7. You Shit Scrunchies
I takeout a joint and light it up, watching as the sun sets in the distance. The edge of the wooden step is digging into my back, so I switch positions and rest my elbows on the porch’s wooden planks. I look up at the stars beginning to appear, then exhale and watch the smoke on its path upward before it vanishes in the backdrop of the sky.
I had to leave the house.
How has Primrose been here for twenty-four hours and managed to leave a mess in nearly every room? And on a related note, how many books can someone read simultaneously? Apparently, the answer is at least seven.
I’m also pretty sure she shits scrunchies. Blue with polka dots, pink with little cacti, a weird velvety red one. Scrunchies on my couch, on my table, on top of her books. None in her hair, though.
And the kitchen...good god, my kitchen. Every single baking item—even some I wasn’t aware I owned—is scattered on the counter and the table. My fridge is nearly empty after she took everything out and started making her concoctions, and I’m pretty sure my house will smell like sugar forever.
It’s only been a day, but it already feels like two weeks.
I bring the joint to my lips and inhale, feeling my muscles relax as the smoke fills my lungs again. I let it out, and a musky cloud surrounds me.
Josie didn’t show up today, and I don’t think it’s the sign I want to believe it is. If they had nothing but suspicion that I’m behind what happened, they’d be here, poking around, like they have before. So what if they’re not showing up because they do have something?
“Having a party?”
I straighten as Derek approaches the driveway on foot, his nasal voice and overconfident smirk irking me on the spot. I was expecting him, but seeing him still tenses me up in a way it’s never done before. I guess learning he posted Primrose’s list online is a key factor.
“Nah, looks like you’re alone.” He chuckles as he comes to a stop in front of me, rubbing his buzz-cut copper hair. “Can’t even keep a woman around, poor fucker.”
He leans forward, and my eyes follow the movement until he’s squeezing my shoulder. God, I’m going to break his tiny, bony fingers.
“Get your hands off me,” I say, glaring as he steps back and whistles.
“Yikes. Same temper too, huh?”
“Happy to provide a practical example.”
He waves me off, still smirking like the asshole he is. Why is he staring at the house? Is he looking for Primrose? At this point, he must know she’s here.
I want to rip his eyes out.
“So, look.” He takes on a more serious tone. “I’m sure the trash can was a prank that went sideways, right? But I’ll need those pigs back.”
Oh, he needs the pigs back. Funny, because I also need something from him. Something that, like the pigs, should have never been his. Something he shouldn’t have shared with the whole world on his stupid social media. “Pigs? What pigs?”
“Come on, Logan. You’re not even making an effort to lie. I know you talked to the police.”
Looking away, I nod. “Oh, right. Someone failed in their attempt to roast you last night—how unfortunate.” I click my fingers. “Hey, question. Where did you get those piglets from?”
He bites his bottom lip as he looks away, adopting that same pleased expression I want to wipe off his face. He always looks so content with himself, like he’s a prize for the rest of us. Like he’s above shit like decency and empathy and respect.
“Did you happen to get them from Mikey? ’Cause I could’ve sworn his sow only gave birth a couple of weeks ago. And I don’t need to tell you what that would mean.”
“Yeah, well. You can report us if you’re so concerned.”
“Oh, I did, but you know better than me that cases like this can be dragged out for years if they ever get picked up at all. By then, the pigs would be sausage already.” I lean forward, looking into his small, protruding eyes. “But, hey, I hope you find them.”
The rhythmic chirping of crickets sounds around us as he stares back.
“I need those pigs, Logan,” he says as he lazily kicks a small rock. “You keep stealing my animals, and my reputation is taking a hit. I don’t want to have to start a war with you.”
“Smart. You’d lose it.”
His teeth are bared when he looks away, as if reflecting on what angle he can go about this from. He probably knows he’s wasting his breath, just like he knows that the animals I keep stealing from him, he had obtained or dealt with illegally.
“So, is it true? Is Primrose here?”
My jaw tightens as I glare.
Bad, bad choice.
“She just can’t take a hint, can she?” He breathes through his teeth. “I’m sorry she got you involved in her pathetic obsession with me, but—hey, I’m happy to get her off your hands if I get the piglets back.”
Though my teeth clench so hard they hurt, I smirk. It’s almost comical—he wants to get her off my hands, while I’d rather cut my hands off than let him anywhere near her.
“Unless you want my leftovers.”
The word hangs in the air like a death sentence as he winks, and in an instant, my vision blurs, my ears ringing with the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. I can”t breathe, can”t think, can”t do anything but feel so much fury, it’s debilitating.
Derek’s right. I do have a temper, and I spend eighty percent of my daily energy on trying to keep it in check. But I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept properly in months, and he said the one thing I really wish he hadn’t.
I stand, then walk closer, jerking my chin down to look at him. “What did you just call her?”
When he laughs—a harsh, grating sound that feels like nails on a chalkboard—my fingers tighten into a fist. I try to remind myself of the consequences an assault charge would bring, but I keep hearing that word echo in my brain.
