil. Sorry, Pip, but whoever gave you the info on twins fucked up.”

  “My mom is an Irish twin. She and Aunt Tawny are very close. They aren’t real twins, though, and that’s why they’re not evil.”

  “I order the muffuletta lately,” I say, changing subjects to keep her off-balance. “I wouldn’t suggest you try it. The flavors are too exotic for a Kentucky gal.”

  “Fuck you and your giant head.”

  Fighting a grin, I look down at her and ask, “So should I order you the French dip or the roast beef?”

  “Are you calling me basic?”

  “I’m calling you insolated.”

  “I don’t even know what that means, skidmark.”

  “It means you need to get out of Kentucky and try new things.”

  “There is nothing wrong with Kentucky. That’s where my mom and pop live, which makes it the best place in the world,” she growls, and I think she might punch me with her little fists again.

  “Why did you ditch your pop if he’s so great?”

  “I was hungry.”

  “What do you want to order?”

  “I’ll try the shit you’re eating. That way, I’ll have proof you have bad taste.”

  “I’m digging you, so how bad can my taste be?”

  “Shut up,” she mutters, losing the heat of her anger.

  Audrey likely has no idea her cheeks are suddenly the shade of an overripe tomato. I can’t believe she isn’t accustomed to men coming on to her. Of course, her father is a scary biker prone to violent solutions to simple problems.

  Giving her a chance to cool her overheated face and ego, I focus on ordering our sandwiches. The employees at my family’s own shop know me well since I spend nearly every day here. Keanu even has a Korean barbecue sandwich named after him. Chipper, though, was the one who added the muffuletta to the menu.

  I hand a drink cup to Audrey who stomps to the soda machine. She gets a Mountain Dew, doubling down on her Kentucky roots. I choose the same because I’m curious what the piss-colored drink tastes like since my girl digs it.

  We sit at my reserved back table where Keanu and I have spent thousands of hours of our life. Getting to know Audrey in this spot makes sense. It’s almost like taking her home to meet the folks.

  “Now that I’m feeding you,” I say after our sandwiches are delivered to the table, “spill the real details about your irrational hatred of twins.”

  “No.”

  I say nothing. Instead, I stare at Audrey, refusing to show a single emotion. I don’t reveal anger or boredom or even hunger. Though truth be told, I’m dying to dig into my food. I need a fuck-ton of calories a day to keep up my perfectly massive physique.

  “My best friends are, or were, twins,” she finally mumbles.

  “Are they dead?”

  “No.”

  “Then isn’t their twin-ness present-tense?”

  “Their friendship with me is in the past tense.”

  Shaking my head, I sigh. “Public school education, huh?”

  “Lick a dirty ass.”

  “Do you like dogs?” I ask and sip the piss-colored soda.

  Audrey blinks a few times and looks around as if she might have missed a part of our conversation. My ploy works, and she finally nods.

  “Did your twin friends like dogs?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “They moved away. We had plans to open up a bookstore for hipsters, but they left.”

  “Why did they go?”

  “Well, I thought we were a team,” she says, taking a deep breath as if about to give me a long—likely often told—explanation, “but obviously they were the team, and I was the extra person who came along. Now I wonder if they ever wanted me with them or they just thought they couldn’t tell me to piss off.”

 
The disappointment and rejection I see in her hypnotic gaze make me instantly hate her twins. After less than an hour, I’m geared up to protect her from all troubles—real or imagined.

  “I don’t know your twins, who we should refer to as the Twat Twins for clarity-sake. Did they ask you to come with them to Florida?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you go?”

  “Because Florida is the devil’s armpit.”

  “I thought that was Texas.”

  “Better bone up on geography, big guy. Texas is the devil’s butt crack.”

  Grinning at the ease with which she wields snark, I decide to get honest on her sexy ass. “So they wanted you to come, and you said no. Seems as if you’re the twat, and they’re the ones I should buy a sandwich.”

  “Hey, I’m not a twat.”

  “Prove it.”

  “How?” she asks, lifting her chin defiantly in much the same way my niece Mesa does when anyone messes with her little brother and sister.

  “Tell me how you were a good friend to them and they were bad friends to you. Oh, and skip the Florida betrayal sob story because we just proved you were the bitch in that scenario.”

  “I don’t see how it’s bitchy to remain in my hometown.”

  “I know you don’t, but we’ve already established you’re wrong.”

  “Would you leave your hometown for your friends?”

  “Maybe. Where do they want to go?”

  “Alabama. No, worse. Wait, what’s worse?”

  “Are you afraid to leave Ellsberg?” I ask as I lift the drink, remember it tastes like sugary piss, and return my cup to the table.

  “No.”

  “Why do you lie when you’re so bad at it?”

  “I hate you so much.”

  Smirking at her attempt at rage, I sigh. “That’s the worst lie of all.”

  “Look, I can’t leave Ellsberg. I mean, I probably don’t want to, but even if I did, I can’t. My mom needs me close. Family is important to her because hers was shit growing up. When my sister Lily was getting married to a dentist, he kept hinting he wanted to move to Boston or Chicago. Mom always seemed sad about having her baby so far away.”