A breath of laughter slips through Roman’s quick smile. “I go in there sometimes. I’ll make sure to stop by more often. This is wet, by the way.” Roman releases my shirt, his knuckles grazing my warm skin. God, I wish he’d stop touching me. “I hope your boss pays you well, because you’re next hundred dollars has got my name all over it.”
“Or,” I suggest, because not on your nelly am I giving up that much cash, “we could play again?”
Quiet laughter rumbles through Roman’s chest. I’m so aware of every one of his movements pressed this close to him. “Nope. It doesn’t work like that. You owe me, Brooke. So just give me what I want, and we can all be happy.”
I shake my head. “Nuh-uh, not me. And not that girl over there.”
“Jennifer,” he clarifies.
“Who’s still watching us, by the way.”
When Roman’s dark gaze lowers to my mouth, I take that as my cue to feed some sense back into my brain. I remove myself from him as gracefully as possible, quicker than the hand that reaches out to stop me.
“I’m leaving now,” I turn and say, my voice firm, leaving no doubt I mean business.
Roman smiles. It’s a victory smile, and that makes me nervous. “See you through the window, then.”
“Yeah, ha, ha.”
“You still owe me.” He’s staring, his mouth permanently quirked on one side. Cocky shit.
“Sure I do.” Looks like I’ll be putting an unfortunate dent in my checking account balance.
Watching Brooke walk away, ducking in the path to the TV screen and scowling at the arm-flailing asshole cussing her out for blocking the view of his poorly-played game, I really don’t give a fuck about the money—she can keep every last cent. But there’ll be no rematch or flaking out on our agreement.
Jen’s a circling shark, and with no protection or energy to put up with her revolving clinginess, I stand up and go look for my teammates.
I’m the designated, but no way am I hanging around here all night with Jen on the prowl. Sooner or later, she’ll close in, and without alcohol, I can’t deal with her. She’s physically draining. It wasn’t always that way, but it is what it is. I made my bed and it’s too uncomfortable even look at. Like I’m the only one.
West and D-man, Nathan Bowers, are outside in a heated round of pitch and toss, so that just leaves Kempy unaccounted for. Chances are high he’s inside with his hand in some girl’s G-string. He’s on a personal mission to see how many holes he can conquer in the shortest amount of time.
“Are you fucking blind?” West bellows, charging over to the beige clapboard siding of the apartment we’re outside of. “You’re nowhere near me.” He crouches on the balls of his Air Jordans, pointing to a cluster of silver coins.
“This is what you dipshits have been doing all night?” I stand at the bottom of the stairway and ask. The exterior building lamps are on, the energy-saving sconces bathing the breezeway in patchworks of watery, yellow light.
“Get outta here!” Bowers throws back. He sucks his teeth. “Your quarter’s applied for a fucking passport it’s so far away.”
“Look at this!” West’s wide-eyed. Slack-jawed. And this whole fucking argument’s pathetic.
I square it off, unzipping and sticking my hand in my jacket pocket and digging out a heap of coins. I rifle through the silver and pick the quarter. “Move outta my way,” I say to West, getting into position.
He pushes to standing and steps back, but still close enough he can see exactly where my money lands. Anyone would think more than loose change is on the line.
Bending one leg at the knee, I lean my weight on it and crouch a little, eye up the wall, and then throw. The quarter bounces off the ground and settles side by side with another coin.
We all rush to the wall, crouching to see whose throw landed closest.
“Whose is that?” I point to the quarter next to mine.
“Mine,” a guy I don’t know speaks up.
I stick my head up, looking around for an impartial judge. As if I summoned her with my own mind, Brooke walks through the apartment doorway, her eyes widening and her footsteps slowing when she notices me looking at her.
“Get over here, B, and settle an argument.” She approaches cautiously, taking in the small crowd I’m with. “Tell me which quarter’s the nearest to this wall. And none of you say a word,” I warn the others.
Brooke walks right up to us. I step back so she can see what we’re all hunched over looking at. She crouches down, pins her mint-green ponytail to her shoulder with her hand, and peers at the coins, eyes narrowing like she needs glasses for the task.
