Disposable.
The door opens and Violet steps down into the cold winter weather, steaming breath rising in the dark, illuminated by the porch light I rush over to flip—don’t want her tripping and killing herself on a rock or whatever.
“Hey, thanks for coming on such short notice.” I prop the door open with my foot, leaning on the doorjamb.
She lifts a palm to acknowledge my statement but continues down the sidewalk to the street. An old tan sedan that must be at least ten years old is parked out near the curb, and I hear her keys jingling in the dark as she fumbles her way down the walk.
Jameson grabs Violet’s jacket off the hook, shoulders past me, and jams her elbow into my gut before chasing her into the dark yard.
“Sooo…” Oz can hardly contain his meddling. “What the hell was that all about—and what the hell is a Kyle?”
Elliot has cleared the room.
“Kyle is a kid I’m watching. He’s sleeping in my bedroom.” Oz opens his mouth to speak, but I stop him with a brisk, “Don’t ask.”
“But—”
“Just shut the fuck up for once, would you Oz?”
This is partly his fault.
“You know I can’t do that man.” He moves into the kitchen, picks up Violet’s discarded hot chocolate, and sips from the mug. “Wow, this is good. Makes me feel all toasty inside.”
Jeez, not him too.
He grips the mug in one hand, the counter in the other. Lifts the mug again and examines it with narrowed eyes. “You don’t think that girl has any sexually transmitted diseases, do you? Before I go ham on this cocoa?”
He knows damn well what her name is, and he knows damn well she doesn’t have any STDs.
I’m practically growling. “Are you fucking serious?”
He slurps from the cup. “As a heart attack.” Lets out a loud, “Ahhh, this shit is good. Expensive, but good.”
“She doesn’t have any STDs asshole; why would you say that? And her name is Violet.”
He quirks a brow. “I’m just treating her like all the other randoms you bring home. Don’t get all bent out of shape. It’s a fair question.”
No, it’s not, and he knows it. And he knows she is nothing like the randoms I occasionally bring home. Nothing.
“She’s not like that—if you couldn’t tell.”
More slurping. “I didn’t have the chance to make a fair assessment; you basically shoved her out the door and into the cold ten seconds after we got home.” Slurp, slurp. “I bet she’s crying into her Cheerios right now.”
“Please, I highly doubt that.”
“Dude, she was stuttering—what the hell were you doing to her? She was flipping out.”
What the hell was I doing to her? Instead of defending myself to Sebastian Osborne, I roll my eyes.
“She always stutters.”
His eyes get huge. “What do you mean, she always stutters?” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Like, is she deaf?”
“No jackass, she’s not fucking deaf! Jesus Christ, what kind of question is that? Don’t be an asshole.”
His hands go up in mock surrender. “Whoa, I was just asking. I mean, you can’t just say someone has a stutter and not expect a litany of questions to follow.”
Oh yes I fucking can.
But Oz isn’t done, not by a long shot. “What are you doing with that girl, man? It’s obvious you’re not sleeping with her.”
“Why is it obvious I’m not sleeping with her?”
He laughs. “Well, she doesn’t look like your usual type.”
She’s not, but that doesn’t stop me from asking, “And what is my usual type, smartass?”
We both know the answer to that one: big boobs, single, the end.
“Easy. Big boobs. In it for the D, and I don’t mean defense.” Oz finishes the hot chocolate from the hand-painted heart mug with a long drag, setting it down next to the sink. “So, what the hell are you doing with that girl, Zeke?”
Why the hell is he asking me this? We don’t have conversations like this, ones about sweet, na?ve girls who drink hot cocoa instead of liquor, do nothing but nice things for people, and have kind hearts. We just don’t. We talk about sports, and wrestling, and wrestling practice, so I don’t know why he’s butting into my business.
He’s in a relationship, so that suddenly makes him an expert?
Fuck.
That.
His bulky arms are crossed now, serious expression taking residence on his face. The overhead light in the kitchen makes the black tattoo sleeve on his arm more pronounced.
His dark eyes bore into me; he’s expecting an answer.
“We’re just…friends.”
“Friends?” He looks confused. “I didn’t know you did that.”
“You didn’t know I did what? Speak English.”
He throws his hands up. “Friends. I didn’t know you did friends, let alone friends with tits.”
This isn’t the right moment to point out that Violet doesn’t have any tits, and it’s not something I’d want to point out to him anyway—girlfriend or not, he’s kind of a pervert.
“Fine. I use the term friend loosely,” I concede.
Honestly, I don’t know what the fuck I am actually doing with her. Am I attracted to her?
Maybe.
Okay, yes. I am.
And she’s growing on me every second we spend together. Anything more than that? I have no interest in exploring what that attraction means.
I’ve never given much thought to what I wanted in a girlfriend, because I’ve never had any intention of having one. Dating. Being in a relationship.
Shit, I barely have a relationship with my parents, and we’re related—so why am I thinking about Violet? Why am I letting her in my house? Inviting her to this fucking fundraiser?
“Violet.” Oz chuckles. “Even her name sounds like fucking sunshine and shit.”
It does. I begin rolling her name around in my head, playing it on a loop.
“James is going to be bummed,” Oz speculates.
“Oh, well in that case, let me chase after her so I can propose.” Like I care what Jameson Clark wants for my personal life.
Oz laughs at me. “I’m just saying, she’d love having another chick here to break up the testosterone.”
I snort through my nose. “James has more testosterone than the three of us combined.”
My roommate grins from ear to ear, pushing away from the counter and flexing. “I’m going to tell her you said that; coming from you, she’s going to take that as a compliment.”
“I’m sure she will.”
The first thing I hear when Jameson returns to the house from chasing Violet down is the distant sound of the front door slamming shut. Then I hear two boots drop to the hardwood floor, one at a time. The pads of her feet trudging down the hallway.
Arm pushing into my room without knocking.
I put a finger to my lips, shushing her from my spot at the desk. I don’t need her waking up Kyle, who’s curled into a tiny, breathing ball that’s been squirming every ten seconds.
Jameson’s eyes widen when she sees him.