The Last Word

by Everly Lucas

  Erin and the others choose a restaurant a few blocks down and sit at a counter along the wide front window. The blue exterior frames them, and sunlight through the window latches on to her bright-blonde curls.

  I lean against the storefront across the street and watch her every move—waiting, hoping to see a piece of the Erin I knew before my world collapsed. The girl was famous for her short fuse, always losing her temper without warning. But she never stayed mad for long before her mood shifted back and she was laughing at whatever had pissed her off.

  God, she had the most amazing laugh. When I’d hear it—when it took over her face and her whole body and everything around her—my life didn’t feel like such a shit show, because I had that laugh in it.

  In the ten minutes before she noticed me standing next to her this morning, I took in every inch of her. She’s as drop-dead gorgeous now as she ever was.

  In the years since I last saw her, I still pictured her as that cute seventeen-year-old with thighs as thick as my arms. But time has been generous to her. She’s still small, but her hips rounded out and her tits grew to perfect little handfuls. And the way her sweat glued that white shirt to her chest… My jeans haven’t fit right since the second I laid eyes on her.

  I’m a strong man. I’ve made sure of that. Between prison and nights I spent in transitional housing or on the couches of people I hardly knew, guarding what little shit I had, I couldn’t afford to look weak. To look like the kind of guy you’d want to fuck with. Still, I almost wasn’t strong enough to keep my hands off Erin when she was close enough to touch.

  This morning was torture. Fuck if I can remember a single word the teacher said. I had to devote all my concentration to not hauling Erin’s sweet, tight body against mine and taking back what I threw away on prom night.

  Through the restaurant window, I watch her throw her head back, her eyes closed and mouth open. I can’t hear her laugh from this distance, so I settle for pulling one from my memory.

  We were running full-speed down Copley Road, in the neighborhood where we grew up. My dumb twelve-year-old self thought it would be funny to tease the Robinsons’ Rottweiler with a stick…until he jumped the chain-link fence that kept him in their concrete-paved front yard. Fucker was fast, but Erin and I were running for our lives. Adrenaline had our legs pumping double time.

  Halfway down the block, I spotted an old red maple with low branches and pointed it out to Erin. I let her climb first and lost one of my sneakers before I got out of reach of the dog’s massive, slobbering jaws. We settled onto a thick branch about ten feet off the ground, straddling it and facing each other. As soon as we caught our breath, she started cracking up.

  I remember smiling, not because I was happy not to have lost my foot along with my shoe, but because—fuck—that laugh was everything.

  Then she inched forward on the branch, closer to the trunk, like she was about to climb down. I remember thinking she was crazy—the dog was still barking at us from the sidewalk, ready to rip us to shreds. But she stopped when our knees touched, and her small hands reached out to hold mine. I felt her shaking. My lungs quit working when she closed her eyes, puckered her lips, leaned in, and kissed me.

  We were just kids, and the kiss lasted less than a second, but none of that mattered, because that’s when I knew—Erin Kenny was it for me. She still is.

  That was the night I told her brother. Erin being my girl was so right, I never considered Danny might have a problem with me falling for his little sister. But he flipped his shit and tore into me. On top of threatening severe bodily harm, he made it clear that it was him or Erin, and if I didn’t choose him, I wouldn’t be welcome at the Kennys’ house anymore.

  I don’t know what prospect scared me more—losing my best friend or losing the only house that felt like home.

  Reaching up, I clutch the ring I keep on a chain around my neck. Erin’s claddagh. When my soul is tired, or when I just need to feel her with me, all I have to do is touch the one thing that, for a too-short period of time, tied us together, and I feel peace.

  That peace doesn’t last long, though.

  A police siren wails half a block down, and I tense, my skin instantly too tight for my body. No matter how much time passes, that sound always brings me back to the night of the crash, to the cold backseat of the cop car, to the cuffs on my wrists and the panic clawing at my chest.

  Red and blue lights reflect off the restaurant windows as the car speeds past. They grab Erin’s attention. Then that attention snaps to the guy leaning against the nail salon across the street, watching her like the creep he is.

