My Brother's Bad Best Friend Page 3

  I frown a little bit, surprised. I didn’t peg Jonas as the type of guy to like gardening and plants, but clearly I was wrong.

  “This is all you,” Ezra says, pointing at the couch. There are two couches next to each other in a little “L” configuration across from a large flat screen TV. Sleek, modern looking speakers flank the TV and the coffee table looks like it’s made from reclaimed pallet wood.

  “Couch is surprisingly comfortable,” Ezra says, patting the back. “I think you’ll be good here. Gets sunny in the morning, though.” He waves his hand over at the glass wall before turning to his left.

  “Kitchen over here,” he says, continuing the tour. I toss my duffel bag down on the couch and follow him. “You can have anything with my name on it.”

  “You guys put your names on your food?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Jonas,” he says, before moving on.

  I catch a glimpse of a neat and orderly kitchen. There’s a picnic style table in the center of the space and clean, empty counters. I’m guessing all the neatness comes from Jonas as well, considering the way Ezra is stomping through the place.

  I’m thoroughly blown away already as Ezra takes me upstairs. Tasteful paintings line the walls and little plants are placed along the stairs. Ezra stomps past it all, but I pause to take a look: cats in a really primitive style, a school bus without wheels.

  “This is my room,” Ezra says, stopping at the first door. He pushes it open and gestures inside.

  Sure enough, it’s a wreck. Clothes on the floor, bed unmade, trash on the nightstand.

  “Didn’t expect guests,” he mumbles. “Would’ve cleaned up.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Bathroom over here.” He quickly shuts the door and moves on. “It’s the only one, hope you’re okay with that. Real pain in the ass that you have to go up steps every time to piss.”

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “And down there is Jonas’s room.” He gestures at the left room at the end of the hall. “I’d show you, but he’d notice I opened his door and he’d probably make me have some stupid talk about it.”

  “Do you guys not get along?” I ask him, a little surprised.

  He hesitates a second. “We get along fine,” he says finally. “Just been stressful, opening Half Pipe. Things are strained right now.” He perks up a little bit. “But we’re doing great.”

  “Really?” I ask, almost skeptical.

  “Really,” he says. “Even though he’s annoying, Jonas runs that place like clockwork.”

  “Yeah? What do you do?”

  He glances at me as he walks past, back down into the living room. “Big picture stuff,” he says vaguely, gesturing around him like he’s trying to swat some bugs away from his face.

  We come back down into the main space and he sighs, turning toward me.

  “Listen, Lizzie, I’m sorry to do this, but I have to go.”

  I blink, surprised. I expected him to at least sit down and talk to me for a little while, maybe ask a few more questions. We’ve barely spoken in years, except maybe once or twice when he popped into my life to check on me. Mostly he just ignored me, but now I’m in his apartment, and he can’t ignore me anymore.

  Or maybe he can.

  “It’s business,” he says, by way of explanation. “You understand, right? Make yourself at home, do whatever, we got Netflix and HBO.”

  “Okay, sure. I get it.” I pause, glancing at the patio and all the plants arranged neatly. “Will you be back later?”

  “Later,” he says, nodding. “Jonas should be home later, too.”

  “Okay, cool.”

  He looks at me and frowns a little bit. “I’m sorry you had to come here,” he says softly, the first sign of genuine human emotion crossing his face. “Really. I know it sucks. But it’ll be better soon.”

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling a stupid lump in my throat. It’s pathetic, someone’s briefly nice to me and all I want to do is cry.

  “See you later, little sis.” He grins at me and leaves without another word, grabbing his keys on the way.

  I stand there alone in the middle of a strange apartment, not sure what to think. My eye throbs, my feet are sore from walking, and all I want to do is curl up in a bed and go to sleep. But I don’t have a bed anymore.

  I just have this couch in this beautiful, immaculate apartment, and I have no clue what I’m going to do with myself anymore.

  3

  Jonas

  I pull a deep drag of smoke from my vape pen and hold it in my lungs as Don speeds toward the five stair rail.

