“No,” he admits. “I didn’t know we were even looking for a kid. You didn’t tell me, so I didn’t realize it was important.”
I’m thinking about that as we head back into Queens, approaching my house, my gaze steadily watching the mirrors, making sure nobody is following us. Can never be too sure. It’s bothering me, what Seven just said. “How many stick figures?”
He pulls into my driveway, casting me a curious look. “What?”
“How many people were in the drawing?”
“Uh... two. A guy and a kid, it looked like.”
Shit.
I sit there, even after he cuts the engine to the car, staring out the windshield at my house. It’s after sunrise now, which means Scarlet is probably awake in there, roaming around.
“What are you thinking, boss?” Seven asks.
I’m thinking life is going on without Scarlet, the world is still turning, and that’s going to hurt the fuck out of her. You see, that’s the thing about grief... it feels all-consuming. It makes it feel like time stops, because for you, it does. Life as you know it ceases to exist, but for everyone else, it just keeps going on. And sometimes, you know, if it stops for too long, there’s not much chance of you ever catching up.
Because by the time your world moves again, everyone else is already too far gone.
“Thinking I might make some pancakes this morning,” I say. “Maybe some bacon, too.”
Seven follows me inside. The moment I open the front door, music greets me, rattling through the house from upstairs. Tupac. I make my way up there, the noise blaring from my brother’s room, loud despite his door being closed. I’m pretty sure I know what other noises the music is drowning out, so I don’t bother him, instead strolling over to my room.
The door is cracked open, and I push it further, leaning against the doorframe.
A smile slowly turns my lips.
Scarlet’s making my bed, dancing around as she flings sheets across the thing, trying to get the corners to stay put but they’re a bitch to secure. Too big T-shirt, lacy panties, and a pair of socks tugged damn near to her knees is all she’s wearing, her hair all over the place. I Get Around. She tries to rap along to the song, only knowing half the words, fucking up the rest by just making shit up.
Her eyes shift my way after a moment, and she startles, the singing stopping as she freezes. It only lasts a few seconds before the chorus kicks back in and she shrugs me off, singing along again as she finally gets the fitted sheet into place, moving on to the rest.
I say nothing, just watching her. The song changes to Hit ‘Em Up. She knows even less of his one, spewing out part of a line every now and then, violent and vulgar, so damn out of place with her honeyed voice that I laugh.
“You laughing at me?” she asks, cutting her eyes my way. “That’s foul.”
“It’s cute,” I say, “you trying to sound hardcore.”
She scowls as she struts over to me, pausing when we’re toe-to-toe, not even hesitating as her arms go around me, her hands meeting at the nape of my neck, fingers running through my hair.
She stares me dead in the face, her expression stone cold serious as she says, “I will cut a motherfucker.”
“I don’t doubt that for a second,” I tell her, leaning over, kissing her. “My wicked little belladonna, beautiful, deadly, so tempting to keep tasting but so goddamn toxic every touch is just too much.”
Something flashes in her eyes, her cheeks growing pink, a flush taking over her warm skin.
“Is this foreplay?” she asks. “Because I’m not really in the mood.”
“Liar.” I laugh, running my nose along her cheek. She smells like warm vanilla and maybe even a bit like me. “Are you forgetting what happens to people who lie to me?”
Rolling her eyes, she pushes away, walking back over to finish making the bed. “How do you know I’m lying?”
“You look like you might enjoy a good pounding,” I say. “Besides, fresh sheets... no better time than now to fuck the bed all up.”
She throws the comforter on top of it, doing a half-assed job at the rest, before dropping to the floor on her hands and knees, looking under the bed.
Walking over, I reach down, running a hand over the curve of her ass before slipping further down, rubbing her pussy through her panties. “You assuming the position?”
She laughs. “I’m looking for Buster.”
“Ah, its downstairs in my library.”
She stands up, giving me a weird look as she pushes past me.
“Where are you going?” I ask, catching her arm.
“To get Buster,” she says.
I stare at her as she pulls away, leaving the room.
Un-fucking-believable.
Cock-blocked by a one-eyed teddy bear.
Are you seeing the irony here?
The song changes, Picture Me Rollin’ blaring through the house, but in those three seconds it takes for the music to kick back in, I hear the unmistakable sound of moaning.
Walking over to my brother’s room, I bang my fist against the door, hard enough to rattle it, before snatching ahold of the knob and shoving the fucking thing open.
“Whoa, Pretty Boy!” I tilt my head as the door slams into the wall. “I didn’t know Firecracker was so bendy.”
Shouts, panic, as they scramble, throwing blankets over themselves, Firecracker covering up entirely as she pushes Leo off of her. Truthfully, I saw nothing, but if I’m getting cock-blocked, so is my brother.
Yeah, whatever... no one ever said I was mature.
“Jesus, bro!” he yells. “Do you mind?”
“Keep the fucking noises down,” I tell him. “Some people are busy not fucking and don’t want to hear that shit.”
I walk away as he yells something at me, something that has something to do with me being an asshole, as if I don’t already know that little fact about myself. I make my way downstairs, heading to the library, damn near slamming into Scarlet.
She thrusts the bear at me, shoving it right in my face. “What the hell, Lorenzo?”
I push her hand away. “What?”
“Who did this?”
“Who did what?”
“This... sewing.”
I look at the bear in the dim morning light, at the thick lines of black thread knotted together, before my gaze turns to Scarlet, who clutches the thing so tightly it looks like she might bust the holes right back open.
Tears swim in her eyes.
My skin starts to crawl.
I should’ve known better.
This is why I don’t do shit like this. Why I don’t try to help people. Why I don’t fucking bother. I think, hey, it’s important to her, let’s do something about it, because maybe I’m not always an asshole, maybe I can be a nice guy sometimes, but I should know better than to think anything the nice side of me does could ever be good enough for somebody else.
“So, what, I can’t sew worth a damn,” I say, pushing past her into the library.
She turns in the doorway, staring at me. “You sewed it? You did this?”
“Yeah, so what?”