Punk 57
: Chapter 8

“You’re just smearing it,” an amused voice says behind me.

I turn my head to see Ryen standing with her back to her open locker, smirking. I take my hand away from the back of my neck, throwing the wet paper towel in the trash next to the water fountain. While I thought I wouldn’t care about having Needle Dick Douchebag Asshole written on my neck for everyone to see, I was wrong. I feel like an idiot.

She turns and reaches into her locker, pulling out a long piece of fabric. “Wanna borrow a scarf?”

She laughs, and I arch an eyebrow, unamused. Glancing into her locker, I see the bottle she loaned the janitor this morning back on the shelf, and I walk over. “Nail polish remover. Now.”

But she simply folds her arms over her chest and positions herself in front of her locker, not budging.

“Don’t play with me.” I hold out my hand. “We’ve been keeping our shit PG. I can go R if you want.”

She twists up her lips and lets out a small sigh. “Fine. I can pick my battles, I guess.”

She twists around and takes out the bottle, flinging it toward me. I catch it and twist off the cap, quickly pulling the scarf out of her hands, too.

“Hey!”

But it’s too late. I dump some of the acetone onto the soft beige fabric and use it to rub the pen off on the back of my neck.

“Bastard!” she cries out. “That’s cashmere!”

I pull the scarf away from my neck, seeing the black ink now on her scarf and off my neck. At least most of it, I think.

“Yeah.” I toss the scarf back at her and cap the bottle. “It works great. Thanks.”

She twists up her face in anguish and holds up the scarf with both hands, inspecting the damage.

I set the bottle back on her shelf and walk off before we have time to get into it again. I hear her let out a little growl behind me and slam her locker shut as I make my way for the front of the school.

I need to stop challenging her, despite the amusement I feel. Engaging her is just too easy. Why, when I walk into this building, is she the first thought that comes to my mind and not the real reason I’m here?

If she hadn’t happened upon my spot at the Cove and stolen my shit that night, I might never have crossed her path here. Maybe we would’ve been in some of the same classes, while I lurked quietly around, waiting to take care of business, but I never intended to…

No. That’s not right. I knew better. I kind of knew this would happen, and I knew I was walking into a temptation. I knew Ryen would be here, I knew I would see her and hear her, and I knew my attention would be drawn to her, because despite everything else on my mind, I wouldn’t be able to contain my curiosity.

And then when I found out she was popular, not an outcast, and a cardboard cut-out, not at all original, I became angry. She led me to believe those things, and my muse was a lie.

Until yesterday in the parking lot when I bit and she bit back.

That’s my Ryen.

And I want to see more.

I take out my keys and glance around me, checking the windows of the main house. I didn’t see my dad’s car in the driveway, but it could be in the garage, too. Since he deals in antiques and art, owning a few shops along the coast, his schedule is flexible. He can be gone all day or home at any time.

I unlock the guest house door and step inside, closing it behind me. It’s not even noon, so it’s still light out, but I blacked out most of the windows when I moved in here after Annie’s death. I take out my small flashlight and switch it on. I don’t want to turn on the big light in case my dad sees.

Most of my clothes and belongings are still here, and since Dane wants to grill me every time I mooch off his washer and dryer, I decided to come back here and pick up some more stuff to avoid his third degree this time.

I left school after the scarf thing with Ryen, leaving my truck in the parking lot and taking the ferry to Thunder Bay. I didn’t want my dad or anyone else we know to spot my car.

He doesn’t know where I am, and I’d like to keep it that way. It isn’t like he’s called, either.

Digging a duffel bag out of the closet, I empty drawers and stuff the clothes in the bag, bringing a folded T-shirt to my nose. The scent brings needles to my throat.

Annie’s fabric softener. She was good about doing the laundry, since my dad was busy and I always did it wrong. I complained about the flowery scents she used for my clothes, but now I close my eyes, feeling only home. I made sure to keep using it after she was gone. Nothing would change. We would never change anything she did.

Annie. I blink, feeling my eyes water. I finish gathering the clothes I need and pack an extra pair of shoes as well as the pictures of Annie and me that I have taped to the wall above my desk.

I pass by my guitar, resting on the stand, and a pile of our band’s posters that never got used. Three months ago I had three things I loved. My music, my sister, and…

Everything empties from my lungs, and I turn away from the guitar, unable to look at the fucking thing. It doesn’t matter what I had. Annie’s gone now. My words are gone, and Ryen’s… I don’t know what she is.