  I slip the pen back into my jeans pockets just as Don hits his jump, the board leaping up with his feet. It looks almost superhuman and impossible, this little Vietnamese guy leaping through the air like this, but his front trucks hit the rail and slide down. He stands balanced, small body compact and tight, and as he reaches the end of the rail, he leans back slightly, kicking his back heel down.

  I let out the smoke as Don overcorrects. The board hits the ground and he swerves before the board kicks out and he slams backwards onto the pavement.

  “Oh, fuck,” Shrink says.

  “Keep filming,” I grunt at him. He glances over at me but listens. The lights are bright overtop Don as he slowly gets to his feet. Everyone’s tense and quiet as Shrink gets the shot, moving around Don in a slow circle. The little man finally gets to his feet, hand touching the back of his head and coming up red.

  “Shit, man,” Shrink says, his eyes wide and staring back at me. “He’s bleeding.

  “You good, Don?”

  Don looks back at me. He looks at his fingers once before wiping them on his jeans. “I’m good,” he says. “I gotta hit that before we finish.”

  “Good man.” I look at Shrink. “Get back in position. And make sure those fucking lights are right.”

  Shrink hesitates, but Vinny’s already moving, going to reset the lighting. Don grabs his board and walks slowly back up the stairs as Shrink follows him, filming the whole time.

  Don’s the toughest fucking bastard I know. If I had said that we should stop filming for the day, he would’ve been pissed for a week about that. Any sign of weakness from him is like the end of the fucking world, and I know better than to assume he’s hurt before he says so. Shrink’s relatively new to this whole thing, although he’s a good skater himself, he doesn’t put his body on the line like Don does. He’ll never get to that next level like Don will because of it.

  Fuck, most of us won’t get to that level. Don has that special something, that unique mix of raw talent and incredible disregard for his own well-being that allows him to go for tricks that most people would be terrified to even consider.

  Don lines up again and I feel the weed working in my skin, a soft tingle along the hairs on my arms. I don’t let myself get baked out and stupid, but I like a nice, easy buzz keeping me in the zone and concentrating.

  This is going to be fucking incredible when it’s finished. The shot of Don looking at his bloody hands before going for this trick again is going to be the opening scene to this whole film. I can close my eyes and see it all already, and I know it’s going to be fucking fire.

  Don lands the trick on the next try. Shrink gets it all, since he’s probably a better cameraman than he is a daredevil. Don grins at me with those crooked teeth.

  “See, boss,” he says. “I got that shit.”

  I nod and hand him my vape pen. “Good, man. Keep that.”

  He grins again, taking a big hit.

  “And Don,” I say more softly, “you might want to see a doctor.”

  His grin falters. “You think so?”

  “Shit, man,” I say, laughing and shaking my head. Shrink and Vinny are breaking down the lighting, so they can’t hear this bit. “I’m pretty sure you have a concussion. I have no clue how you got up, let alone landed that shit.”

  “Magical abilities, boss,” he says, grinning again.

  “Just go see the doc
tor.” I slap him on the shoulder as I walk away. “Later, boys,” I call out, waving at Shrink and Vinny.

  They wave back. My Jeep’s parked not far away. I climb in and fire up the engine before sitting there a second, watching the guys joke around as they finish cleaning up from the shoot.

  It’s only a ten-minute drive back to the apartment. It’s been a long fucking day, between all the usual shit at the weed shop and shooting this with Don and the two idiots, I’m pretty fucking beat. All I want to do is smoke some more weed, play some mindless videogames, and pass the fuck out before I have to do this all over again tomorrow.

  I know I can’t do that, though. I know what’s waiting for me back at home, and I don’t know how I really feel about it.

  I pull out slowly. I keep thinking about Lizzie’s black eye, the way she kept trying to hide it with her hair and failing miserably, and the way she stared at me when I told her to slap me. She was thinking about it, but not in an angry way. I think it excited her, to imagine touching my face, and that sends a thrill down my spine. For once, the chills I’m getting aren’t from the drugs, but from picturing my fingers grazing along Lizzie’s skin.

