Sloth

by James, Ella

  We walk downstairs that way, and I find he’s already made us each a water bottle. There’s a granola bar by mine. Kellan lets my hand go so he can grab both bottles. I grab my granola bar and Truman bounds over from some unknown Truman resting spot. The three of us clomp down the hall as if we’re going to do something ordinary, like throw a Frisbee at the park, and I’m reminded of “Scooby Doo.”

  “Did you ever watch ‘Scooby Doo?’” I ask Kellan as he locks the front door.

  His mouth curves up in a lazy, sort-of smile. “Oh yeah. Did you?”

  “Yep. I was always wanting to wear my Grans’ old lady head scarves around my neck so I could look like Daphne.”

  Kellan laughs—a rich chuckle that makes my skin tingle—and steps in front of me to open my car door. I scramble into my seat, disappointed when I have to let his hand go. I beam at him as he closes the door behind me, then I smile out at the darkness through the windshield. I hear the door behind me open and close, and then Truman’s head appears between the two front seats. I rub his ears as Kellan gets into the car.

  I notice as he cranks it that the design on his worn blue t-shirt is a manatee. My eyes drift down to his thighs, which are clad in dark denim.

  “You’re such a California guy,” I tease as he turns down the dirt driveway.

  He tugs on his t-shirt and raises his brows.

  “I love manatees.”

  “High school fundraiser,” he says.

  “I want to hear about your swanky high school.”

  Kellan reaches down by his door, pulling out a navy Braves cap that he presses onto his head. He adjusts the bill as he turns from his driveway onto the dirt road that will take us to the highway.

  “Some other time,” he says.

  “Are you nervous?” I ask as we bump over the dirt road. Moonlight pearls on the hood of his car, so bright white it hurts my eyes.

  He shakes his head, and I’m surprised to find that I’m a little disappointed by how focused he seems on the road, by how his free hand rests on his right knee instead of twined in mine. And realizing my feelings, I feel a trill of fear.

  This isn’t serious, I remind myself. But the words ring hollow in my head.

  He looks somehow both younger and older in the ball cap. Like a high school baseball player—or a young dad. The light from the dash illuminates the planes of his face, and they look like mine. My heart says MINE. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “Who will we be seeing tonight?” I ask quietly.

  “I get the imports from my Uncle Pace,” Kellan says. “He’s really a cousin, but he’s kind of old, so we just always called him uncle.”

  “Oh. A family member.”

  He nods. “I used to get more shipments, but now I’m growing so much—so much good shit—that I only get a shipment once a month. It helps supplement in case something happens to my crop, and it gives us seeds to continue cross-breeding. The plants we’re getting tonight are pretty young, so they’re small. We’re only getting twenty of them.”

  “Only!” I laugh.

  As we start down the highway, headed for the east side of town, Kellan explains that he bought the abandoned toy factory at a bank auction; it has doors on the back that open like a garage. He tells me he’s in the process of remodeling so he can sell it. Until then, it’s used for deals like this.

  The east side of Chattahoochee is the “bad” side of town. Even I, who rarely leave campus, know that. And tonight, the evidence is everywhere. Shadowed figures with bowed heads shuffle along the uneven sidewalk that runs alongside the street. Run-down cars idle in front of decrepit-looking buildings. We pass a violent jade Mercedes Benz with flashy rims, and my eyes slide to Kellan.

  “Do other drug dealers know you?” I ask.

  He smiles tightly. “I don’t have any criminal enemies, Cleo. I’ll open the warehouse doors with this—” he taps a flip-down compartment in the ceiling of the Escalade—“and we’ll drive in. The doors will close right behind us. In the main garage area, there are no windows to the outside. No one will see a light in there and come to see what’s up. There’s an office attached, and all the lights will be off there too.”

  I chew my lip, and his hand spreads over my knee. “I’ve got a good security system, baby. Just because of the neighborhood it’s in.” He nods at the digital clock on the dash. “By the time we get there, Manning and Pace will already have things all settled. Only reason I go too is prudence.”

  “You mean you don’t trust Manning?”

