Page 7 of Wrecked
“No. I don't.”
The truth is, much of the past five years – since Jacob's conviction – has been a blur of drunken nights and the occasional dabbling in the hard stuff. Before Jacob was even taken away in handcuffs on the day of the hearing, I had left and found a bar that would serve me even though I was only eighteen. Then I got so drunk that I ended up passing out in a garden somewhere and was picked up by the police, who drove me home.
That was also the day my parents officially decided to move us here to Boston.
Brandy looks to the ground and wraps an arm across her stomach, moving her big toe over a crack in the tile in front of her and looking all sorts of disappointed. I do feel bad for her in a way. She's had a rough upbringing and has been surrounded by abuse, drugs, and alcohol for most of her life. That's got to be tough on anyone.
But I also know that she plays the part really well. She's extremely manipulative and makes a sport out of making people feel sorry for her, and then uses it to her advantage to get them to do whatever she wants.
When she sees that she hasn't evoked the intended reaction from me, her vulnerable look is replaced by a smirk, and she folds her arms under her tits, pushing them further up.
“You know, Misha warned me about you. Way back before our first time, that is.”
Misha is one of the other girls that hang around at the races. We call them race pussy. A crude but apt name. I'm sure every guy who has ever come and raced has banged at least one, if not all, of the girls that hang around there.
I scrub a hand down my face, contemplating popping two more aspirins but thinking better of it. “What'd she say?” I ask, not because I give two shits, but just to humor her while she's still in my home.
“She said that you fuck like a stallion but that you run just as fast as one as well.”
I let out a tired chuckle, turning around to face her. “Does it look like I'm running?”
She hums before answering, “Not in the literal sense. But since you didn't even peek at the goods this morning, I'd say you're miles away in your head already.”
If only she put her sharp mind to something more useful instead of manipulating and using people. I watch her with that smug look on her face, thinking she's got me all figured out.
“I haven't gone anywhere, figuratively or otherwise,” I tell her. “Maybe I just didn't wantyourgoods.”
Asshole.That's me.
She purses her lips and flicks her blonde hair over her shoulder as if whatever I just said was just some random bullshit that she doesn't believe or care about. Then she turns around and walks back toward my coffee pot, swaying her hips as she goes and looking like she's going to make herself comfortable and hang around. I've got to get her out of here.
I know it's weird, but I hate feeling trapped inanyway, and right now, her hanging around makes me feel exactly that. I blame it on those months I was stuck at home after Jacob's initial arrest.
I follow her over. “Listen, I've got shit to do today, so . . .”
Twisting in the spot to face me, she gives an incredulous look. “You're seriously kicking me out before I've had any coffee? You took the one I made earlier.”
I glance down at the mug of hot liquid in her hand that she just poured and sigh.
“Fine, fuck, whatever. Have your coffee.”
She scoffs and slams the mug onto the countertop, making the contents slosh over the sides and onto the old laminate surface.
“Wow. You sure know how to make a girl feel welcome after she rides your dick all night.” I internally grimace at the thought, although I know I probably enjoyed it at the time. She stomps over to the door, bending to pick up her purse and flashing her panty-less ass at me while she does it. “You know, hanging out with someone doesn't mean you're in a relationship with them,” she adds while slipping into her heels.
When I don't reply, she storms out the door and slams it behind her. The thin walls shaking from the force. Fuck. I lean down on the counter, not caring that I just put my elbows into the spilled coffee and then press the palms of my hands into my eyes before peeking around me at the empty cans and bottles all over the counter.
A knock at the door has me pushing up and walking over to it. She probably realized she forgot her panties or some shit. I should apologize for being a dick and at least let her drink her coffee.
But it's not Brandy standing on the other side. The shining head of my bald, overweight landlord who lives down the hall is there, holding his little Shih Tzuthat he takes everywhere in his arms.
“What can I do for you, Trevor?” I ask, crossing my arms and leaning on the door frame.
He shifts the dog from one arm to the other. “Your rent was due yesterday.”
Shit. Was it?
“What date is it?” Sometimes the days blend into one another, making me lose track of time, especially lately.