And that’s when it occurs to me. I got a letter from her last week. She’s probably sent me another one by now, since she writes like I breathe air. Not that I ever minded, though. They were the best things to come home to.

I leave the guest house, carrying the duffel bag and locking up behind me. I notice that everything seems darker, and I look up and see thunder clouds hovering low. Shit. Did I leave the windows down in my truck? I better get back to school. Falcon’s Well might not get hit with the rain, but it’s possible.

I hurry to the back door of the main house and unlock it, dashing inside. The kitchen is dark, so my dad must be out. Heading over to the counter, I replace the pile of mail, all of it mine, and immediately scan for a smoky black envelope with a skull seal.

But I don’t replace one. There’s nothing there but college brochures and credit card applications. Has she stopped writing me then?

Relax, dude. You came home last week and checked, and there was a letter there. It’s only been six days.

But I’m curious to see if she writes about Masen. What will she say about him?

Ryen rarely ever mentions another guy in her letters. After the one she told me about when she was sixteen—the one she lowered her standards for—she seems to have kept guys at a distance. In fact, it’s almost like she’s lost interest, because she told me that foreplay is overrated in a letter once.

I told her I might consider that a challenge. After all, seven years of writing letters is epic foreplay, and she’s addicted.

Six days. My last letter from her was six days ago. Her last letter from me was over three months ago. I made her promise never to stop writing me, and she never has. She remains constant, even despite the lack of faith she must have by now that I’ll ever write her again.

My shoulders slump a little, thinking about how she’s always been there for me. Her bullshit pisses me off, but to Misha, she’s been a friend. And a very good one.

Annie would be disappointed in me if I treated badly the only person left who loved everything about me.

Goddammit. Fuck.

I let out a hard sigh and walk into the hallway, rounding the bannister and jogging up the stairs. Approaching my sister’s room, I slowly twist the door knob and enter, her smell and the remnants of her carpet freshener suddenly wafting over me.

My heart aches, seeing everything the way she left it. Tidy and ready for her to come home from her jog that night. A bed she would never sleep in again, make-up she would never touch again, assignments that lay unfinished on her desk…

An ache lodges in my throat, and I feel like I want to scream. Annie, what were you thinking? But then I’m angry with myself, too. And my dad. How did we not see it? Why didn’t we take care of her better?

I walk slowly over to her dresser and open drawers carefully and quietly, as if she’ll come bursting in at any moment, scolding me for being in her room. When I open the top drawer of her chest I see her scarves, folded neatly and stacked in two piles. I smell her perfume, and my chest shakes with a sob that I force back down as I sift through, replaceing one that feels like Ryen’s. It’s not beige, but it’s cashmere. I feel a moment’s guilt, but my sister would rather Ryen have it than let it sit in her empty room, forgotten.

I pull out the light blue scarf and close the drawer, sticking it in my duffel bag.

“Hello?” I hear a muffled call from the hallway.

I jerk my head toward the doorway, recognizing the voice.

My father. “Shit.”

I look around, knowing there’s no other way out of here. I slip behind the privacy screen my sister put up as decoration by the wall and lock my teeth together to calm my breathing.

I see a shadow block out the hallway light streaming through the doorway and falling on the carpet.

“Misha?” my father asks hesitantly. “Are you here?”

He knows I’m here. He has to. I left Annie’s door open when I came in, and it’s always closed.

But I don’t move. I can’t talk to him.

I peer through the holes in the screen, trying to see him, but I can’t. He’s not in my eyesight.

He doesn’t say anything more, but I watch as his shadow falls farther into the room, my pulse pounding in my ears.

He enters my sight as he sits at the end of the bed, wearing his usual shirt, tie, and sweater vest. He used to dress me like that when I was a kid. Until I turned nine and started having an opinion. That was the beginning of our fighting.

“You were always so different,” he says, staring off.

I can barely breathe.

“T-shirts and jeans to family functions, guitar lessons instead of the violin or piano, always so difficult to get motivated for anything other than what you wanted to do…always so difficult. Period.”

My eyes water, but I don’t budge. He’s right. In his head, I fought about everything. I made arguments where there weren’t any.

In my head I just wanted him to accept me. That’s why I held onto Ryen so hard for so long.