  “Not at all,” he says. He takes a left at a litter-strewn intersection and we drive slowly down a dark, one-way street. Kellan reaches up to touch the ceiling, hits the brakes, and a second later, we’re driving into darkness. “I trust him,” he says calmly as the dark garage looms around us. “But this is my thing. I’m the one in charge, so I should be here with him.”

  Just as my throat starts feeling uncomfortably tight, someone flicks the lights on, and I’m stunned to find we’re in a large open space, almost like a skating rink, with creamy, sheetrock walls and a smooth, cement floor. About a dozen yards in front of us is a large white van, and by it, Manning’s Harley.

  “Lights flick off when we open the garage door, and flick back on once we’re in,” Kellan explains. He lifts his hand off my knee and tugs the bill of his cap in what seems like a nervous gesture.

  Manning and a short, pot-bellied man walk out from behind a white van, and Kellan nods. “See the old guy?” I note the man’s torn jeans and Pink Floyd t-shirt. “That’s my Uncle Pace. I’ll check things out, we’ll do some back slapping, and then you and me are out. It should be simple.” He winks, and I try to calm the riot rushing through my veins.

  “I wanted you to see how easy this is,” Kellan explains as he adjusts his cap again. “So if you ever had to do it, you’d know how.”

  “If I ever had to—”

  Truman barks when he sees Manning, and I watch Kellan’s face tighten as Pace raises his hand in a wave.

  They both start toward the Escalade, and Kellan says, “Wait here. Manning is picking the stuff up. Don’t know why he’s on his bike.”

  My stomach twists as Kellan saunters over to them. I never noticed until now what a nice swagger he has. In a t-shirt and jeans, it’s easy to admire.

  I watch as Manning holds out a hand and Kellan clasps it in a friendly shake. It’s weird, though, because as he does that, I see tension in his back and shoulders. Manning’s face is serious. Kellan holds out one arm, and Pace holds out both hands.

  I can’t hear what’s being said, but Manning’s face tightens, and Pace looks unhappy. Kellan’s arm slices the air. Manning touches his shoulder. Kellan takes a long step back.

  Over the dull roar of the Escalade’s AC, I hear someone shout.

  Kellan? The low boom echoes through the empty warehouse. Pace gets right in front of Kellan, reaching for his shoulder. Kellan pushes him. My heart hammers as I crack my window.

  Manning looks unhappy. Do I trust him? He seemed like a good ole boy.

  Kellan grabs Pace’s collar. “Don’t you fucking mention Lyon! EVER! Goddamn fucking Pace!” I can’t hear what Pace says back, but it doesn’t go over well with Kellan. He shoves Pace’s shoulders. Manning grabs Kellan’s arm, and Kellan takes a swing at Manning.

  “Get out of here.” I think that’s what he growls. Manning doesn’t move—I think he’s saying something I can’t hear. Kellan scoffs. His face, which I can see from the side, looks as if he’s laughing at Manning—but his shoulders are still heaving. Manning shrugs and gets on his bike. He looks pissed, but I hear him crank it, so that must mean he’s leaving.

  For the next minute, my attention is split between Manning riding slowly out the garage door, and Kellan as he and Uncle Pace begin to go at it again.

  Shit!

  Pace grabs Kellan’s arm, and cold fear sweeps me. Kellan shoves his chest, and for the first time, Pace looks angry. Kellan gets up in his face, and after something else is said
, he shoves Pace again.

  My mind races. Is Pace a nice guy? Does he know I’m in the car? What if he hurts Kellan? I crack my door open, because I want to feel more mobile.

  Kellan’s voice booms through the warehouse. “I am!” Pace says something and he gets up in his face. “Oh no, you didn’t think. Fuck you, Pace. Fuck you,” he sneers.

  I catch another low, pissed off voice, and possibly an “idiot” from Pace’s mouth. Then Kellan leans closer, with his hand on Pace’s shoulder. I think they might be making nice when Kellan hauls his arm back and smashes the shorter man in the jaw.

  Truman barks—a low, intimidating sound that has me shrinking against the cracked door before I realize his tail is still thumping against the back seat. I put my hand on the door handle, clutching it as Pace shouts something.

  He covers his face with one hand, and Kellan laughs—a bitter sound.

