It doesn’t really matter anyway. Since neither of us cooks, we don’t need to unpack the boxes labeled kitchen. We always order out, go out, or eat grilled cheese.
I don’t give a shit about any of the domestic supposed-to-dos anyway because I got my girl, and we’re living life sweet and easy.
Opening the door, my asshole brother is standing there grinning. He pushes me aside as he strides into the living room, sitting his ass on the couch. “Why have you called me three times since I got in my car this morning?”
“If you’d answer your fucking phone you’d know, dickhead.”
He flops his head back on the couch and spreads his arms over the back like he owns the place. “Since I was on my way here, I didn’t see the purpose in wasting my breath,” he says. Then reaching into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, he adds, “Dickhead.”
Pulling out the black satin box with the white letters M I K I M O T O emblazoned across the top, he smirks, “You looking for this, Loverboy?”
Turning my head toward the stairs to make sure Dahlia isn’t coming, I quickly head over to him. “You couldn’t have let me know it came, assface?”
“Assface? Hmmm . . . Maybe I should have just kept it and given it to the first pretty face I saw, tonight. Since it’s Valentine’s Day, I’m sure a gem like this would guarantee I score.”
Tucking the box away in one the many partially opened containers blocking the pathways in and out of the living space, I walk over to sit at the counter. Dahlia insisted the movers not block the view with any of the boxes, so instead, we’re tripping over whatever items she unpacks but doesn’t put away every time we come in the room.
Standing up, Xander heads to the kitchen. “Dude, you live with one messy chick.”
Shrugging my shoulders at him, I say, “Some of us have more important shit to do than keep house.”
“But really, you have a housekeeper. She can’t do it?”
“Dahlia wants to do it herself. She’ll get around to finishing the unpacking Xander, don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”
Smirking, he pours himself a cup of coffee. “Whatever, better you than me. This mess would drive me fucking insane.” Then raising his coffee mug, he asks “Coffee?”
Chuckling and nodding my head, I say, “Xander, leaving the mail on the counter drives you nuts.”
“Speaking of nuts, you were worried the necklace wouldn’t get here. Weren’t you?”
I swivel my chair as he walks back into the room and tap my fingers on the counter. “Not worried. Concerned.”
“Well maybe next time you’ll order your girl’s gift sooner,” he laughs, taking his jacket off and putting it on the back of the stool.
I nod my head in agreement as he sits next to me, handing me one of the cups of coffee. “So the record contract . . .” he starts to say.
Dropping my foot to the floor, I twirl my seat around to face him. “Xander, I don’t want to argue about the label’s shitty stipulations right now.”
“Look bro, I know your mind is elsewhere,” he says, tapping on his phone’s screen and pushing it in front of me. “But we need to get this shit straightened out and sign a contract or we won’t have a deal.”
Glancing at his phone, he’s showing me an email listing the changes to our original unsigned contract. I’ve seen these at least three times, so I roll my eyes.
“Xander, come on. You know the label doesn’t want to negotiate, they just want us to agree before we can move forward and cut the damn album.”
Also listed in the email are the promotional requirements of the band. I haven’t seen these before.
“This touring stipulation is bullshit,” I say to Xander, standing up and continuing to read the new requirements. “Everyone knows the only reason a label asks a band to tour for nine months is because they don’t believe an album can make it on it’s own.”
“You need to quit being a * and get over it, River,” he says as walks over to refill his coffee.