Page 45 of Please Open Me
Lucian opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then furrowed his brow like the idea had never occurred to him before.
“You’re… Uncle Bash?”
I stared. “Leo’s their tía, and she doesn’t do half the shit I do. And I’m a little offended you’ve got separate terms for her and me.”
“You don’t speak Spanish,” he shot back.
I shrugged as we descended the steps. Once we were in the living room, I grabbed my Switch from the dock. “No hablo con fluidez, pero me defiendo.”
The device fit perfectly in my hands as I flopped onto the couch and tapped through a few menus.
Lucian was still standing in the hallway, slack-jawed.
“¿Qué?” I asked, smirking. “¿En serio creíste que no hablo?”
“No, I didn’t think you spoke Spanish!” he snapped. “You’ve been ignoring us when we do for like twenty-three fucking years!”
He sounded mad.
Did I care?
Not really.
“I haven’t been ignoring you. I just didn’t want you, or Leo, or Dad to know I could understand every word you said about me.” I met his gaze. “But I do appreciate that you were brave enough to say you hated me to my face, too.”
Lucian winced like I’d thrown something heavy.
“I’m not mad,” I added. “Most people hate me. I’ve gotten used to it.”
He groaned like I’d kicked him and slunk into the kitchen.
“You’re making me feel bad!” he called.
“Nope! That’s your conscience.”
Didn’t stop him from slamming around the cabinets like they owed him rent money.
Jesus. That man had the emotional maturity of a wet slice of bread. What the hell did Mason see in him?
A moment later, the fridge opened and shut.
“You hungry?” he asked, voice muffled.
I sighed dramatically and patted my pajama pocket for the dab pen I’d stashed after my shower. That was phase two of my post-bedtime self-care plan. The nap had ruined the timing, but at least the pen was still there.
Small mercies.
“Yeah! What are you making?” I asked, already pressing the plastic piece to my lips and inhaling.
It was supposed to be lemon-flavored, but tasted more like licking kief off a gas station floor.
“Breakfast sandwiches. The ones Mason prepped this week. That cool?”
I choked mid-inhale.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Lucian said, tone laced with judgment. “I will never understand how the family golden boy turned into a fucking stoner.”
“It’s—” I coughed hard. “It’s medicinal.”
