by S. E. Hall
“Two things, boy, that’ll tell ya all you need to know. First one is, make sure your door is locked when you get her settled in the car. If she reaches over and unlocks it for you on her own, she cares—thoughtful and giving by nature. That’s the girl you hold hands with, work for that first kiss, then keep working until she thinks you’re worthy of her forever. And when you finally convince her, use every damn day to make sure she never changes her mind.”
The minute I’d shut her door and taken one, maybe two, steps toward my side, Reece was stretched as far as her tiny body would allow, pulling up the manual lock on mine.
“Buckle up,” I grunt, the sound of uncomfortable discovery and meaningful advice long buried revealing itself. I know the next steps here are put in key, turn on ignition, drive… so why I’m choosing to sit frozen and gawk at her baffles me.
“You lost your keys, didn’t you?” she asks with a teasing grin.
No, just my mind. I shake my head back and forth in slow motion.
“You forgot something inside?” she guesses.
I take my time with another head shake.
“Rhett, I’m starting to feel panicky. Why aren’t you talking? Are you having a stroke? This is the universal sign for choking,” She wraps both hands around her throat. “How many fingers am I holding up?” Two. “You’re freaking me out. SPEAK!”
“You ever been in this old of a car?” I’m finally able to articulate, in a curious, almost fascinated tone I haven’t had reason to use in a while. Since the last time this girl had me using it.
“I don’t know.” She sits up straighter and answers with a hint of defiance. “How old of a car is it?”
“Sixty-nine.” Yes, I coat it in convenient innuendo and throw in a grin.
“Did you pick that year just so you could use that cheesy line on women in your car?” She rolls her eyes.
“Nope, but you’re blushing, so it worked out nicely.”
“It really didn’t.”
Yes, it did. The corner of her mouth is twitching and she’s struggling to keep her eyes averted.
“But no,” she adds, “I guess I haven’t ever ridden in a classic. Why?”
“You pulled up the door lock for me. What made you do that?” I speak lower and lean toward her in a comforting way, since I sense she’s anything but.
“Well, there’s no automatic button”—she points at her door panel—“and the stick thing was pushed down, so I brilliantly deduced”—an impish smirk and tap to her temple—“to. Pull. Up.”
Before I realize it, I’m laughing softly and running the back of my hand down her cheek. “So you’ve never done that before?”
“No.” Her brow wrinkles in utter confusion. “And another first—this conversation. Well beyond the strangest and most in-depth one I’ve ever had about door locks. Seriously, you mind telling me why we’ve been sitting here for a good five minutes examining this? What are we even talking about?” Her tiny hands flutter up and out in question.
“Nothing.” I run my tongue along my teeth leisurely, giving my skepticism versus captivation time to debate.
“Nothing? You’re a man, let me ask you. Are you guys aware you have your own language? Coded, cryptic meanderings about random, non-substantial things, like door locks for example, yet you mumble ‘nothing’ when asked a direct question? I swear, talking to guys is like trying to work Sudoku with a Sharpie… while blindfolded. Do you do it just to aggravate us, or is it truly a chromosomal thing?”
“A little of both.” I laugh. “But this, hear. Thank you.” I slide my hand farther down her velvety cheek, then along her jawline at the same speed those little puffs of air slip past her parted lips. “For getting my door for me. Very thoughtful, Teaspoon.” Tea.”
“You’re welcome,” she whispers, clearly puzzled as to why it’s momentous…but shivering because she knows it is.
When I said I wouldn’t scrutinize all that Vegas has offered so far, I lied. I spent all night tossing and turning, my mind a swirling vortex of analysis—focusing on one particular facet. I ran the entire mental gamut of possible “takes” on Rhett—from he’s an asshole and I’m better off, to he owed me nothing, I’m certainly not perfect, to I’d been justified in insulting him. The only reason I’m revisiting it now is because of the intangible shift that joined him behind the wheel.
And the beanie.
Nothing not to like about a beanie.
But in all seriousness, whatever he stopped and pondered, eyes closed and head tilted back as though hungry for the sun’s heat, it was significant. As is the weight of his affectionate gaze, currently cast on me.