“I stopped being able to talk to you,” he nearly whispers. And then he drops his eyes, correcting, “I stopped replaceing a way to talk to you.”

He picks up my sister’s blanket at the end of the bed and slowly brings it to his nose, and then his body immediately shakes as he lets out a sob.

I pull my lip ring in between my teeth and tug until I feel a sting. Everything hurts, and I hate this. I hate that Annie’s room is empty. I hate that our house is dark. I hate that I don’t know where I’m supposed to be—I don’t belong anywhere. And I hate that I hate he’s alone. He didn’t comfort me after Annie’s death. Why should I want to be here for him?

And why do I feel a sudden need to tell Ryen everything? For her to know what I haven’t said and to tell me just the right thing, just like she does in her letters. To forget Falcon’s Well and what I’m doing there.

To go back, simply because that’s where she is.

I make it back to the school just as the final bell is ringing. The rain had started in Thunder Bay just as I jumped on the ferry, but it still held off here, the clouds threatening but not giving in yet.

My father left Annie’s room as soon as he started crying, and once I heard the hum of Brahms coming from his office, I knew it was safe to get out of the house. He’d be in there the rest of the night, drinking scotch and working on his model WWII battlefield.

I can see the soccer team practicing on the field off to my right, and I hook the duffel bag over my head, hanging it across my chest. Digging the scarf out of my bag, I reach into Ryen’s Jeep and set it on the driver’s seat. I pull my Sharpie out of my pocket and look around, pulling out a small piece of paper I spot in a cup holder. I leave a note on the back of the receipt.

You’ll look better in blue. (And no, I didn’t steal it.)

I drop it on top of the scarf as students start flooding the parking lot and climbing into their cars. It’s Friday afternoon, so I doubt Ryen has any team practices, but I keep an eye on her Jeep anyway as I head to my truck, making sure no one tries to take it out of the open cab.

I toss my duffel in the bed of my truck but suddenly look up, noticing people crowding around my hood, at the front of my vehicle. They stare at something, and unease coils its way through my body. What now?

Gasps and whispers fill the air, and more people head over. I charge to the front of the truck and stop, replaceing a whole fucking mess.

Large circles of white paint are splattered on my hood, shooting out in all directions and spilling down the sides, as if someone took a paintball gun and used the car for target practice. Some of it is already dried, which means it was done a while ago, probably right after I left campus.

And right in the middle, on top of the hood, in big white letters, is the word FAG sitting bright and loud, glaring back at me.

Rage heats up every single muscle in my body. Motherfucker.

I raise my eyes, anger and readiness boiling under my skin as I let my gaze slowly scan the parking lot. I spot Trey Burrowes near what I assume is his car—a blue Camaro that his doting little step-mommy probably bought him. I ignore the people gathering around and narrow my eyes, seeing him stroll around all cocky, chewing on a straw and shooting Lyla a lascivious glance that his best friend probably doesn’t see.

I take off. Stalking right for him, I dig in my heels, ready to slam his fucking face into the hood of his fucking car. I’m almost glad he’s picking a fight right now. I’ve wanted to hit something all day.

I hear someone call “Masen” but I don’t stop to replace out who. I lunge straight for him and grab his collar, throwing him around and slamming him up against his car.

He growls, taking my jaw in his hand and trying to push me off, but I twist away from him and swing my fist back, landing a punch in his stomach.

I hear screams and shouts around me, feeling a crowd close in, and I quickly grab him again, slamming him against the car.

“Fuck you, faggot,” he bursts out, swinging his fist back and knocking me in the face. The metallic taste of blood seeps into my mouth from the inside of my cheek, but I still don’t release my hold on him.

“Can’t take a joke?” he yells.

I bring my knee up, hitting him in his stomach. He hunches over, and I raise my fist high, pounding down on the back of his head twice.

“Masen, stop!” I hear someone yell, and I think it’s Ryen.

I grab him by the collar again and throw him down on the ground, sweat covering my back and my lungs begging for air. But before I can get to him and land another hit, hands grab my upper arms and haul me back. I struggle against the hold, and the guy holding me stumbles forward, trying to keep a grip on me as I glare at Trey.

“What’s going on?” a woman barks.

“It took you long enough!” Trey snarls at the guy behind me, and I gather it must be J.D., his friend, holding me back.

