Page 114 of Bad Attitude
“You wouldn’t stoop so low.”
“Want to bet?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “So spill. Have you moved on, or is he going down on you right this minute?”
I close my eyes, revolted that it’s mybrother’swords putting images of Declan into my head, yet here I am, responding anyway. “You are sick. Get some help.”
“Excellent,” he replies. “That means you’re still fixated on him. When do I get to meet him?”
“Never. He has more tattoos than I do.A skull on his chest, ink on his hands. Hell, he even has some on his neck and the sides of his head. Can you imagine our dear mother coveringthatup when we go to church?” I pause. “What am I thinking? I’ll ask him if he’s free next weekend. Give the old bat a heart attack.”
Caleb chuckles. “KaeLynn will want to meet him too. She hasn’t stopped talking about your tats.”
“Oh? Is she going to get some of her own?”
My brother’s voice drops low. “What makes you think she doesn’t have some already?”
Good Mormon girl like her? That, I very much doubt. “Are you just calling for gossip?”
“Of course. That’s what siblings do.”
I wouldn’t know. We’ve spoken more in the last two weeks than in the last six years.
When I finally get Caleb off the phone, I busy myself working on my bike. But there’s nothing that really needs doing; I did it all before the job. Instead, I spend a little time working on his. The front brake pads are low. Not dangerously, but in need of a change. I send him another text, wondering if I’m pestering him too much.
His response is pointed:They might be worn, but they’re willing.
My face flames at another deliberate reference to him overhearingthatconversation.
I’m never going to live it down. He’ll never let me.
Later that morning, the new mattress I’ve ordered arrives, and I have fun cutting off its compressing vacuum packing, and watching it inflate on my bed.Very cool. Small things bringing me pleasure, without needing to be pinned down. Real progress, win for me, personal growth.
I text him to let him know how much it cost and that it’s blood-free, smiling as I hit send.
His reply comes quickly.If I pay for it, I own it. And what happens on it, Hellcat.
He’s not just referring to the mattress; the implication isn’t subtle. Own it. Ownme.
Or maybe that’s justmyinterpretation, and he meant nothing more than a playful comment.
I only glance at that text every hour or so, and it gives me tingles each time.
Tuesday evening, I’m sitting on the couch eating dinner by myself, a film on, and I can’t remember a damn thing of the last twenty minutes of it.
Why isn’t hehere?
I pick up my phone, bite my lip, and send a text.Are you up to full strength yet?
For a ride you mean?
I think of the bikes at first, and the real meaning hits a second later. I start typing a response, delete it. Another, but it’s no good either. One innuendo, and my mind runs in circles. The text I settle on is simple, but effective:You’re the worst, asshole.
You can’t judge until you’ve licked it.
Utter.Bastard.
I send him a middle finger emoji, and throw my phone down on the couch.
And great, now I can’t think of anything but licking his goddamn ass.