No, I’m being ridiculous, sleep deprived, and a hopeless romantic. I turn toward him a smidge. “So, what am I gonna do about Landry?” I ask of he who knows nothing about my friend or her “history,” purely in the interest of tension filling conversation.
He laughs, appropriate considering. “How should I know? She got her own apartment to move back into?” He pulls his gaze from me and starts the car.
“Nope,” I pop.
“Job?”
“Quit last week.”
“Family? Savings? Any remnants of a life or independence before this guy?”
“She’s not super close with her family and savings is a definite no. Landry’s, um…” I mull it over, deciding on the most respectful way to say it. “Landry’s a very spontaneous person. I’m never sure what her plans are, and just when I think I do, they change the next day.”
He doesn’t respond. The normally quiet click of the blinker booms through our silence.
“It’ll all be over soon” is the mantra in my head, enabling me to remain cool and collected. I live hundreds of miles away and will be returning there before you know it, while they’ll all be left to gallivant free and crazy in Vegas.
I’m almost positive I’m jealous.
“We’re here.”
His icy, bored tone draws my thoughts back to now, as well as his second mood swing of the morning. I climb out, as does he, to find what I assume is Jarrett’s truck backed up to the open front door of Landry’s cute, albeit small, white house. I wonder if he parked both left tires on what was once a flower bed, which I’m certain Landry didn’t plant, on purpose?
“Yo!” Rhett yells inside.
“In here,” Jarrett hollers back. “Grab the dolly outta my truck on your way.”
Rhett grumbles something under his breath then jumps up in the bed and unloads the dolly. When both his feet are back on the ground, he reaches behind his head and yanks his shirt over and off in one tug.
Several things all register at once, the foremost of which is—I thought he had “a thing” about taking off his shirt? Secondly, Penny Parsons couldn’t get the job done. Third, and hands down the most mesmerizing, is my introduction to every sculpted part of his finely cared for upper body.
“Okay for me to head inside now, or you need me to knock out a couple pirouettes, maybe come a little closer so you can get a better look?” He teases when he catches me…surveying.
My traitorous eyes amble up his glorious length, coming to rest on his antagonizing blue ones that give his wry smirk extra zing. Damn my stupid blush, blazing up my neck and face. “Ease up on the ego, boy toy. I was simply wondering a couple things.”
“Which were?” One brow lifts.
“How do you know what a pirouette is?”
“Black Swan, forced to watch it. Turned out all right though—Natalie Portman’s a cutie. Next?”
“To what does the moving party owe the coveted award of you shedding your shirt? You know, the one thing even the magnificent, newsworthy Penny Parsons couldn’t accomplish?” I cross my arms and purse my lips, damn proud of the intelligible verbiage I’m managing, despite my flustered brain.
“No chance of something impersonal being made personal here. If I could figure out how to fuck ‘em through my pants, I’d leave them on too. Women tend to get all sappy, asking questions that are none
of their fucking business and conjuring up deeper meanings. A lot like you’re doing now, actually.” He scowls.
Oh, there’s deeper meaning behind it all right. Taking off your shirt’s more personal than having sex with someone? Um, no, and he doesn’t believe that for a second. It’s another of his nonsensical idiosyncrasies I’ve yet to unravel… kinda like the door locks. But I’ll be damned if I act as if I care now that I’ve been compared to his hussies. He thinks he’s a mystery, but I’ve seen more of him than what his shirt keeps covered.
“Penny Parsons? The Penny Parsons?” Jarrett chooses now to come barreling through the front door. “Damn, bro, you really upped your game. Gimme some.” He lifts his hand for a congratulatory high-five that Rhett doesn’t reciprocate.
Instead, Rhett pins me with a “go to hell” look and scoots past Jarrett to storm inside.
Jarrett turns to me. “What the hell was that all about?”
I shrug and plaster on a tight grin. “Nothing much. Your brother ditched me ‘cause my legs didn’t fly open fast enough and he landed himself right between the very accommodating pair of Ms. Parsons. But don’t worry, I got to hear the whole thing. It was”—I place my hand over my heart and sigh dreamily—“magical.”
