My hand shakes as I press the doorbell at Clifford’s house. It’s not cold outside, but I feel a chill, standing here in the shade. I try to shove my hands into my pockets then groan when I realize my mom’s leggings don’t have pockets, so I roll them into the bottom of her sweatshirt. Without clean clothes, I had to borrow some of hers. Thankfully, we’re the same size.
I turn back to see Blake leaning against his Rubicon, arms crossed over his chest, muscles bulging, and looking every bit the bad ass fighter that he is. Maybe Clifford won’t notice him. I can slip inside and we can have our talk, and Clifford will never know that imminent death sits just beyond his yard.
I knock on the door a couple more times. Clifford’s and his roommates’ cars are here, so I know they’re home. I’d love to turn around and walk away, but I’m afraid if I don’t get this over with I’ll never work up the courage to come back and try again.
The door finally opens and John pokes his head out, blinking puffy eyes. “Elle? What’re you doing here? It’s fucking zero o’clock.”
“Yeah, sorry about the timing, but I need to talk to Clifford.” My feet shuffle restlessly. “It’s kind of important.”
The door opens more to reveal his pale pudgy body clad in nothing but white boxers. “He’s sleeping.” He yawns and scratches his balls.
I take extreme interest in the security light above the door. “Could you wake him up? I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
When he doesn’t answer immediately, I allow my gaze to cautiously slide back down to him, and he’s staring with wide eyes just over my shoulder.
Which could only mean one thing.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
“Mornin’, Olaf.” Blake says from over my shoulder. “Look. We hate to bust up the threesome between you, Christof, and Sven, but you need to wake up your friend.”
I resist the urge to turn around and shove Blake as John stares openly at him.
“Now.”
The command seems to spur the guy into action, and he recedes into the dark house, leaving the door open.
“And while you’re at it put some fucking clothes on!” Blake yells with one hand to his mouth. “Creepy little shit.”
I turn to Blake and glare. “You promised you’d stay at the truck,” I whisper-yell.
“No, I promised I’d stay outside.” He motions to where he’s standing. “I’m still outside.” His face become serious and he sniffs. “What the fuck…?” He pokes his nose inside the house. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
I lean around his big body, trying to figure out what he sees that I don’t. Other than the trashed living room of three college burnouts, I see nothing. “What is it?”
He sets his cold green eyes on me. “How many times have you hung out in this house?”
I’m taken aback by his question. I can’t count, so I guess. “I don’t know. Twenty-ish?”
He rubs his forehead and groans. “Did you know they’re smoking crack in there?”
“What!” Crack? I’m not even sure I know what that is. I mean I’ve heard about it, but I’ve never actually seen it or been offered it. I always thought crack was for hardcore drug users, not partying college kids.
“Stick your nose in there and take a whiff.”
I lean in, but he snags me right back. “Wait. I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
I gaze up at him confused, and he looks a little embarrassed. “The baby.”
“Oh…right.”
“It has a”—he rolls his finger through the air, searching for a word—“synthetic smell, ya know? Like plastic.”
My eyes widen. “Yes, I know. I’ve smelled it on Clifford before.”
“Ah hell…” He grips the back of his neck with both hands and looks up to the sky.
I know what he’s thinking. It’s not bad enough that I got pregnant by a jerk but by a crack-smoking loser jerk. I know that’s what he’s thinking because I’m thinking it too.
“I swear to God, John, if there’s anyone but a naked J. Lo standing on the other side of the door, I’m gonna beat your ass.” Clifford’s voice booms just before the door swings wider to reveal him.
I’m grateful he’s wearing jeans and a wrinkled shirt, rather than his roommate’s au natural look. He glares between Blake and me, not acting the least bit intimidated, then stops with his eyes on me. “What do you want, Elle.”
I feel more than see Blake’s shock from my side at his calling me Elle. He’s a smart guy; I’m sure he’s figured it out.
“I’m sorry to wake you, but we need to talk.”
He runs a hand through his shaggy hair. “And this shit couldn’t be done over the phone or at a decent fucking hour?”
“Watch your tone, Kurt Cobain.”
Clifford doesn’t react to Blake, but rather acts like he’s not even there. “So? I’m up. What is it?”
I scratch my neck as anxiety pricks at my skin. “Do you think we could talk in private?”
He groans as if I’m putting him out and swings open the door for me to come inside.
“Nope. She’s not going into your crack house, bro.”