The principal appears between us, looking at me as Trey pushes himself off the ground. “Calm down!” she orders me.

I breathe hard, dragging in air through my nose. Every muscle in my body is tight, and I keep my eyes on Trey as the arms behind me finally let go.

“What happened?” Burrowes demands, looking between us.

“I didn’t do anything!” Trey shouts. “This asshole shows up and jumps on me!”

She looks to me for an answer, but I don’t say anything. Everyone stands around us, their attention held captivated, a few people putting away phones now that the principal is here, and I can’t help but let out a small smile, seeing a drop of blood at the corner of Trey’s mouth.

“Whose car is that?” the principal questions, gesturing to my truck off to the right.

But Trey and I are locked in a stare, both of us refusing to say anything.

She seems to draw her own conclusions, though, because she looks at Trey, her voice turning stern. “You will get a bucket and the hose, and you will clean every inch of it. Both of you! That better not be permanent paint.”

“But—”

“Now!” she cuts him off. “And I warned you what would happen if you pulled anything else…”

“It wasn’t him, Mrs. Burrowes.”

I blink, hearing Ryen’s voice. The principal stops and turns toward her.

“Trey’s just covering for me,” Ryen says. I hear her voice off to the side somewhere, but I refuse to look at her.

What the hell is she doing? I might believe she’d vandalize my car, but to write FAG on the hood? Not a chance.

“Excuse me?” Burrowes asks her.

“Yeah,” Ryen goes on. “It was a stupid prank. I’m sorry.”

Voices sound off around us as everyone starts whispering, and I blink long and hard. Her prom date was about to get in trouble, and she couldn’t let that happen, could she? It would just be too humiliating to show up to prom alone.

Stupid girl.

“You did that to his car?”

“It was a joke.” Ryen’s voice is calm and convincing. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll take it for a car wash and pay for it. Right now.”

“Hell no,” Trey chimes in.

“Just shut up,” Ryen snaps at him and then lowers her voice. “I’ll be right back.”

I don’t wait to be dismissed. I shoot Trey one last scowl and walk away, the crowd of students clearing as I head to my truck. I dig my keys out of my pocket and yank open the door, climbing in.

This isn’t over.

Ryen climbs in the passenger side, dropping her bag on the floor, and I can feel her eyes on me.

I bite my tongue, too fucking angry to deal with her right now.

I start the engine and lay on the horn, barely waiting for the nosy little shits to move their fucking asses before I step on the gas. Students squeal and rush out of the way as I speed out of the parking lot, putting as much distance as possible between me and everyone there.

Everyone except Ryen.

I pull out onto the road while light sprinkles of rain hit the windshield, and I stare at the paint and shit all over my hood, my hands gripping the steering wheel. I’m going to kill him.

“Here,” Ryen says. “I don’t want this.”

I’m glaring ahead, but I shoot a glance over, seeing her hold up Annie’s blue scarf. She must’ve seen it in her Jeep before the fight happened.

“Just take it,” I bite out. “It was a dick move, ruining yours. I owed you.”

“I don’t want it,” she insists and tosses it at me. “Another girl’s perfume is on it, so you should let your skank know she left it in your backseat.”

I shake my head.

Bitch.

I take the scarf and stuff it in the center console. “Fine,” I grit out.

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her. To let her know that it was my sister’s and somehow I liked the idea of Ryen having a part of her and what a dumb idea that was, because why would I want a vile brat like her to put her hands on anything that belonged to Annie?

But I would never show her weakness. I never want her pity.

I take a left on Whitney and drive down the road, sparsely populated with a few gas stations and trees, and pull into a self-service car wash, parking in one of the empty bays.

Actually, they’re all empty, since it’s raining. The light sprinkle has turned heavier now, and the sky looms with dark clouds, rolling on top of each other and sending down a steady shower. The white noise actually feels good. My heart and breathing starts to slow, and I roll up my window and turn off the engine but keep Mudshovel playing on the radio.

We sit there silently, neither of us moving.

I look to Ryen. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

I lean back, locking my hands behind my head and relaxing. “You’re the one who fucked up the car.”

She frowns. “You know I didn’t.”

“Yeah, I know,” I reply, amusement lacing my voice. “And it’s real touching and all, you taking the fall for your man, but you’re washing it.”