“Yeah, whatever you say. Um, Landry needs your help packing.”
I nod, suddenly embarrassed by my childish theatrics, and slink past him to go find Landry. She’s on the floor of the bedroom, crying and throwing things in boxes with the finesse of Godzilla. My original plan of chewing her a new ass vanishes with the lost, angry look in her eyes.
“Landry, honey, why don’t you let me do this? If it’s worth packing, it’s worth keeping in one piece, right?” I say calmly, while carefully extracting a figurine from her death grip.
“I’m taking our bed.” She sniffles. “He’s not fucking her in it!”
“I’d say that’s reasonable. I’ll ask them to load it next. Now what about your clothes, bathroom, electronics? We need to hurry. I don’t want Stephen coming back and causing a scene.”
“You’re right.” She wipes her nose and jumps up, determination anew. “I’ll do the closet. You get what’s in that dresser.” She points.
Once everything that will fit is packed in the truck or crammed in Landry and Rhett’s small cars, we all come to the same sudden epiphany. Looking back and forth at one another, I pray someone has an answer… or at least a good idea.
“Where are we taking all this? And the two of you?” Rhett finally asks.
The million-dollar question, which I defer to Landry, silently asking her the same with wide, imploring eyes.
“Reece, you got any money?” Her tears spring free as she mouses out the question.
“A little. Why?”
“No, I mean money, like to loan me for a place.”
I do, but if I make a noticeable withdrawal, it’ll get noticed. I’ll worry about that later though—this is Landry. My oldest, only really, friend. My human, who frustrates me almost as often as she reminds me why I adore her. “Yes, of course. Whatever you need.”
“Hold up,” Jarrett busts in, waving his arms. “Nobody get all crazy. Listen.” He holds Landry’s shoulders, dipping his face even to hers. “If Ness is moving into your pad, move into hers! I’ve got two bedrooms and I owe you big for posting bail for me. You took a huge leap of faith. Let me return the favor.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t.” She clutches her chest, which is so unlike her, and tugs her bottom lip in her teeth. “Unless, you’re sure?” There she is, fluttering eyelashes, insta-Southern belle twang and all.
She’s Connecticut born and raised. Just sayin’.
“Why not?” Jarrett laughs, and as my hand slowly raises to answer, Rhett lowers it for me with a soft chuckle. “It’ll be fun. Hell, I spent years on a bus with the most uptight female on the planet. This’ll be a breeze.”
I look at Rhett, who’s standing rigidly, his arms crossed over his once-again covered chest, stoic mask on his face. I nudge him and use my expression to try and plead with him to do something, but he denies me with a brisk shake of his head.
“It’s settled then. Let’s get going!” Rhett announces with a sharp clap and quick pivot toward his car. “Reece, you’re with me.”
I’m too dumbfounded to ask questions or protest. What in the actual f just happened?
“No, really, what just happened?” I wonder again, apparently out loud this time, Rhett’s laughter snagging my attention.
“Quit worrying.” He opens the passenger door, motioning me in with a jerk of his chin. “I’ll tell ya exactly how this is gonna play out on the ride over.”
“The ride over?” I parrot, settling into my seat.
He shakes his head and grins as he closes my door, not responding until he’s in and has the car started. “They’ll rebound fuck ‘til they both feel better, then Jarrett’ll let her have the apartment when he asks me to go back out on the road. So stop stressing. Your friend’ll be thoroughly satisfied, over her heartbreak, and have a place to live in no time. Believe me, if I had any doubt this wouldn’t work out, I’d step in. He is my little brother.”
If I thought I was confused before… On the road? Investigation all but over, the Fred Jones theory proving as unlikely as I already suspected. But then why…
“I can smell your brain smoking, Reece. You’re worrying needlessly. So they both thought they’d found love, they hadn’t. Not exactly a shocking plot twist. Give ‘em a couple weeks to sweat out their revenge and disillusionment and they’ll be as good as new. Only a free soul can thrive, wild and untamed. We step back while they fuck like crazy for a while, everything’ll be fine. Trust me.”
“Rubik’s Cube.” The random, but accurate, analogy pops out of my mouth of its own volition.