Leftovers.
I’m gonna fucking kill him.
I step forward, but the door opens, and I drop my charged fist to my side.
Holy shit, Primrose looks gorgeous. My eyes run up the pink dress she’s wearing, and even with the blueberries on it, it’s still the most beautiful piece of clothing I could picture her in. Her hips are wrapped in it like a Christmas present, and it pushes her tits up in a way that makes me feel lightheaded.
Her eyes blow wide as she stands against the door frame. “Derek?”
She’s afraid. Why is she afraid of him?
He waves at her, the same slimy smirk on his face. “It’s been a while, Prim. How are you?”
Turning my back on her, I grab him by his shirt and pull him toward the gate, his feet stumbling back as he tries to keep up. “Give me the list,” I hiss into his ear as soon as we’re out of range.
“W-what?” He straightens, clawing my hands as he breathes hard.
“The list—fucking give it right now.”
“I don’t have it with me,” he says, his nervous voice betraying him. “Let me?—”
“Of course you have it. You brought it here so you could taunt her with it at the first opportunity.” I tug him closer, his disgusting face an inch from mine. “Give it, or the next thing to burn down will be your dick.”
“Fine, fine.” His trembling hand sinks into his jeans pocket, and I relent my hold. “Here,” he breathes out as he takes the piece of paper out of his wallet. He hands it over, and I keep my fingers relaxed around it to not crumple it. Even though everything in me is as tense as a bowstring.
I shove him back, and he lands with his ass on the ground. “Not one more word online. Do you understand?” I lean closer, then tilt my head Primrose’s way and whisper, “Not one word.”
After staring for a couple of seconds, he awkwardly stands. At first, it looks like he’ll say something, but he eventually stalks away. Once he disappears behind the gate, I pocket the list and bring the joint to my lips again.
I need to relax. Need to remember there’s someone I don’t want to scare. That I have too much shit to take care of, and I can’t afford to go to jail.
“Hey,” Primrose says as she joins my side. “Are you okay? What happened?”
Ignoring her, I walk back to my porch and breathe out, trying to release some of the adrenaline that has surged through me. “Did you want something?”
“No, I...I heard voices.”
“Are they telling you to start a fire?” I sit on the top step and exhale. “Because that would explain a lot.”
“Voices out here. The ones I hear in my head can’t get any reception.” She throws a worried look over her shoulder, then turns to me again. “I made this.” She holds out a small bowl filled with green candy. “Mint and thyme.”
“No, thanks.”
One corner of her lips drops. “Come on, try it.”
“What’s in it?”
“Well...mint, thyme, sugar?—”
“White sugar?”
Her eyes narrow. “No. Refined cane sugars are likely to have been processed with animal products.”
Huh. So she does know her stuff.
“Still not eating it,” I mutter.
“Fine.” She sets the bowl away with a sigh. “Kyle said you don’t have Wi-Fi. Is that true?”
So she did hang out with Kyle. He told me he’d go see her when his shift was over, but by the time I came back home for dinner, she was alone.
My eyes drift over the blueberries on her pink dress, her thick thighs underneath, and I briefly wonder why she’s wearing heels. “No Wi-fi here. If you want to use your connection, the front porch is the only place where the internet works.”
Her nose scrunches, the same expression as if I’d condemned her to a life without oxygen. I guess it would feel that way to her. “Why was Derek here?”
Shoulders hunching, I shrug. “Just saying hi.”
“Yeah, right.” Light blue eyes scan my face, but I ignore them until she sits next to me on the step. “You said if I stayed here, I’d get to talk to him. Why did you chase him off as soon as I came out?”
“You don’t need to talk to him.”
She crosses her arms, her shoulders rolling forward. “Is that so? And why do you get to decide?—”
I fit a hand into my pocket and hold the list between my index and middle finger. “You can talk to him if you want. But you don’t need to talk to him.”
For a moment, she looks at the piece of paper with her lips parted, then she snatches it quickly as if she’s afraid it’ll suddenly disappear. She unfolds it, her thumb grazing the lines scribbled on it. “I...Logan, I?—”
“It’s fine.”
She breathes out, as if she needs to get that ‘thank you’ off her chest. Really, she shouldn’t be thanking me. That list is her stupid clump of romantic fantasies, and he shouldn’t have taken it in the first place.
“Seriously, forget about it,” I insist as I look away.
Though she remains perfectly silent, her eyes are louder than words. The way she keeps staring at the side of my face as if I’m the best person ever put on this planet, the gratefulness pouring out of her. I need her to quit it immediately, and she must perceive my discomfort because, without a word, she turns to her bag.
I watch her take out a pen, and after removing the cap, she strikes through one of the items of her list. I’m not sure why, as I don’t usually care about much, but I need to know which one. “What was that?”
“Kiss me until I can’t breathe.”
Oh, right. I feel heat creep up my neck, but before I can find something to say back, she brings pen to paper again and strikes through something else.