  Yeah, that’d be me.

  Getting caught doesn’t bother me. What slays me is the look on her face—a mix of loathing and regret. She wore that same look at my sentencing hearing. That was the first time I’d seen her since prom, and, until today, the last.

  Four

  Van has to go.

  No, for real. This is hazardous to my health. My every nerve is on edge. Hypersensitive. Even with two feet of space between us, I’m so tuned into Van Woods, I can feel him all over me.

  This specific brand of tension is so familiar. Growing up, every time he sat next to me on the couch at my house, watching TV or playing video games, the air between our bodies crackled with electricity. At least, on my end it did. When his skin would accidentally brush against mine, my heart would scream, “Touch him! Kiss him!” As we got older, my heart’s commands grew decidedly dirtier. All grown up, I can’t even repeat the porn-worthy shit my heart wants me to do to Van without blushing.

  Greg dismisses us for the day at five thirty, and I rush out as fast as I did at the break, saying quick goodbyes to my lunch buddies. But once I clear the door, I skid to a stop and spin back around. If I don’t give Van a piece of my mind, I’ll explode before I can make it to my car.

  He’s the last to leave, sauntering out in long, powerful strides. I stand my ground. “You need to drop this class.”

  My heartbeat picks up its pace as his dark eyes slide down my body, lingering on my bare legs before traveling back up. Every inch of my skin burns, and not from the brutal July heat.

  His gaze grows intense when it lands on mine. “No.”

  “No?” My hands ball into white-knuckled fists and land on my hips. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

  Showing zero emotion, like he’s already bored with our conversation, he crosses his tree-trunk arms over his chest—a move that might intimidate me, if I hadn’t witnessed this man sobbing like a little girl when we had to flush his dead pet goldfish down the toilet. “I’m not quitting, Erin. Sorry.”

  “You can keep your apologies. All of them.” Might as well preempt that god-awful scenario. I don’t think I could stomach that particular sorry. “I’m not going to be the one to quit, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I’d never ask you to.” He shrugs, his features still blank. “Stay or don’t. Doesn’t affect me.”

  Angry tears sting in my eyes. Hell, anger stings in my everything. My mouth drops open before I can even get my thoughts in order, and he takes my stunned silence as his cue to leave, stepping around me like I’m a pile of dog shit he needs to avoid.

  Who does he think he is? Does he have amnesia or something? Because if he remembered what he did, the Van I knew would be groveling at my feet, begging for forgiveness for all the pain he caused me. Not that he could possibly know everything he set in motion…or that my family—the family that treated him like one of their own—has been in a steady decline ever since. If things don’t change, I’ll start losing people I love, one by one.

  So, no, Van does not get to steal the last word.

  Jogging up the hill, I maneuver myself in front of him. If he wants to walk away, he’ll have to push past me. No matter how much he’s changed, I don’t believe he’d put his hands on me like that. I hope I’m right. “I’m not done.”

  “I didn’t think you were.”

  His words aren’t ov
ertly mean, but deep down I know I was just insulted. “What the hell does that mean?”

  A puff of air leaves his lungs on a silent laugh. “You never did know when to quit. You’d argue until your voice went hoarse.”

  Wow… I had no idea he felt that way. Why didn’t he ever say anything? Was he just tolerating my annoying ass all those years I thought we were friends? Was he lying the night he told me he loved me?

  Why do I even care?

  He tries to sidestep me, but I move with him, blocking him from leaving and thinking he’s won this battle.

  He sighs and studies the cracked sidewalk before his eyes seek out mine. “What do you want from me, Erin? I can’t back out just because you don’t want me around. My boss signed me up for this class, and I can’t afford to risk losing my job.” Looking away again, he adds, “It’s not like people are lining up to hire black ex-cons.”

  At the mention of his job, a fresh rage floods my veins, drowning out any sympathy I might feel for his predicament. “Yeah, speaking of… You work at a bar? That’s so repulsively ironic, I could hurl.”