  Pace says something loud and forceful. I see blood drip from his nose. Kellan shoves his shoulder, and he holds his hands out. I can’t hear his words, but they are loud and they sound pissed off.

  Shit, did someone sell him out? My pulse is so frantic, I can barely breathe.

  I slide into the driver’s seat and crack that window too.

  “It’s up to me. Not Robert—ME,” he says, as Pace puts pressure on his bleeding nose. “You need to remember that shit.”

  Something else is said. Pace looks sad. Kellan seethes. Pace opens his mouth, and Kellan seems to take that as his cue to go.

  He stalks back toward the car, his hands in fists, his long strides closing the distance between us quickly. He’s within spitting range when Pace says something else. Kellan whirls around, stalks over to him, and slaps his shoulder.

  “Fuck you then,” I hear him say. He sounds resigned.

  Seconds later, he is at the driver’s door. When he sees me there, he walks around and gets into the passenger’s seat.

  “Drive,” he snaps.

  I do.

  TWELVE

  Kellan

  I’m so furious I can’t speak. I can barely breathe as Cleo drives us back toward my house. I train my gaze on the night outside the windshield. Pace’s words ping pong around my mind, and every echo brings on new fury. The rage I feel is thick enough to fill my chest, until I’m numb and heavy, curled around a fire deep in my gut.

  After parking the car, Cleo shepherds Truman toward the porch, steers me up the stairs with her hand on my lower back, and uses my key to open the front door.

  I feel ill as we walk toward the kitchen. All because of Pace—and Manning. Fucking Pace betrayed me. Fucking Manning. Clueless bastard. They took this shit I’ve been pushing out to sea and brought it crashing through me, crashing through my house. I can’t be here. I stop before I reach the living room and look down the hall, at the front door. I could go. A part of me just wants to go.

  Cleo’s hand around my forearm brings me back. “Come on in here,” her soft voice says. “Your hand is scraped. I can clean it up for you.”

  She leads me to the couch and I sit down, my eyes cast to my boots. I can’t look at the TV. I don’t want to see the sunset post cards on the end table. Even the sight of my own legs makes my throat tighten in impotent fury, but I can’t escape myself. Not yet, anyway.

  Cleo disappears. I feel a pang. When she returns, she’s got my first aid kit. I don’t move as she cleans my knuckles, smooths a Band-Aid over one of them. I rest my head against the back of the couch and let sleep tug at me.

  I could go to sleep.

  I can’t go to sleep.

  On every level possible, I have to rage against that bullshit Pace threw at me. I’m tired but I have to fight. I’m living on my own damn terms—but when I feel this desperate, I know of nothing that will help except to be between a woman’s legs.

  I fuck Cleo on the rug. I make a cage of my arms, my palms pressed to the rug on each side of her shoulders. With her hands unbound for once, she strokes me, her warm hands tracing up and down my hips, then up a little higher, where she cups my pecs and teases my nipples.

  I hold nothing back. Three years ago, with Gillian, I fucked without a single rule, but even that was nothing like this time with Cleo. Every time I plunge inside her warm body, a ragged groan tears from my throat. Every time she sighs or gasps, I curl down closer over her, until I’m propped up on my elbows and my hands are holding her cheeks.

  My mouth devours hers—punishing, then worshipping, teasing, raging, needing. I’ve never tasted anything like Cleo’s breath as she moans between my lips. I come hard—so hard I nearly pass the fuck out with her ankles wrapped around my calves and her arms tucked over my shoulders. I fuck Cleo like a lover, and when I’m finished, I don’t even have the wherewithal to clean her up.

  Her soft hands urge me onto the couch, and then my head is in her lap. Her fingers in my hair. I’m lying on my back between her soft thighs. Cleo tightens them around my waist, and I feel... safe. So safe and so, so tired.

  The demons in my mind are far away, and there is only her sweet voice, singing a song I’ve never heard...

  We’re playing checkers. The pieces are big, and they’re all black. Lyon’s hair is black, too. At least I think it’s his hair.

  I try to tickle him, under his ribs, so I can see him grin, but Lyon steps away. His face is solemn—more like mine.

  “I didn’t think I’d go before you,” he says with his head down. “I didn’t mean to, Kelly.”

