Van

by Sawyer Bennett

  "No, I'm not fucking okay," he slurs, and shrugs my hold off him. I release him and he immediately starts to pitch to the side, so I grab him again.

  "Okay," I say like I'm talking to a child. "Let's see about getting you to bed to sleep this off."

  "Fuck that," he yells, and twists away from me so hard I lose my hold. He lurches into the kitchen, looks about blindly for a moment. His eyes land on a half-empty casserole dish with lasagna that Simone had baked earlier tonight. I refused to eat dinner with her, preferring to stay holed up on my room and out of sight of her sinful little body, but I did eat some after she left for work.

  It was fucking delicious.

  Lucas stumbles forward, picks up the casserole dish, and then to my utter fucking shock, he hurls it across the kitchen with an anguished roar. It hits the wall beside the refrigerator, lasagna exploding in all directions like a bomb had been inside.

  "Fucking goddamn Stephanie," he yells again as he stumbles, then rights himself. He stares at me swaying back and forth, raising a shaky hand to point to me. "Don't do it, man. Don't ever fucking fall in love. It's the fucking pits."

  I don't bother to tell him he doesn't have to worry about that from me, because it's wasted conversation. He won't remember this tomorrow, I'm sure.

  So instead I walk up to him so I can take his arm. "Come on, buddy. Let's get you into bed so you can sleep this off."

  Lucas doesn't fight me this time, but manages a drunk walk back to his bedroom. I manage to lower him to his bed, where he just stares at the ceiling. I leave him for a moment, going back into the kitchen to get some water. I also grab the garbage can, because I have a feeling he'll be blowing chunks before the morning hours.

  When I walk back into his room, he's still staring at the ceiling. He doesn't lift his head, but he must have heard me walk in.

  "You ever been in love, Van?" he asks me, his words weirdly not as slurred.

  "Nope," I answer as I put the can beside the bed. I untwist the bottled water and ask him, "Can you sit up? You need to drink this."

  Lucas struggles, but manages to pull himself up so he's half leaning against the headboard. I hand the water to him and watch as he drinks it, a good amount spilling down his shirt.

  "Stephy called it quits tonight," he mutters after drinking more than half the bottle. I just stand there, not sure what to say. I've never had a close enough friend that I'd ever talk about this shit to, so I have no clue if he wants commiseration, advice, or just quiet solidarity.

  I hope it's the quiet solidarity, because that's all I got.

  "Fucking told her I wanted marriage and a family with her," he mumbles miserably. "And you know what she told me?"

  "What?" I ask, because I honestly have no clue. I can't even identify with this conversation.

  "She told me she wanted space," he says bitterly, the words starting to slur again. "Wanted to just be friends again."

  "That sucks, man," I say quietly, and it's my best guess as to what's appropriate in this situation. I don't know Lucas all that well, but I have come to learn that both he and his brother Max have hearts of gold. Everyone on the team knows that, and I know the guy has to be particularly broken up because Stephanie is pregnant. That's something he shared with the team a few weeks ago and his excitement was palpable.

  "She's a loner, Van," Lucas says, bleary eyes try to focus on me. "She prefers it that way."

  Now that is something I can finally identify with.

  "Her parents made her into that," Lucas continues.

  Can also identify with that.

  "Really did a number on her. In fact, I told her she'd probably fuck our kid up the way her parents fucked her up."

  That is something I so acutely understand I get a fucking lump in my throat. This I identify with on a goddamn cellular level. I am fully aware of the dangers of dysfunctional families and how that shit gets passed down from generation to generation.

  I'm terrified of it, actually, and this is why I understand Stephanie and why she's a loner like me. I empathize with her. I really do. But she fucked up by letting someone in. The dysfunction that's bound to be inherited and later manifested will never be known if you keep yourself removed from others. I'm a firm believer in that, but Stephanie must have been swayed otherwise.

  And looking at Lucas so completely destroyed by this, I can't help but fucking feel sorry for him as well.

  "Drink the rest of that," I tell him. "Then you need to get some sleep. Things will look better tomorrow."