  With an unwavering stare, he keeps his voice steady and even. “I don’t owe you any explanations.”

  He did not just say that to me.

  My lungs fill with fire, the pain of holding back a scream almost too much to bear. My right hand doesn’t hold back shit, though, flying forward in the direction of his infuriating, gorgeous face.

  But his fingers wrap around my wrist before I can make contact. His grip is tight, almost painful, as he holds our arms between us. Tugging me closer to him, he leans in, bringing his lips inches from mine.

  If he tries to kiss me, I swear, I’ll spit in his mouth and bite off his tongue. We’ll see who has the last word, then.

  But my traitorous body responds to his nearness. My stomach clenches from a potent mix of agitation and anticipation. My hips twitch, aching to rock forward, to grind against Van’s hard body. They crave the intoxicating friction. They demand it.

  But nope, no friction for them. Hip friction is strictly forbidden.

  His gaze drops to my mouth as my tongue sneaks out to moisten my parched lips, and a low growl rumbles from deep in his chest. Releasing me from his rough grasp, he steps back. “Rein it in, girl. You don’t want to do anything you can’t take back.”

  For a second, I think he’s referring to my wanting to attack him sexually. But he probably means the almost-slap. Duh. “Why the hell would I want to take that back?”

  “Forget it,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “See you tomorrow, Erin Finola Kenny.”

  I emit an ugly gasp-slash-shriek and forget to block his path when he moves past me. This time, he makes no effort to avoid me, and when his tattooed bicep brushes my shoulder, I suck in a breath and choke back a whimper.

  Why does he still affect me this way? I blame the rage I feel toward him. Strong emotions beget strong emotions. Yeah, that sounds legit.

  I spin in his direction and shout, “Fuck you, Donovan Rudiger Woods!”

  He doesn’t look back at me, just shakes his head as he walks away.

  Five

  “Ay amor, fue una tortura perderte.” Romeo belts along to the lyrics blasting from the speaker on top of the industrial-sized fridge. He’s worked at the Duplex since Henry Carmichael bought the place six years ago and has seniority here in the kitchen, which is the only reason he gets away with subjecting the rest of us to the same Shakira playlist every damn shift he works.

  The short, middle-aged father of four moves his hips in time to the music as he lifts a basket of onion rings out of the fryer, shaking off the excess oil. “Y no de excusas vivo yo.”

  He only ever sings Shakira’s lines in this duet. Never the dude’s.

  Punching my employee ID into the time clock, I call out over the music, “Romeo, man, you’re gonna chase away the customers.”

  He turns my way, beams at me, and pulls the remote from his apron pocket to lower the volume. He wants something.

  “Donovan! I need to ask you a favor.”

  Called it.

  I tie a short, black apron around my waist and adjust the neckline of my dark-blue t-shirt with the Duplex’s logo written in white across the chest. “What’s the favor?”

  “Can you cover my shift tomorrow? Lina’s abuela is back in the hospital. I need to stay with the kids so she can visit.”

  His wife is an angel, always bringing me a huge container of warm, fresh polvorones when she stops by the bar. I want to help them out in the worst way, but Romeo works the early shift tomorrow, and I can’t miss class.

  “I wish I could, man, but I’ve got something I can’t back out of.”

  “No worries.” He waves off my regret, but he doesn’t go back to the fryer. He’s not done. “Think you could ask Spider for me?”

  Henry has two cooks on staff—Romeo and Spider. They show up on time, respect the boss, and work hard, but they can’t fucking stand each other. I don’t know what their beef is. Don’t care, except I have to play the role of middleman, since they can’t work together without killing each other.

  Why they bring this kind of stuff to me instead of Henry, I have no clue. They’ve both been here twice as long as I have, and it’s not like I have any kind of control over work schedules.

  They aren’t the only ones, either. Most of the staff comes to me when they need help, especially when a customer gets out of pocket and has to either be finessed or removed. But I don’t mind doing my part to keep the peace around here, if it means the Duplex stays a stress-free zone—pretty much the only stress-free zone I’ve got. “Yeah, I’ll talk to him. But be prepared to owe him a favor. Quid pro quo, hombre.”