  I look him over, head to foot. He’s wearing his Trojan uniform, and it fits like it did when we both played. I stare for a long time at the crown of his dark head. I wonder why he’s gone dark now. If it means... what I fear it means.

  I grab his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to hurt—the way Robert taught us both. “I want to know where you went, Ly. This not knowing is killing me. I miss you.” My throat aches. I pull him into my arms. “You’re my older brother. You’re my twin. I need to know.”

  “You know I can’t tell you.” He laughs. “If I told you, Kelly, I’d have to kill you.”

  My throat and stomach burn like someone dumped a vat of acid into me. Lyon is wrenched from me. I look around for him, but there is no sign he’s ever even been here. The blue tiles are cold under my feet. Blue steam wafts through the air. I breathe it in, because along with poison, there is oxygen—and I haven’t yet learned how to live without breathing.

  “Fuck me.” I clutch my throat. The shaking starts in my shoulders and spreads out, all through my aching body.

  I never thought I’d feel this pain again...

  I jerk out of sleep as if the hand of God has plucked me from the ether. Cleo’s face is right in front of mine. I blink a few times before noticing that she looks scared shitless. Her hands squeeze my shoulders, and she’s straddling my outstretched legs. “Kellan! Shit—you scared me.”

  “What?” I look around the living room, still stained with shadow but starting to glow from the rising sun. I look down at my busted hand. “What’s going on?”

  Her hand rises to cup my nape. “You feel asleep in my lap. You had a nightmare, I think.” She puts her free hand on my chest, and I notice how fast I’m breathing.

  I try to slow it down, but I keep feeling that ghost pain in my throat. “Water,” I try. Cleo rushes to the kitchen. I can’t breathe. I stagger up and walk around the couch, into the kitchen, where I see her opening cabinets. I hang onto the granite countertop and try to focus on the cold beneath my hands.

  I’m in my own house. I’m not going back there. I’m okay for now. I look down at my bandaged hand and want to scream. Why’d I do that? I’m so fucking stupid.

  Cleo’s hands are rubbing my back. I like that.

  “I’m fine,” I tell her. But I can’t seem to slow my breathing.

  I just stand there... flailing, while Cleo’s hands stroke my fevered skin through my shirt, and my body echoes and my heart hangs from my chest in tattered shreds. I miss my brother so much, I can’t breathe.

&
nbsp; I try to ration my breaths, and Cleo keeps rubbing circles on my back. Like Lyon. He would rub my neck and shoulders—since when we were little kids.

  My big brother... he knew what would make me better. The one who didn’t know was me...

  I lean over the counter and let my head rest on my arm. “Cleo?”

  “What can I do?” she asks in a high voice.

  I shake my head. I turn around and pull a cabinet open. I grab a pill bottle and shake a Xanax into my damp palm. It’s been a long time since I took one, so they might be expired... A few fall to the floor, and Cleo rushes to gather them.

  I hold one in my hand, thinking of cutting it in half. My fingers shake so much, I just put it in my mouth and chew.

  She takes the bottle from me as I swallow bitter pieces.

  I lean over the counter, too ashamed to look at her. “I’m sorry,” I say as it starts to spread its numbing fingers through me. I pull my lead gaze up to hers. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You were saying ‘lie.’”

  “Lyon.” I let my eyelids slip shut. I feel her hand, a gentle pressure on my back.

  “I heard you say it at the factory too,” she whispers by my ear. “Did something happen, Kellan? I can tell you’re really upset.”

  I open my eyes and find her worried face. I take her hand.

  “Come here,” I whisper.

  I lead Cleo over to the couch and then I summon all my energy and walk to the DVD player.

  I take the Trojans DVD’s plastic case and turn the player on.

  I sit beside her, feeling heavy.

  “Look at this.” My eyes shut as I pass her the leaflet from inside the case. “Find my name,” I groan. I don’t mean to, but I can’t keep the pain out of my voice.

  “I see you—right here. Kellan Drake.”

  “Now look below it,” I rasp.

  “Lyon Drake? I’m confused.” Cleo pauses, and I hear the TV start to play. “Number thirty-three, the program says.”