Page 18 of Detour

The others have sobered as well and are watching for my reaction.

Somewhat regretfully, I shake my head, trying one last time. “I have home-”

Coty interjects, “You just did homework. Say you’ll stay. We’ll behave, I promise.”

“I don’t,” Beckett disagrees playfully, making a smile tug at my lips.

Marc speaks up for what feels like the first time ever. “Coty, throw some clothes on already. You’re not fooling anyone with your good guy act with a fucking cloth covering your shit.” Without meaning to, my eyes drop to said cloth. Coty catches the movement and smiles proudly. Busted, I throw my hands over my face, rubbing them down the heated surface. “I’ll watch neighbor girl for you. She can cut tomatoes. I hate that part.”

Not waiting for my response, he turns for the fridge, grabbing out a plethora of ingredients. Beckett disappears into another door I’m assuming is his bedroom while Coty pins me with a vulnerable stare. One that says so much more than he ever could in front of his boys. One that begs me to stay. One that I can’t answer without lying through my teeth so I look away, snatching up a tomato before Marc bats it away claiming it’s an apple. How was I supposed to know?

* * *

Dinner next door ends up being one of the top meals I’ve ever had in my life. The homemade tortillas made the fajitas far superior and I’m glad they insisted I stay.

After getting changed, both Beckett and Coty joined Marc in the kitchen. One look at my “cooking” skills, and Marc banished me to a stool for the bullshit role of supervising. It turned out to be quite the show though, so I didn’t complain. Watching all three friends work together to cook one delicious meal was something I didn’t know I needed in my life. I found myself laughing along with inside jokes that had nothing to do with me but were funny just the same. They moved around each other with such ease and respect, it was a sight to behold, one I’ll never forget.

Full—fuller than I’ve been in a long time—I’m sitting at their round patio table looking out over the pool, chatting with Coty as he tells me more about himself. So far I’ve learned he’s an only child. He met Beckett, who they call Beck for short, and Marc, short for Marcos, from riding dirt bikes as kids. They work together at an auto body shop. Beckett’s a mechanic, able to work on anything with an engine, while Marc and Coty share managerial duties. You can tell Marc prefers to work under the hood but I get the feeling his leadership skills call him into action more often than he’d like. There’s more to that story, his tight jaw while on the subject told me that, but none of the guys divulged anything more than surface level details. Marc, at twenty-one, is older than the other two by one year even though they all finished high school at the same time. After graduating, with honors like me, Coty bought himself a street bike while Marc and Beckett followed soon after with purchasing theirs. They’ve been living together ever since. Oh, and he hates spinach. Got it.

Bringing my gaze back to him, I watch his eyes light up talking about his friends. The other two went back inside as soon as we finished eating on the boys’ back balcony. Now, he’s telling me about a time the three friends threw an epic party out in the boonies with dirt bikes and bonfires before the cops showed up to bust them. Luckily, everyone got away but not without incident. Apparently, Beckett had to run carrying his dirt bike instead of it carrying him away from the melee.

They’re extremely close and it shows. Not just by the entertaining cooking show they put on for me either, but by the way they have each other’s backs. No matter what. Story after story, it’s clear how much they love one another. The three of them have been inseparable for years. Like brothers but stronger because they don’t have to be, they choose to be. They truly want to be there for each other, it wasn’t ingrained in them from birth. Which might be one of those beautiful, yet heartbreaking, exceptions in life. What does someone have to go through to choose a person that isn’t related to them over anyone in their actual biological family? Drew pops into my head and I tuck my hands under my thighs.

Coty notices my change in demeanor and drops the subject. He’s been doing that since I showed up. It reminds me of a mood ring one of my mom’s many boyfriends gave me, blending to adjust based on my moods. He doesn’t force me to stay where I’m uncomfortable, he just rolls with the changes once he senses the shift. It’s unnerving and charming, just like him.

“I never got to show you around earlier. Want a tour?”

My feet peddle back and forth, waking them from their sleepy state. “I should probably head out. Surely, you must be sick of me by now.”

“First of all, that’ll never happen.” I look over at him, eyebrow raised. “Second, don’t call me Shirley. I had a great aunt named Shirley. She liked plain oatmeal and let her poodles eat straight from her bowl.” He fakes a shudder. “It’s a touchy subject.” I roll my eyes before he finally cracks. “Okay, fine, her name wasn’t Shirley but she did do that and it always freaked me out.”

“You don’t like dogs?”

Eyes latched to mine, he says, “I love dogs, but plain oatmeal is fucking disgusting.”

After a beat of silence, we both break into a round of laughter.

Fair enough.

The tour starts out in the dining room which my studio doesn’t even have so I take my time letting my gaze soak up the large table filling the space. A delicate looking chandelier lights the room, giving it a soft glow that overhead lights usually wash out.

The kitchen is next which I already got my fill of while watching dinner prep. I run my fingers over the shiny granite countertop I sat at earlier as the two boys finish loading the dishwasher, another luxury my micro didn’t come with, before we move down the hall. Pointing out the first closed door as Marc’s, he explains how Marc got the master to begin with. Something about a race and a near death experience.

Further on, he shows me Beckett’s door which is wide open without a care in the world. The idea makes me smile thinking that’s exactly how Beckett comes off. That is until I step into his room finding it meticulously clean, something I would’ve never thought possible. His carefree vibe does not carry over into his possessions. Not by a long shot. Posters of hot cars and even hotter women line the walls but in perfect uniformity. Almost like the guy measured each one out before attaching them. The attention to detail is astounding.

Before I can ask any questions about the blaring contrast, Coty maneuvers me across the hall to his room. He walks into the cozy space while I hover in the doorway.

He sees my indecision. “You can come in. I don’t bite.”

I swear I hear a muttered “hard” as he leans against his desk off to the side waiting me out. The thought of Coty’s teeth sinking into my flesh, even softly, sends a shiver up my neck. He threw a baseball hat on his wild hair after his shower and with his white tank just barely revealing those mysterious tattoos and soft shorts sitting low on his waist, I find myself struggling with want and need yet again. The need for self-preservation that’s ingrained in my every fiber. The want to buck that instinct to see what destruction Coty may be capable of. The two impulses war with each other until I can’t tell which one is which anymore.

Coty’s scent is stronger the further in I venture. Almost like a spicy coconut—it sounds weird but totally works—the smell is borderline overwhelming when I reach the foot of his large upholstered bed. His gray comforter adorned with a few matching pillows and a white throw blanket draped across the bottom corner is both inviting and foreboding. Focusing on the cushiony headboard, I notice a huge mural just above acting as the focal point of the entire room. It’s a mural of the desert with a quote scrawled across the sky that reads In The End, We Only Regret The Chances We Don’t Take. The landscape is striking all on its own. The heightened colors of the sunset give it a mesmerizing effect. But the significant saying is what makes it such a poignant piece though instead of just a pretty picture hung over someone’s bed. It means something.

I glance over to find Coty watching me closely. I drag my fingers across the blanket, leaving streaks against the grain of fabric that resemble claw marks. Just like I’d do to him.

Quickly turning away from his bed, I give his desk a once-over noting its contents without fully snooping. Car magazines and random papers. Nothing too exciting. The picture hanging on the wall above the desk however more than makes up for the boring workspace. It’s an abstract black and white painting with the words Strength, Love, and Honor scattered amongst the frenzied lines. I stare at the piece for longer than necessary as if the meaning behind the picture will reveal itself if I look hard enough.

Coty clears his throat at my side, reminding me how close we are. In his bedroom. Alone.