  --

  I hear the front door open and then softly close. I finish swiping the mop over the bathroom floor a few more times before I turn the light out and exit. I meet Simone in the hallway.

  She looks exhausted.

  Sinfully hot as hell, but completely drained.

  Her eyes take in the mop, and I'm sure her nose can identify the smell of Lysol coming out of the bathroom.

  "Mopping at 2 A.M.?" she asks with a raised eyebrow.

  "Cleaning up your brother's vomit," I say dryly as I jerk my head toward his bedroom door. "I think he's done, though."

  "Vomit?" she asks with clear worry in her voice.

  "Let me get this rinsed out," I tell her as I walk past her to the kitchen.

  She follows me in there, placing her purse on the small table. Her eyes take in reddish-orange stains of tomato sauce I'd wiped off the walls. I didn't get to clean it well, though, because Lucas decided to start hurling his guts and I think he's just now gotten it all out of his system.

  "What happened?" she murmurs as I put the mop into the sink and start to clean it.

  "He showed up a few hours ago drunk out of his mind," I tell her. "Like blind, stinking drunk. Could barely walk."

  "His car isn't out front," she says distractedly.

  "Thank God he must have been clearheaded enough to use a taxi or an Uber," I remark.

  "Why was he so drunk?" she asks.

  I look over my shoulder at her. "Stephanie broke up with him."

  "Oh no," Simone gasps as her hand comes to cover her mouth in surprise. "Oh, she can't. He loves her."

  Yup. Got the whole story about it while I helped hold him somewhat steady over the garbage can, and then later in the bathroom when he'd tried to walk in there by himself. He puked all over the tiled floor and got very little in the toilet.

  I wring the mop out and put it out on the deck that leads off the kitchen. When I close the door, I walk back to the sink to wash my hands.

  "Is he okay? Physically, I mean," Simone asks.

  "Yeah, I think so," I tell her as I pour a generous amount of dish soap on my hands. I fucking hate vomit and I feel like it's all over me.

  As I'm scrubbing my hands, Simone says, "Thank you for taking care of him."

  Her words punch into me...straight through me at the soft gratitude in her voice. It's a far cry from the sassy talk, overt flirting, and sexual come-ons she's been dropping like bombs all around me. It's definitely not the same woman who whipped her shirt off so shamelessly four days ago. I hope to fuck she never finds out I've been jacking off to the thought of her amazingly fantastic tits since then, or she'll never leave me alone.

  Christ, I didn't want her in my head, but she's firmly planted there now. How could she not be when she's always in my face, taunting me and then showing me her delectable body? When Lucas has been staying nights at Stephanie's, Simone prances around in a tight T-shirt and little boy-short panties. I don't hide my eyes because I'll never give her the satisfaction she's getting to me, but I do put on my blandest, most bored expression when I look at her. In turn, this frustrates her and she'll usually stomp off and hide in Lucas's bedroom.

  But I appreciate her gratitude toward me. Simple words of thanks and not a single fucking thing in it for her. She's truly sharing her appreciation for the friendship I extended to Lucas tonight, and nothing more.

  "Not a problem," I respond curtly, hoping that doesn't encourage her to talk further.

  "
What happened to the wall?" she asks curiously as I nab a few paper towels to dry my hands.

  I turn to look at it and smile wryly at her. "Your brother took exception to your lasagna. Hurled it in a fit of anger."

  "Oh," she says as she stares at the pathetic attempt I'd made to clean it.

  Her expression is clearly troubled, so I feel compelled to add, "I started to clean it up, but then he got sick. I've been nursing him on and off."

  "It's okay," she says distractedly, still staring at the wall. "I'll scrub it tomorrow."

  I'm not liking this Simone Fournier. She stands before me now looking all lost and helpless, and there's something unfurling inside of me that wants to make that better for her. The smart-ass but extremely sexual creature who I've been subjected to these past two and a half weeks is hard as hell to deal with. She's not just hard to handle, but she's dangerous to some extent, and not just because she's offering sex. I can get that anywhere, on any given day, and have been on several occasions since she's moved in.

  So what if I'm thinking of her while banging some other chick.