“That one,” she says confidently, pointing to my quarter.
I step forward to claim my prize. “You heard her. Thanks, boys.” I pick up the quarters one by one, pausing over the last one. I flip the round piece of silver in my fingers. “Which stingy fuck put down a nickel?”
Bowers shrugs. “I threw for three. That’s fifty-five cents I’ve lost.”
“You can’t just stride in and fucking clean up on one round, King,” West gripes.
“One coin, one throw. Bowers throws for three, that’s his mistake. Money’s mine now.”
“I’ll play you,” Brooke challenges. Everyone here stops to look at her. “Unless you’re afraid you’ll lose.”
Colin O’Shae and that Maddie girl walk outside, Hunter Matthew a few paces behind them. I get sidetracked by Maddie’s legs for a second. She looks good tonight, and her dress is tiny.
I look back at Brooke, the braggy half-smile on her face washing away. “You need me to loan you the quarter?” I separate one from my stash and hold it out to her.
Rolling her eyes, she puts her hand in the pocket of her black shorts underneath her coat and comes out with a handful of money.
“I’m covered, thanks. You hold onto that while you still have it.”
Sitting on the first step of the stairway, West Ooofs into his fist.
“Kick his ass, Brooke,” Maddie encourages her friend in the least threatening voice to ever come out of a person’s mouth. Even Colin swaps looks with ten-foot Hunter.
Brooke turns her head and says to me, “You can go first.”
Usually, I prefer to see what I’m up against, but I go with it. “Anything to give you that advantage.”
“Like I need an advantage. But whatever makes you feel better about yourself.” Brook flashes me a quick, smug grin before facing the wall, measuring the distance with her eyes, and then flipping up her quarter.
She got damn close with it, but I don’t let her know that. She’s too full of herself as it is. I throw my own coin, groaning as it comes up short by at least three inches of asphalt.
“Well would you look at that.” Brooke grins at me, her drunk friend clapping and hollering from the stairway.
What can I say? I hate losing. At anything.
“It was a fluke. Let’s go again.”
We go for four more rounds, Brooke cleaning up on every one of them. By the time we’re done, I’m down to bronze that I’ll probably stick in the charity tub at the rink.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” West says, eyeing me like I’m the campus embarrassment.
I ignore him and say to Brooke, “You still owe me.”
“Of course I do,” she says in a bored tone, her smile laced with promise. “Goodnight now.”
She backpedals to the stairway, Madison joining her shortly after, and I watch her discreetly, half-listening to West ramble on about how his new skates are fucking up his feet.
“You just need to break them in,” I say, shifting a quick glance his way. “They’ll be fine after that. You can’t wear your old skates forever.”
When Brooke’s completely out of sight, and now I know that this is her building, I turn and head for my truck. Pulling out my phone, I fire off a short text to Kempy letting him know he’s got five minutes to get his horny ass out here or I’m leaving him behind.
Offloa
ding my duffel onto my bed, I head straight to the kitchen to get started on breakfast. I’m starving after two hours of weight training, and I pull ingredients from the fridge and the cabinets to make blueberry pancakes and eggs.
West pours Cinnamon Oatmeal Squares into a glass mixing bowl, drowning his mammoth breakfast with skim milk.
I grab the big plastic spoon from the utensils holder and pass it to him.
He snorts, rubbing a hand over his chest. “Fuck off. A regular size spoon will do.”
While I wait for the eggs to cook, West and I munch on the blueberries. Then we pelt each other’s faces with the tiny balls of fruit until there’s none left, and I make regular buttermilk pancakes instead, throwing in a handful of granola to bulk up the batter.
Kempy drags himself off the couch to tuck into the pancakes, his phone in his left hand while he shovels food into his mouth and watches what sounds like bad seventies porn.
I’ve got two drawings to finish later for one of my classes tomorrow, but since it’s Sunday, that’s as exciting as my plans for the day go.
