“I’m not always a hundred percent comfortable around everyone,” he said, locking eyes with me. “There is this one person. This girl who I think…” Just then Billy pushed open the door.
“Hot plate!” he announced, setting down a huge platter of newly steamed crabs in the center of the table. The platter actually wasn’t a platter at all I realized, but an upside down lid of a metal garbage can.
“What’s that amazing smell?” I asked, leaning in over the crabs and inhaling the spicy-sweet scent coming off the crabs that were still steaming.
“Old Bay seasoning. It’s great on any kind of shell fish. I make my own version of it. It’s my secret ingredient,” Billy said.
“Billy, I hate to be the one to tell you this but when you tell everyone about it, it’s not much of a secret anymore. And copying a name-brand isn’t exactly an original creation.”
Billy smacked Preppy on the shoulder with his rag. “Touché, my friend,” he said with a burst of laughter. He placed his hand on the back of Preppy’s chair. “Listen, I wanted to thank you for helping me get the stoves working again. I’d be cooking blue crabs under a bridge right now if it wasn’t for you making that call and getting me those stoves.”
They shook hands and did the secret handshake all men seemed to know, the one that ended with a half hug and a clap on the back. “Couldn’t have my favorite chef without a kitchen, who would feed me?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe one of the dozen old ladies who make you whatever you want. Maybe Grace. Maybe one of the biker whores,” Billy said, with a smirk. He turned to me. “Sorry about the language ma’am. I mean the ladies that are associated with the Beach Bastards.”
“No worries,” I said, deciding right then and there that I liked Billy.
“Dude, I wouldn’t do you wrong like that,” Preppy said. “None of them make seafood like you do. Nobody.” Preppy reached for the crab with his hands and set one on a plate, handing it across the table to me. Billy gave him a knowing look. “So are we cool?” Preppy asked, adding, “It’s not you, it’s me?” He held up his arms in surrender as Billy swatted him again with a dishtowel. He thanked Preppy again and headed back inside, whistling along to a staticky version of the Billy Joel song playing through the small radio on the floor, where it was also keeping the door propped open.
“I almost forgot to give you these,” Billy said. The door swung open and he tossed two plastic yellow crab crackers over my head and onto the table.
I’d successfully ripped the first leg off my crab and was doing my best with the cracker to rid my lunch of his shell when I looked up to find myself locked in Preppy’s intense stare. “This looks so great, doesn’t it?” I asked, trying to break the thickness of the air between us.
Preppy remained silent as he lifted a crab off the platter and set in on his plate. Then he made a show of lifting two very familiar fingers to his mouth to slowly suck the seasoning off, just like he had before. My panties dampened, instantly. I held back a groan and cleared my throat, turning my attentions back to my plate. “Are…are you hungry?” I asked shakily, trying to sound unaffected as my nipples pebbled through my shirt.
As if on cue Preppy’s gaze dropped to my chest, lingering there, like he was admiring what he’d done to me.
“I’m fucking starving.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
PREPPY
PRESENT
“There is one thing you haven’t thought of,” I said, sitting up as straight as I could.
“Oh yeah, and what the fuck would that be?” Chop asked, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the wall with a shit eating grin on his face.
“You’re a fucked up individual,” I said, pausing to adjust to the sharp pain in my ribs.
“Is that it?” Chop asked, rolling his eyes.
I shook my head. “No, you didn’t let me finish.” I pushed against the floor and slid my ass against the wall, bracing myself into the corner. “What you don’t seem to understand is that there ain’t nothing you can do to me that ain’t been done before. You’re an amateur. A fucking hack. You think threatening to have me ass-raped is going to break me?” I laughed. “Think again cocksucker, ’cause my stepdaddy already had that honor.”
“All you’re doing is telling me that you’re white trash. Like I didn’t already know. Why don’t you shut the fuck up so you can die with a little fucking pride,” he said smugly. “Come to think of it, maybe I should call him up and invite him over for a visit? Wonder what he’s up to these days?” He was goading me, using what I’d told him to try and get a rise out of me.
Think again, motherfucker.
“He’s just peachy. Rotting in the swamp right where I left him,” I said without so much as a flinch, even though the pain shooting through my spine was crippling.
Chops face momentarily fell. He pushed off the wall and knelt down beside me. “So you killed a man? So what? Should I be impressed? You think some story about your pathetic childhood is going to make me feel bad, and then what? You think I’m just going to let you go?”
I shook my head or, at least, I think I did, all the muscles in my neck were numb at that point. “No, what you don’t seem to understand is that all this is pointless. You can have me ass-raped and it’s not going to break me. You can keep torturing me, but what you don’t get is that half that shit makes my dick hard. You can have me killed…” I leaned in closer and smiled. “But I’m already dead, bitch.”
Chop reared back and kicked me in the ribs with his heavy steel-toed boot, sending me crashing into the wall beside me, my teeth chattering with the overwhelming pain ripping through my body.
Either Chop left without saying a word or I passed out from the pain and didn’t get to hear his last thoughts on what a piece of shit I am. Regardless, when I opened my eyes I was grateful to find that once again I was alone.
Except, of course, for the woman who wouldn’t tell me her name. I should’ve been happy to not be alone, but every word out of her mouth made me cringe and every time Chop left she had a comment.
“You know, provoking him isn’t going to make things any easier on you. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way,” she said softly.
“Hello?” I asked, and when she didn’t immediately answer I figured I was just hearing things, so I did what anyone losing their fucking minds would do and finished out the lyrics to the Lionel Richie song.
“Hello? Is it me you’re looking for?” I sang out, grabbing my ribs as every word felt like I was stabbing myself in the gut, but the song needed to be sung or like a fairy would lose its wings or some shit.
“I never did like that song,” the woman said again, and this time I was positive I wasn’t hearing things. Or like, close to positive. Like, forty percent.
“Listen lady, I don’t know if you’re even real at this point but if you are real, then I’ll forgive your temporary lapse in judgment when it comes to the greatness that is Lionel Richie.”