  Fucked-up thing, though. She’s Ezra’s sister, five years younger than us, and she needs help, not dick. Shit, maybe she needs dick too, but not right now. She needs to sleep, ice that eye up, and figure her future out. I’m pretty far from what she really needs.

  I pull out slowly and head home. It’s around nine when I finally park and go inside. I type in the pin and open the front door, walking up the old, creaking steps toward the second floor. I unlock the door loudly, trying to make as much noise as possible before stepping foot into my apartment.

  I don’t know what I expected. I step into the room and look around, but it’s empty. She’s not on the couch, which I guess is where I thought she’d be. I check the kitchen, Ezra’s room, even my room, but nothing.

  Finally I go out onto the patio, and stop in front of a little body wrapped in a blanket, curled up in a corner near my cannas.

  I crouch down near her and don’t say anything at first. I watch her stir a little bit and after a few seconds, a face appears from the blanket, her wide eyes blinking at me.

  I stare at her in silence. After a second, I reach into my pocket and take out a joint I was saving for tonight. I light it and draw deep as I watch her. She shifts her weight, sitting up, her back against the corrugated steel wall, her eyes watching me warily.

  “Where’s Ezra?” she asks.

  “I thought you might be dead,” I answer, ignoring her comment.

  She shakes her head. “Not dead. Just tired.”

  “Long day?”

  I can’t help but smile at the way she arches an eyebrow. “You could say that.”

  I let the smoke drift from between my lips and sigh with the last bit of air in my lungs. She cocks her head and I stand up, stretching a little bit.

  “Never pegged you as a plant guy,” she comments as I turn away.

  I look back at her. Those wide eyes almost look like they’re floating in space, the way her black hair blends in with the night. I have the sudden urge to walk over to her and curl up in that blanket next to her body.

  “Calms me,” I say. “Plus, they’re pretty.”

  She snorts. “Pretty?”

  “Beautiful. Gorgeous. Sexy.” I smile a little bit, not sure if she’s mocking or genuinely enjoying this part of me. I don’t normally share my love of gardening with people, since I don’t need the fucking comments. I have an image, and that image doesn’t include growing shit on his patio. People picture me smoking weed and cracking skulls and selling drugs and getting tattoos, and that’s all they care about.

  Might as well try not to disappoint my fans.

  “Are you talking about me or the flowers?” Her smile turns a little mischievous and I get a glimpse of the Lizzie I remember from when she was younger. Funny and immature but whip-smart and quick with a dig.

  “I’m definitely talking about you, little rose,” I say.

  “Rose?” She arches another eyebrow at me.

  “Pretty and thorny. Quick to bite.”

  She laughs. “So you do think I’m pretty.”

  “Careful. We’ll be living together for a while.”

  Her laugh is bitter like ice in black coffee. “Not like that ever bothered me before.”

  I raise an eyebrow, mind reeling for a second. “Royal, did that fucking bastard ever…?” I trail off as she laughs, shaking her head.

  “God, no,” she says. “Royal never, ever touched me.” She pauses for a second, fingers coming to her black eye. “At least not like that. No, I was thinking about mom’s boyfriends.”

  “Boyfriends,” I say.

  “You know, the young guys she fucks around with when Royal pretends he isn’t looking. Or when he’s too drunk to care.”

  “I hear something along those lines.” I keep my face straight, trying not to pity the poor girl. Fact is, her mom has a pretty horrendous reputation for sleeping with any guy under the age of eighteen. I hear she hires them to clean her pool then takes their virginity, which is the most fucking cliché thing imaginable. I figured it was all bullshit, although even Ezra admitted once that there may be some truth to it. Now though, I’m pretty sure most of that insane shit I heard about probably really did happen.

  “Come inside,” I say. “You hungry?”

  “Why does everyone always ask me that?” she grumbles as she climbs to her feet. I help her the rest of the way, my hand lingering on hers as we step in through the patio door. I slide it shut behind us and head into the kitchen, Lizzie shambling along behind me, blanket trailing along the floor like a skirt.

