“I won’t tell you again.”
I might need to find a different place to stay. It’s not like a hotel would be out of the question, just a lot of effort.
“Sorry.” But I’m not, and he knows I’m not.
He goes back to fixing the motorcycle he bought literally just to have something to fix. Not because he wanted or needed it, just to work on when he’s home. To make him not fucking drink.
The neighbor cutie starts to stretch on her front porch, reaching her arms up in the air and lifting her perky tits high in the air. I glance through the windows of Brandon and Gabby’s living room, looking at Gabby and Elle hanging out on the couch.
Elle is kicked back with a textbook across her lap, her head turned to talk to Gabby.
Maybe I should head next door and see if I can scratch the itch that way.
“You ever think about letting yourself feel?”
I stare over at Brandon, horrified by his question. He means do I ever think about giving up drugs and alcohol. “Why the fuck would I want to do that?”
He continues fixing his bike but shakes his head. “You get to feel the good stuff too.”
Brandon has had some seriously fucked-up things happen to him. We don’t talk about it often, but he let it slip once. It wasn’t so much about the older chick who fucked him because, I mean, he’s a dude who was getting to have sex with a hot, older woman. His father, however, was an abusive fucking asshole.
“I’m not hiding from the bad. There is no bad for me.” Brandon used drugs and shit to numb himself, to forget.
That’s really not me.
I don’t have any significant pain in my past, nothing I’m hiding from. I was just really fucking bored.
He doesn’t look at me, but I can feel his frustration. “Everyone has shit they’re running from.”
“Not me.”
“Then why the fuck are you here?” He looks up. “Why did you show up bruised and broken and seeking out a friend you know is sober.”
My eyes narrow, zoning in on him. “I was bored. Thought maybe you’d seen the light.”
He tosses the wrench on the ground and walks to me. “Bullshit.” He wipes his brow with his shirt. “But you keep telling yourself that.”
“I feel the good shit, Brandon.” Gabby opens the door, staring at us, standing close, chests puffed out in some sort of fucked-up male dominance pose. I ignore Gabby and look straight at Brandon. “That’s all I feel. You’ve forgotten how good it can be.”
“That wasn’t good, man. That was a cover.”
Gabby looks worried as she calls out, “Dinner’s ready.”
Brandon nods in her direction and stares at me as if he thinks I’ll have to get in the last word, but I don’t need it. I’m confident I’m the one who is right.
I push past him, and when Gabby moves out of the way, I walk inside, going straight to the dinner table where Elle is placing the last fork on the linen tablecloth.
She eyes me suspiciously, probably still pissed-off about my temptation from earlier.
Gabby and Brandon walk into the dining room, her hands grasping his arms like she’s holding him up. Jesus Christ, he’s not that fucking fragile.
He kisses her forehead and then goes to the sink to clean up before we all sit at the table.
“This looks amazing, Gabby.” Elle unfolds her fancy, cloth napkin and places it on her lap.
Gabby smiles brightly over at her. “Thanks! It’s Brooke’s recipe.”
Makes sense Gabby learned to cook from her sister-in-law. Brooke loves to throw dinner parties for every fucking holiday and birthday. I’ve only been to two, and I didn’t stay long either time.
“Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, Ophelia sent me a message on Facebook the other day and invited me to her birthday party.”
Elle looks surprised. I have no fucking clue who Ophelia is, but she doesn’t look pleased. “What? Why did she do that?”
Gabby shrugs and takes a drink of her water. “She said since you two work together and spend a bunch of time together, she and I should be friends.”
Work together? Diner or bar? “Are you going to go? It’s not at the bar, it’s at her house.”
Bar. My hunch is Ophelia is the chick behind the bar the other night with huge tits and dark, red hair.
Gabby shrugs. “I’m not sure. She’s really nice, said I should bring Brandon.”
Elle looks in Brandon’s direction, and he, of course, shows no emotion whatsoever. “It’s not a kid’s birthday party, Gabs. It’s a party party, with lots of alcohol.”
Gabby smiles over at Brandon, knowing that’s what Elle is getting at. “I know what kind of party it is, Elle. I’m not naïve.”
I settle back in my chair, enjoying the food and wondering if this is gonna end in a cat fight. They both seem a little on edge.
“I know you’re not, but I thought . . .”
Brandon rolls his eyes, chomping on a piece of chicken. “I’m fucking fine. I can be around alcohol.”
“It’s not like he’s not exposed to that around here anyway.” Gabby’s eyes drift over in my direction, throwing a little shade at me.
I smirk. “Ah, bitchy Gabby? I like it.”
Elle actually smiles at that as she places a hand on Gabby’s shoulders. “I’m happy you want to go. I just wasn’t expecting it. I didn’t even know she was inviting you.”
Gabby takes a bite of chicken, chews and swallows before answering. “I’m thinking about it. Could be fun, and I haven’t been to a party in a long time.”
That’s because you feel like you have to babysit your boyfriend.
I’m smart enough not to say that out loud, but I’m growing tired of the over-polite bullshit at this table. The girls trying not to hurt each other’s feelings and sugarcoating the hell out everything.
That is not the Elle I met last night.
“You know what I hate?”
All three pairs of eyes are on me, and all of them look annoyed and uncertain about what I’m going to say.
I go ahead and answer myself. “Fucking posers.”
Gabby looks slightly curious now. “What?”
I nod in Elle’s direction, wanting to coax out her inner bitch, the one I fucking enjoy. “Posers. You buy these shirts with bands on them, but you aren’t a fan.”
Elle’s right eyebrow raises with irritation as she sits back in her chair and folds her arms over her Led Zeppelin three-quarter-length tee. “Excuse me?”
I shrug, feigning indifference. “You heard me.”
“Elle is not a poser.” Gabby, of course, stands up for her little friend.
I ignore her, leaning in, zoning in on Elle as she sits across from me. “I’ll give you two hundred dollars if you can name one fucking song of theirs.” I point at her shirt. “And not fucking ‘Stairway to Heaven’ or ‘Kashmir.’ Everyone knows those.”
“Stop being a fucking dick,” Brandon growls.
Elle leans in, no fear, the strong, confident girl from last night. “’Hey, Hey, What Can I Do,’ ‘Fool in the Rain,’ ‘When the Levee Breaks,’ ‘D’yer Mak’er,’ ‘Heartbreaker,’ ‘Going to California’ . . .”