After breakfast, and a couple of intense rounds of NHL on the PlayStation, I turn on the Patriots game and stretch out on the couch with the remote and a bottle of water.
I can’t get into the game though, and I pull out my phone from the pocket of my sweatpants and attempt to sign into the Instagram account I never use. It takes two tries and a password reset to an email address I could barely remember the password for before I’m into my old account.
I’ve got no fucking idea what Brooke’s surname is, and if I bring her name up to West again, he’ll rip me a new one for asking about her when I’ve grilled him once already.
Trying something else, I bring up West’s Insta, scrolling through the uploads until I stop at one of his tattoo. And like the stand-up guy he is, there’s a loud shoutout to the artist who designed it for him.
“What the fuck are you smiling at?” Kempy strolls into the living room from the tiny dining room joined onto it. He leans over the back of the couch, and I jerk my arm to one side when he swipes for my phone, then roll to face him, reaching out and slapping him in the face with a resounding stinger that I feel all the way in my elbow.
West bursts into laughter from the armchair.
I shake out my tingling palm, laughing when Kempy tugs off one of my socks, launching himself across the laminate floor with either end of the white athletic sock in each hand and stuffing it over West’s mouth like a gag.
They wrestle like two untrained animals, and I browse Brooke’s page, frowning when I don’t see a single picture of her. Everything’s artwork, or art related. Don’t get me wrong, this shit’s impressive, especially because she drew most of it, but I’d kinda been hoping for a face or a body pic.
I keep scrolling and coming up empty, but the more I see of her drawings, the more I start noticing how good they are. There’s a running theme in a few of the pictures, and I tap my thumb over one of them, reading the caption. I tap the link, and it takes me to an online comic website.
By the time I’ve finished the irritating process of signing up just so I can see any of the content, Kempy and West have finished roughing each other up.
Someone knocks at the front door, and West hollers, “It’s open!”
Kempy drags out the bean bag chair, dumping his body onto it in front of the TV and what’s left of the second quarter.
The door opens and footsteps shuffle across the floor, then someone says, “Hey, Mr. King.”
My eyes go round as I stare at West. He presses his lips together, doing a shit job of hiding his stupid smirk.
Shifting on the couch, I glance behind me, at Jen standing just inside the living room, one of her friends walking in after her. Rachel Piper. I only know who she is because she’s been getting steady dick from our third-liner, Nathan Bowers, and I couldn’t tell you why either of them are here now.
I glance between them, pressing the side button on my phone and switching the screen to black. “Ah… Bowers is in the apartment downstairs.”
The front door pushes open, and Bowers’ loud mouth makes it inside before he does.
“What’s up, pussies?” He slings one arm around Rachel’s shoulders, dipping his head to nip her earlobe with his teeth. She tucks her chin to her chest and giggles, and I’m getting a headache already.
Jen rounds the sofa. I swing my legs over the side of the couch and sit up, shuffling back onto the cushions.
“Hey,” she says, smiling. She crosses her legs at the knee, body angled so she’s facing me.
“Hey.” I slip my phone into my pocket. There goes my chill Sunday. I can practically hear it walking away and into some other lucky bastard’s apartment.
“Saw you last night. Why’d you leave so early? I thought maybe you’d hang around for a while.” She nudges me in the calf with the tip of her laced-up boot. “Missed you.”
“Yeah…” I push my fingers through my hair, making eye contact with West while my forearm covers my expression from Jen. “I had to be up early this morning to get to the gym.”
“Who’s that girl you’re always with now?” Jen hastily asks, like she hasn’t listened to a word I’ve just said.
“What girl?” Brooke hasn’t agreed to anything yet, so if I drag her into something she refuses to be a part of now, I’m making myself look like a bigger douche when Jen catches me out in the lie.
“With the green hair.” She pulls a face like a bad fart lingers.
Her hair isn’t green, but whatever. “Brooke.” I don’t elaborate. Giving Jen more information will only cause more grief for me.
Bowers squeezes his big body onto the couch next to Jen, nudging her closer to me to make more room for himself. Rachel sits between his legs on the floor with her back to the couch and a beer in her hand that Bowers took out of our fridge.