  Chuckling at the defeated look on Romeo’s face, I tuck a clean rag into the pocket of my apron, grab one of the black bins, and push through the door to the front room. He pumps the volume back up just as the door swings shut.

  The crowd is thin for this time of night, so only a couple tables need busing on my first pass. After spraying and wiping down the wood tops, I carry my half-full bin back to the kid manning the sink, greeting him with a quick nod. This one’s been with us over a month now, which has to be some kind of record.

  I stop by the storage room for a couple cases of lager to bring back to the bar with me. Ronnie, our pink-haired bartender, keeps me company as I stock the fridge, updating me on her day job teaching yoga, and on the ex who doesn’t know how to take a hint. The fucker showed his face here once—once—and he and I had a private conversation as I showed him the door. Well, I did all the talking. He was too busy pissing himself.

  One of our regulars steps up to the bar as I break down the empty boxes, letting me know about a dead lightbulb in one of the restrooms. Easy fix. After that, I tighten a loose screw on a wobbly chair and bus a few more tables.

  A few hours later, I’m slicing limes to refill Ronnie’s garnish tray, while nineties alt rock and the conversations of a couple dozen people fill the room. A heavy thump of boots on the half-flight of stairs to the left of the bar signals that the boss has finally emerged from his office. Sometimes I don’t know if he’s even in the building or not, he spends so much time up there.

  Awesome guy, but a total control freak. He takes on way too much—shit he should hire someone else to do.

  Reaching across the bar, he clasps my hand in a quick shake. “What’s good, man?”

  “Slow night tonight, so I was able to knock some items off that to-do list.” Henry’s not the one who writes the list. That’d be me. But even after three years working for him, I still feel like I’ve got to prove I’m useful. That I’m worth keeping around. That he didn’t make a mistake when he took a chance on a kid right out of prison.

  He parks himself on one of the stools and offers Ronnie a smile when she slides a whiskey sour down the bar and into his waiting hand. “Dude, you rock,” he says to me. “I know you’re plenty busy around here, but I was hoping you could do me a favor.”


  The boss asks for a favor, you do the fucking favor. “Name it.”

  “My personal life is about to get…complicated.” Judging by his goofy grin, he’s looking forward to complicated. “I was thinking it’s time I, you know, delegate.”

  I do my best to stifle a laugh. “I’m surprised you didn’t choke on that word.”

  “Ha ha.” He sips his drink and clears some condensation from the glass with his thumbs. “Would you be up for taking on a few extra responsibilities? Nothing big. Just some invoicing, working with vendors…maybe doing the schedules each week, if you’re comfortable with that.”

  Nothing big? Right. Just a bunch of tasks I could easily fuck up and cause Henry to lose confidence in me. Then again, so would saying no. “Whatever you need, man. Show me how it’s done, and I’ll do it.”

  He tosses back the rest of his drink and slaps his hand down on the bar. “You, Donovan Woods, are the fucking best.” Turning to his left, he points a finger at the man sitting a few stools down. “I owe you big-time for sending this one my way, Tino.”

  The older man raises his beer. “Keep comping my drinks, and we’ll call it even.”

  “Whatever you want.” Henry slides off his seat, pausing halfway. “No top shelf, though.” Then he turns to me. “You’re working after your class Wednesday, right? Come by my office when your shift starts, and we’ll talk.”

  “You got it.”

  He shakes my hand again. “Speaking of class, how’d it go today?”

  I stiffen, a hundred different memories pummeling me at once. All from today. All of them involving Erin. Drinking in that first sight of her like a man who’d died of thirst four years ago. The mouthwatering scent of sunshine and apples in her hair. The heat from her body, like standing in front of a fire on the verge of blazing, and all it would’ve taken was one breath—one subtle shift of air in her direction—to set her off. And fuck, I wanted to breathe. I wanted to make her burn and to burn with her.