“What?” he asks.
He heard me. Might as well explain. “You, you’re a freakin’ Rubik’s Cube. Just when I think I have one of your moods, which we’ll refer to as ‘yellow,’ sorted out, you talk again… and it’s like flipping over the cube. Sure, I’ve got all the yellow together, but the red, blue and orange are still a mess. And if I start trying to figure those out, I’ll screw up the yellow!” I heave in exasperation but can’t contain the rest. “Seriously, Rhett, English isn’t my second language. It’s my only language. So I’m having trouble following all your African tongue-clicking. And warning, if interpretive dance comes next, save it. I don’t understand that either.”
“Oh shit,” he chokes out through raucous laughter, steering with one hand and clutching his side with the other. “I gotta pull over.” And he does, lost in his hysterics for several more minutes.
“Thank you, Teaspoon. That felt so damn good.” He smiles at me when he’s finally caught his breath and wiped his eyes.
“I do what I can, but I wasn’t kidding. Explain to me the part about two strangers living together being a good idea again? And on the road? For what?” I’m edging, holding on to plausible deniability by a guilty thread, so I switch gears to all the other stuff tripping me up. “Or better yet, tell me about you, with me, I just… I know why you danced with me. I even sadly comprehend why you left me stranded. It was shallow and deplorable, but I have a general understanding of your motivation. Even the fight in the hall, I get, was much my fault as anyone’s. But since you knocked on my door this morning, I’ve sincerely felt like I’ve got whiplash. You’re tender and introspective, then you’re a cocky ass, then you’re just talking superficial madness. I can’t keep up.”
The lingering happiness on his face disappears, his staple guise of pessimistic superiority restored. “Do you pick apart and analyze everything, all the time?”
“Hmph.” I cross my arms. How he lures out the boisterous, argumentative, yet playful and engaged version of me, I have no idea. “Do you assume to know everything about everyone, all the time?”
“I’m usually right.” His gaze bounces over every part of me, then locks back on mine. “Except with you.” It’s m
ore a thought, escaping in breathless reverence, than a statement…and my skin prickles.
“Psshh.” I dismiss his intensity with a wave and shaky laugh. The only other option—absorbing it—terrifies me. “I’m only an exception because I didn’t fall into bed with you. Men want what they can’t have. That, I know, is a chromosomal thing. Men see the forbidden as a challenge and the challenge as a sign. It’s not. You’re smarter than that.”
His enigmatic stare bores into me as we sit in silence—very uncomfortably if you ask me, but he seems… content.
“Rhett? Maybe it’s not my place…” I take a deep breath. “No, it’s absolutely not my place, and very soon you’ll never have to listen to me again, but…” I should shut up, having taken a humongous step over the line already, yet I can’t fight whatever compels me to continue my uninvited analysis. “You’re a thinker, a feeler. Nothing is impersonal to you.” I dare to lay my hand over his. “Face it, you’re good. Except at acting.” I laugh. “Really, you’re wasting your time with all the ‘tortured soul’ nonsense. Locks have keys and walls can be climbed. I’m not buying your whole grumpy, callous routine for one minute. So unless you have a terminal disease or something, why don’t you snap out of it and at least try to be happy?” I’m literally trembling, adrenaline buzzing through me so fast, there’re little white spots in my vision. That will quickly become a much bigger issue when he tosses me out and I have to see to walk. “If you quit sleeping with just anyone, you’ll get better at deciphering the exceptional from the exceptions.”
“Ya think so, huh?” is all he has to say, his expression and voice hollow.
“Definitely. You disagree?”
He completely bypasses my question. “At first I was pissed you turned me down. But now I’m so glad we didn’t fuck, Teaspoon.”
What? I shake off the chill of his cruelty and fire back. “Wait just a dang minute, you, you…” Now I’m tongue-tied? “I’m way out of line, and I’m sorry if I got too personal. I mean, what do I possibly know? We just met. But my intentions were kind! There’s no need for you to be so hateful and nasty!” I sense tears building; the end of my nose tingles. “You’d be lucky, if I let you do that with me…” I look intently at the floorboard, my angry speech fading off pitifully.