Her lips twist in a little snarl as I catch half an eye roll. She pushes open the door, plops down onto the ground, and slams the door shut, heading up to the display on the wall and digging in her pocket. I close my eyes, leaning my head back in my hands, and try to quiet my head.

I’m suddenly so tired.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve had others’ voices in my head, trying to tell me what to do. I fought back, stood up for myself, and I’ve been proud of the decisions I’ve made, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t had doubts. My dad and why he can’t love me as much as my sister. The guys at my school who thought it was cooler to play sports and bang five girls a weekend. My mother and how she left when I was two and Annie was one and maybe the reason she left was because she didn’t want us.

I’m glad I never listened to others’ voices in my head, but…I still hear them. They’re still noisy, and I’m still walking against the wind.

Don’t change, Ryen wrote in a letter once. There’s no one like you, and I can’t love you if you stop being you. I guess I shouldn’t say that, but I’m a little drunk right now—just came back from a party when I saw your letter—but what the hell? I don’t care. You knew I loved you, right? You’re my best friend.

So don’t ever change. This is a big ass world, and when we leave our small towns, we’re going to replace our tribe. If we don’t stay true to ourselves, how will they recognize us? (Both of us, because you know we’re in the same tribe, right?)

And even if it’s just the two of us, it will be the best.

God, I loved her. Whenever my worries or anger got the best of me, she always said just the right thing to put everything in perspective. There were times growing up that I felt aggravated or tortured by her letters, especially when she’d talk about Twilight or how Matt Walst was just as good of a lead singer for Three Days Grace as Adam Gontier—I mean, what the fuck?—but I never felt bad after reading a letter from her.

Never.

I hear spray hit the car, and I open my eyes, replaceing her in front of the truck, blurry through the water she’s shooting onto the windshield.

Why did she never take the advice she so readily gave me?

I keep my hands locked behind my head and watch her, moving around the hood and fanning the hose up and down, spraying every inch. I notice some of the paint coming up and running down the truck as she tries to remove as much shit with the hose as possible.

She then releases the handle, stopping the flow, and drops the gun to the ground. Grabbing the hem of her loose black shirt, she pulls it over her head, revealing a thin white tank top with glimpses of a dark pink bra peeking out from underneath. Heat floods my groin, and I feel it start to swell. Shit.

She walks to the passenger side door, opens it, and barely glances at me before she tosses her shirt inside and slams the door closed again. Taking the brush with the long handle off the wall, she shuffles her feet, like she’s taking off her sandals, and heads for the front of the truck, stepping up on the bumper.

I didn’t think of that. She’s probably too short to be able to scrub the middle of the hood if she stands on the ground. Maybe I should help her.

But I look out the windshield, streaked with water, and see her beautiful body leaning forward over the hood, scrubbing so hard her breasts shake just enough to send me reeling. This was a bad idea.

And I can’t take my eyes off her. Her tanned thighs bob against the grill as her tank top rises up with the exertion, and I can see inches of toned stomach, her hair hanging around her and her chest in perfect view. My cock starts to grow hard, and I want her in here, not out there. I want her straddling my lap, close and in my hands.

She jumps down and rounds the car to my side, stepping up again, this time on the tire. Leaning into the hood, right in front of me, she scrubs the paint off, the small muscles in her arms flexing and her scowl getting deeper the harder she works. My eyes flash to her stomach again, and my hands are begging to touch her skin there.

What a double-edged sword. Am I angry she’s a fake, weak-assed, little liar? Yes. But am I happy she’s also got the body of a porn star? Hell yes. She doesn’t have to talk for me to look.

All of a sudden I see her turn her head, and I meet her eyes, hers looking like she wants to kick me in the nuts. She flips me a middle finger, seeing me watching her, and I start laughing to myself.

Trey is nearly forgotten. For the moment.

She hops down and takes the brush back to the wall, and then she picks the hose up off the ground again. Spraying the truck, she washes away all of the paint, the white-tinted water spilling off the hood and onto the ground. I close my eyes again, enjoying the sound of the rain and the water covering the truck.

But something cold and wet suddenly hits my face, and I jerk, opening my eyes. Ryen stands on the passenger side, spraying the side of the truck and hitting the inch-wide slit in the window left open on the passenger side door.

Dammit!

She fans the hose, spraying more, and I growl as water splatters all over the inside of the cab and the leather seats.

“Shit!” I yell, opening my door and jumping out. “Knock it off!”