I focus on the game, and not Jen’s hand as it creeps over my thigh, her fingers stroking the gray fabric of my sweatpants. Ten minutes in, her head’s on my shoulder.
I glance at West. He brings his loosely clenched fist under his mouth and mimics a blowjob, his head subtly bobbing back and forth as he looks slyly at Jen.
I can’t get Jen off me quick enough when my phone rings from inside my pocket. My sister shows up as the caller ID, and I take the phone into my bedroom, shutting the door behind me. I didn’t invite Jen over here, so I don’t feel bad for leaving her in the living room. That’s on Bowers.
I hit answer, dropping onto the end of my bed. “What’s up?”
“Hey, big bro.”
“Everything all right?” I ask. I’m never sure when it comes to Kimberly. She’s seventeen, and always getting herself into some level of trouble.
“Can’t a girl talk to her brother without anything being wrong?” she asks sweetly.
“Yeah, a girl can. You can’t.”
She huffs. “Don’t be mean, Roman.”
“Kim, seriously. Why are you calling?”
“Okay.” She breathes through the phone, drawing out the long breath. “Can I come stay with you for a few days?”
My spine snaps straight. “Why? What about school?” Fucking school. “Tell me you haven’t been suspended again.”
“What, no!” Kimberly scoffs. “Nothing like that. I just need to get away for a while. Aunt Stephanie’s on my case every day, and I need a break from her and everyone. I can’t breathe in this house, Roman. She’s suffocating me.”
Sighing, I drop my head and bury my fingers in my hair. I could do without Kimberly’s shit. “Steph’s cool, so it must be you, Kimberly. Why’s she on your case? And don’t say for no reason, because I don’t believe you.”
Nothing’s ever Kimberly’s fault, or at least that’s what she’s managed to convince herself. As her family, and front-row spectator to most of her shitshows, I know that isn’t true. Trouble doesn’t follow her, she creates it.
“So, you’re blaming me?” Kimberly’s on the defensive, her tone s
harper now, that fake sweetness disintegrated.
“No, I’m not blaming you, Kimberly. How can I fucking blame you when you won’t tell me what you’ve done?”
“I haven’t done anything!”
The line beeps and then goes dead.
“Fuck’s sake.” I throw my phone across the bed. I consider calling her back, entertaining the idea for less than a minute before I decide I’m not going to be a part of whatever mess she’s made for herself. If it’s that bad, Steph will call or text me herself, and I haven’t heard a word out of her.
Besides, Kimberly’s a drama queen, exaggerating everything, blowing it all out of proportion because that’s just how she’s wired now.
I’m still sitting on my bed thinking about absolutely nothing when three soft knocks sound at the door.
“Yeah?” I say, more sigh than an actual word.
The door opens, and Jen pokes her head around the frame. Her smile’s soft and understanding, even though she doesn’t know anything about the phone call or who it was.
“You wanna watch some Netflix?” she asks, eyebrows slightly raised. “We could watch it in here, away from the others.”
I look into her eyes, think briefly about my sister. But she’s all the way in Berlin, Northern New Hampshire, and I’m here. There isn’t much I can do about whatever she’s gotten herself into.
“Sure,” I say on another weak sigh.
Jen comes into the room and closes the door. I hand her the remote so she can choose what we watch, and I lie on my bed, propped up with two pillows. I slide my hand behind my head and Jen lies beside me.
Halfway through the garbage movie she’s put on, the inevitable happens, and she turns around, draping her arm across my stomach, her eyelids fluttering closed. The rest of the script usually plays out like this: she teases me with her long nails over my skin, drags her fingers over the side of my face, and I lean in to kiss her, forgetting the movie, more interested in what she’s wearing or not wearing beneath her clothes.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, I capture her hand in mine when her fingers become restless, and I keep it still in my grip. I walk her to the door when the movie’s finished, giving her some bullshit excuse for why I’m not walking her home.
Rule #1 Page 5