  But this young woman who is genuinely worried about her brother strikes a chord within me for some reason. I think perhaps it feels a little similar to the way that Etta cares for me and vice versa.

  "He'll be fine," I tell her, and she finally turns her head to look at me.

  She gives me the faintest of smiles and a nod of her head. "Yeah. Sure."

  I nod back at her, not sure if I like this stoically sad Simone. I'd almost rather have her come on to me right now, but I don't dare think that. Karma is a mean bitch.

  Turning away from me, Simone heads out of the kitchen without another word. For the life of me, I can't figure out why I have this overwhelming urge to run after her and ask her, Are you really okay? Because you don't seem okay. This isn't the rotten little deviant trying to get into my pants and it's freaking me out.

  But I don't.

  I let her walk quietly into the bathroom, where I can hear her start the shower. I've been awake on some nights when we've had home games, and I've heard her shower when she comes home from work in the early morning hours. She apparently has some job bartending or something like that.

  Or at least that's what I think Lucas told me, but I didn't really listen all that closely to him. I was trying to keep all fucking interest in his sister to an absolute minimum.

  Yes, I often hear Simone come in at night because I'm a light sleeper and because just her soft steps in the hallway irritate me. That irritation burrows deeper within me when I hear that shower start, and then I turn it inward when I start to get aroused at the thought of her in that shower.

  I could almost imagine how beautiful her tits would be all soaped up with hard nipples, and yeah...I'd get off to the fantasy of it while I lay in bed and listened to the water run.

  But as I walk back to my bedroom, past the bathroom door, and listen to the water hitting the shower floor, I also hear something else.

  I lean toward the door, and fuck me...I can hear her crying in there.

  Something completely different punches into me this time, and I don't like that fucking feeling at all. I quickly pull away from the door and march staunchly into my room, determined that when the sun rises, I'm going to be putting Simone back on the other side of my wall.

  Chapter 4

  Simone

  Apparently tomato sauce on light blue porous paint doesn't come out so easy. I've been scrubbing the wall in the kitchen for over an hour now, and there's still a tinge of orange stain. I bend my elbow and scrub harder, trying to work out my angst over this situation.

  Not the tomato sauce, but Lucas.

  He was gone this morning when I woke up, and that was sending me a very direct message. I know he has to feel like shit this morning given how drunk he was last night and the copious amounts of vomit he threw up. Because I work late and don't get home until two or so in the morning, I usually sleep in. But this morning I made myself get up so I could make a pot of coffee and some dry toast for Lucas.

  Except when I knocked on his bedroom door and peeked my head in, he was gone.

  I can't even imagine where he went or how he snuck by me while I slept on the couch. Perhaps he went over to Stephanie's to try to talk some sense into her. Perhaps he went out to breakfast. Or perhaps he went over to the Neuse River Greenway to walk the beautiful paths and mourn his loss.

  My heart squeezes painfully at that thought. I actually can't bear the thought of Lucas being in pain from a broken heart. Not when I've seen how he feels about her, and not when I know how important this baby has become to him. Certainly not when I know that he loves her, and his dream of having a family with her has just been crushed.

  I scrub harder at the wall and tears spring to my eyes in frustration, as I just can't get the stain out. I have been nothing more than a screaming ball of frustration for months. Beyond distressed over dropping out of school, knowing it was the moronic thing to do and would kill my parents, but truly having no other choice for my own happiness. Stressed about not knowing what the hell to do with my life. Fretting over how to pay my parents back the massive amounts of money they put into three and a half years at Dartmouth for me. Feeling lost as I moved to Raleigh, North Carolina, without any job or home, and crashing on my brother's couch.

  And finally, beyond crazed over what might be an actual unhealthy, stalker-attraction thing I've got going on with Van that seems so fucking unnatural and yet completely right at the same time that I'm having a hard time sleeping at night because of it.

  "Fuck this," I mutter as my gaze sweeps the wall, trying to see if I missed anything that I could at least give another scrub. My eyes take in the spread pattern of tomato sauce as it goes up the wall and over the top of fridge.

  Hmmmm.