  I pull out some eggs, some spinach, a little cheese, and some red peppers I chopped up but didn’t use last night. “You eat eggs?” I ask, cracking one into a bowl.

  “I guess so,” she says, sitting down at the counter and leaning forward on her elbows. The blanket falls down around her shoulders and I glance at the low-cut tank top she’s wearing, her breasts pressed together, white and full and fucking beautiful, better than my plants.

  I look away quickly, willing my cock not to get hard. I crack another egg, mix them up, get a pan nice and hot, add a little pat of butter, and start the omelet. When it sets slightly, I add cheese, spinach, and the red peppers before flipping and letting it cook.

  When the cheese melts, I put it on a plate, give her a fork, a knife, and a napkin, before grabbing a beer from the refrigerator for myself.

  “People always want to feed me,” she says.

  “You’re skinny,” I note.

  “I’m not that skinny.” She frowns, taking a bite. That bite turns into another, and soon she’s wolfing it down.

  I smile and watch. “Slow down,” I say. “You’re not that hungry, remember?”

  “I didn’t say that,” she answers, mouth full. “I said everyone tries to feed me. I’m always hungry.”

  I laugh, taking a long pull of beer.

  “Your mom cook?”

  She snorts. “Never. We had a cook named Yolanda for a while, she was amazing, but my mom thought she stole some silverware so she fired her.”

  I shake my head, unable to stop myself from smiling. Another suburban rich lady cliché. “You stopped eating after that?”

  “Nah,” she says. “Just went out a lot.”

  “You can’t cook?”

  “I can make ramen,” she says defensively. “The good kind, I mean.”

  “Oh, fancy,” I say, smirking. I take another quick pull on my beer as she finishes her dinner. “You’ll have to make it for me sometime.”

  “All I need are the packets, some water, and a microwave.” She grins huge at me, and I laugh.

  “Real fancy,” I lean up against the counter and it’s strange how relaxed I feel. Normally I have to smoke a whole joint to get to this place, but tonight I didn’t even bother finishing half before I stubbed it out and balanced it on a p
ot outside. For some reason, I don’t feel the need to be stoned around Lizzie.

  “I like your place,” she says. “I’m guessing you put it all together.”

  “Most of it,” I admit.

  “I saw Ezra’s room. It’s a mess. He was like that as a kid.”

  “Annoys the hell out of me,” I admit.

  “You’re full of surprises.”

  I sigh, smirking a little as I sip my beer again. “You think I should live in a crack den then?”

  “Probably,” she says, shrugging, face betraying nothing. “I mean, you are a drug dealer, right?”

  I wince a little. I’ve been called worse, much worse. Fuck, I think of myself as a thug and a druggie, so what’s the problem with her thinking it too? But for some reason, hearing it come out of her mouth hurts.

  “I sell weed legally,” I say. “Not a dealer.”

  “Not anymore.”

  I laugh a little. “You’re tough.”

  “I have to be.” She motions at the black eye. “It’s how I got this.”

  “Yeah, well, drug dealers can be neat and stylish, too.”

  She nods a little bit, eyes roaming the tattoos snaking up along my arms. I let her get a good look before returning the favor, eyes lingering on her chest. She catches me staring and I don’t try to hide it. She blushes and looks away.

  “You should be happy,” I say. “If this were Ezra’s place, you’d be sleeping on empty pizza boxes on an air mattress. At least now you have a comfortable couch.”

  “Good point,” she says, sighing.

  “Why were you out on the patio, anyway?”

  Hesitation. It’s written all over her. She doesn’t want to tell me why she was out there, and I can tell I hit a nerve.

  “No reason,” she says. “Just fell asleep.”

  She’s lying, it’s obvious, but I don’t push. “I don’t blame you. Nice out there after the sun goes down.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “Really nice.”

  We watch each other and I marvel at how different she is, but also how much she’s stayed the same. I think about myself back then, back when I spent time at her house with her fucked-up stepdad and her fucked-up mom, and I can’t picture the guy I was. Drug dealer, burnout, asshole, thug, playboy, I was all that and more. Now I’m a legit businessman, but it’s hard to shake the reputation.