My black T-shirt is damp, and I round the truck, glaring at her. She casually sprays the hood of the car, pretending to whistle. “What? What did I do?”

“Give me the hose.” I hold out my hand.

She shrugs, feigning innocence. “I didn’t know the window was down. Water can be dried. Relax.”

I stalk toward her, because she’s the one with the weapon. “Give me…the hose.”

She purses her lips, clearly trying to hide a smile. “Come and get it.”

I inch toward her, knowing she’s going to spray me, but maybe if I’m quick I can—

All of a sudden, she swings the gun toward me and sprays, the cold water hitting my arms, hands, and making my shirt stick to my chest.

I growl, lunging for her, and she squeals, throwing the gun at me and yanking open the back door. I pick up the gun from where it dropped and swing around the door, seeing her lying on the back seat, her head arched up, breathing hard, and holding out her hands in defense as she watches me.

She licks her lips, out of breath with a hint of a smile. “Don’t, please,” she begs. “I’m sorry.”

Her body shakes with a silent, nervous laugh, but I can’t move. The sight of her there on the seat, her breasts rising and falling and her thighs slightly spread with one foot on the floor and the other leg arched up, sends my body reeling.

Jesus.

Sweat—or water, I’m not sure—glistens across her chest, and a blush covers her cheeks.

I step up and set the hose, still locked on, onto the roof. The water spills in a wide, steady stream down the front windshield.

I hold her eyes. “You got me wet,” I point out. “Fair’s fair.”

Her breathing falters, and she stares at me, frozen. Will she run away?

I lean down, bowing my head into the cab and hovering over her body, holding myself up with my hands. Her eyes flash to the windshield; she’s probably nervous we can be seen. But the water distorts the view, creating a blur.

She arches up on her hands, meeting me halfway as her hot, little breaths fan across my lips. Her eyes fall to my mouth.

“What does it feel like?” she asks quietly, reaching a timid finger out and touching my lip piercing.

I groan, challenging her. “You tell me.”

She locks eyes with me as if scared, but then her gaze falls again to the piercing. Opening her mouth just slightly, she darts out her tongue and flicks the ring.

I groan again, unable to keep my eyes from falling shut. The wet heat from that small spot filters across my face, down my neck, and swoops low in my stomach, making my fingers dig into the leather seats.

Her breath hits my skin again, and I open my eyes to see hers watching me intently as she goes back for more. Her tongue slowly traces a trail over the ring before she darts out and bites my lip around it, pulling the whole thing in her mouth.

My skin burns and tingles everywhere, and I nearly lose the fucking strength to hold myself up. Her eyes stay open, watching me pant and groan at everything she’s doing. She sucks and bites and licks and tugs as I just hover there, not moving and not kissing back as I let her explore.

A horn honks, but I barely register it.

“Masen,” she whispers, running her lips over the ring, again and again, and snaking a hand around the back of my neck.

Masen.

I reach out and splay a hand across her stomach, finally taking her in my hands. I want her to say my name, dammit. I want to hear my name from her lips right now.

“Yo, idiot!” A car horn honks again, and I blink, realizing someone is here. “Where’s my girl at?”

Oh, shit.

Ryen pulls away, hearing Trey’s voice, too, and stares up at me, a hint of fear in her eyes.

I glance out the window, seeing the blue blur of his Camaro sitting in front of the bay. I can’t see him, though, so he can’t see us through the water. If he could, I’m sure I would’ve felt him before I saw him.

I look down at Ryen, still feeling the desire roll off her.

“She’s right here, Burrowes.” My voice is low so only Ryen can hear me as I run my hand across her stomach. “And she feels really good.”

Ryen bites her bottom lip and shakes her head, pleading.

“Hello! Wake up, asshole!” Trey barks again.

I stare down at Ryen. “Are you wet now?” And I climb off her and out of the truck, shooting her a smirk. “Stay down.”

Slamming the door closed, I see Trey sitting in his car with his window down. The rain is still pouring and the clouds have grown darker.

I grab the hose and shut it off, hanging it up. “She bailed,” I bark. “Walked home. Now fuck off.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, man. You can have her all you want after our baseball game against Thunder Bay next week. I like a little pussy after I win, so until then, you wait your turn.”

What the fuck did he just say? I watch as he speeds off and disappears down the road, curling my fists.

I will not wait my turn.

He can’t have her.