  I pull a chair from the small table, placing it in front of the appliance. I hop up and take a look, and sure enough, there's lasagna all over the top as well.

  This actually makes me feel better.

  It gives me something proactive to do to help remedy the situation. It might not ease Lucas's broken heart, and it might not fix things between Stephanie and him, but I can at least help to clean up the fucking mess he made last night.

  I rearm myself with cleaning spray, a new rag, and fresh determination.

  Climbing back up on the chair, I start to work. The top of the refrigerator is far easier to clean dried-up lasagna off than the painted walls, but the top is also super gross, as there has to be years of dust and dirt up there.

  Despite my best efforts at almost pulling my arm out of my socket, I can't quite get to the small portion of wall behind the top of the refrigerator. There are small splatters of sauce, a tiny sliver of cheese, and a lonely piece of ground beef up there. No one can see it from the floor, and I should just leave it, but I can't leave this job undone. I feel it would be a disservice to the entire situation.

  I survey the mess. It would be easier if I had a ladder, but without even looking in this tiny house, I know no such thing exists. There's no consideration given to just leaving it alone and asking one of the guys to get it; both have several inches more on their reach.

  So I improvise. I open the top freezer door, knowing there is nothing in there but two ice cube trays. The guys don't grocery shop, and what I buy is only for the meals I intend to make that night. Mostly we all eat out because Lucas and Van are only here 50 percent of the time and it's no fun cooking for myself.

  With the door open, I shiver as the cold air hits me in the chest. I stand on my tiptoes and raise my right leg, intent on putting my knee just on the inside edge of the freezer so I can haul myself up a little higher to get the wall behind the appliance.

  What happens next is almost too unreal to believe. It's a comedy of errors and a lot of fucking bad luck.

  The minute my knee rests on what I think is a solid purchase inside of the freezer and I start to pull myself up, the refrigerator door actually gets pried open. Th
is is because my knee dips into the sealed groove above the door and the seal isn't all that great.

  The movement of the door opening causes a minor freak-out, including my other leg kicking out, causing the chair to skitter away. This causes the refrigerator door to open even more, and as I start to slip down, I instinctually--with very bad instincts, apparently--grasp on to the open freezer door to stop my fall. I'm not heavy by any means--just 125 pounds on my five-eight frame--but it's apparently heavy enough to topple a fridge.

  My instinct--which, yep, still fucking sucks--is to hold on tighter to the door. This does nothing to help me but certainly helps the fridge to lean forward.

  Then it falls, with me underneath it.

  I have visions of how my obituary would read.

  Simone Fournier, age twenty-two, died when a mostly empty refrigerator/freezer combo crushed her to death as she foolishly tried to clean lasagna off the walls. She's survived by the rest of her family, all of whom are inherently smarter than she is.

  When I'm about three quarters of the way into the fall, the appliance coming at me fast, I manage to release the door and thud to the floor. I also manage to roll over, bringing my hands over my head as I prepare for death.

  The resulting crash seems to shake the entire house, and the noise is so loud I'm sure someone will call 911 so they can remove my body before Lucas gets home.

  But then I feel nothing, other than a sharp pain in my back where I think I landed on top of the cleaning spray bottle.

  I hesitantly open my eyes and roll to look above me.

  The refrigerator had apparently caught the kitchen table, which buckled under the crushing weight, collapsing two of the legs. The heavy wooden top caught the floor at an angle, and stopped the fridge inches from crushing me.

  "What the ever-loving fuck?" I hear Van roar as he comes crashing into the kitchen.

  My heart is still pounding madly from my near-death experience, but to prove the power of Van Turner and his magnificence, my brush with death is completely forgotten as I take him in.

  I knew his body would be spectacular. Thickly muscled chest with a light dusting of hair that indicates he's all man and not a boy. He's breathing hard because I'm sure the crash scared the shit out of him, and that makes his abs contract inward as he exhales. I almost sigh at the ridges that are formed, but then I'm taking in the fact that his briefs are tight, and although he's completely without any morning wood, he is still very well endowed in his natural state. My eyes even slip lower, taking in strong, powerful legs, and God...even his feet are hot.