Again, it kills me not to know. “And this one?”
Her eyes meet mine as she sets pen and list back into her bag. “That,” she says with a playful tone, “is the second item I get to cross because of you, Logan. Thank you.”
Unbelievable. She found a way to thank me after all.
After a moment of silence, she asks, “You don’t have a TV, do you?”
“No,” I mumble, trying to push any thought of her list away. “No TV, no computer, no cellphone, no technology.”
“Wow.” Her eyes widen, but she quickly brushes off her judgmental expression and waves. “You know, back home, I have three TVs.”
“What—you live in a palace?”
“Just a two-bedroom.” She chuckles. “I also have two computers. But on the other hand, the French balcony with a view of the mall doesn’t compare to this.”
I look at the hills in the horizon, overly aware of her shoulder a few inches from mine. And is that perfume? Why does she always smell like fruit?
“Seriously, though. How does someone live without the internet?”
With a shrug, I give her my least friendly glare. “There aren’t a billion strangers calling me a psycho, so...so far so good.”
She swipes her finger on the screen of her phone and begins typing. “What if you need to look something up?”
“What do you mean?” I ask as I breathe in the smoke.
“Say you need to check where Bangladesh is.” She fidgets with the hem of her dress. “How do you do that with no internet?”
“Why the hell would I need to check where Bangladesh is?”
“To prove to someone that it’s next to Myanmar.”
I open my mouth, then close it. “I have an atlas.”
She raises both hands as if to declare defeat. “All set, then. My mistake. Are microwaves allowed?”
“When my ex moved out, she took her TV back. I never liked computers, and when I realized I also don’t like people, I threw my phone away.” I inhale, rolling my stiff shoulders back. “Now, please shut up, Barbie.”
She doesn’t say a word, and lighting up the joint again, I wait for her to leave. But she doesn’t. She keeps staring at me with those piercing eyes the same color as crystal clear waters.
I guess I hate to be stared at as much as I hate being talked to.
“What?” I hiss.
She huffs out a chuckle. “Why do you keep calling me that? Barbie?”
Brows arching, I throw a glance in her direction. “Blonde hair with pink tips. Blue eyes. Pink dress, pink heels.” I gesture vaguely at her. “Barbie.”
“Joke’s on you, cowboy,” she says with a long sigh. “I spent half my life wishing I could look like Barbie.”
“Well, there you go.”
She leans back on her elbow, stretching her legs in front of her and swiping her finger over the screen of her phone. Staring at the shiny pink heels on her feet, I purse my lips. What does she mean, she wants to look like Barbie?
When she crosses her ankles, goosebumps spread across her arms. My eyes drift to the strap of her dress, casually falling down her arm and exposing her shoulder. Pink bra too, I notice, as my eyes follow along the edge, to the few inches of her tits I can see, then the sinful groove between them.
She turns to me, and I quickly glance away, but I don’t think it was fast enough for her not to think I was checking her out. And I wasn’t. My eyes just went there.
Biology.
“Hey.”
Fuuuuck. She’s going to scream at me again, isn’t she?
My body stiffens. “Yes?”
“Did Derek say something about the police?”
I give her a quick shake of my head. “Hm? No.”
“Come on—he definitely said something. Is it bad? Will they arrest me?”
I study the side of her face, flushed cheeks and languid eyes. I don’t want her to know what Derek said, but worrying about the police isn’t a better alternative, and I’m sure with what’s been happening on her social media, she’s heard worse.
“He said nothing about the police, Barbie. He called you his ‘leftovers.’”
“Leftovers?” she repeats in an uncertain voice.
“Yeah, you know. Like he’s had you first, so I get his leftovers.” I jerk my head toward her. “You.”
“Oh.” She blinks, looking away. “That’s...What did you say?”
Nothing. I said nothing at all, busy as I was trying not to rip his head off. But I don’t want her to know that, so I meet her gaze and say, “That you taste great once microwaved.”
She rolls her big blue eyes, and it steals a smile from me. “Come on. What did you say?”
“I said...” My eyes run down her body, and this time, there’s no way for her to miss it. “I will.”
Soft and hooded eyes settle on my mouth. Is she thinking about our kiss? And if so, how often does that happen? Because it keeps running through my mind. “That’s a great answer.”
“Hm.” I watch her full lips—pink lipstick unmistakable under the porch light. I still remember the way she tastes—like summer and berries.
A car’s engine interrupts the silence, and with her throat working hard, she stands. “Oh, here’s Kyle. He’s bringing me somewhere around the farm.”
Wait, what? She’s going out with Kyle? Is that why she’s wearing that dress—those heels?
Mouth opened wide, I watch Kyle get out of the car in his one fancy shirt. She waves at him, says she’ll grab her bag, then disappears inside the house.
He asked her out—hell, I don’t know why I’m shocked. He’s physically unable to be around a woman without trying to get into her pants, and he told me he would. I also know he’s bringing her to the valley, which means he’s about to impress her big time.
Good for him.
It doesn’t bother me. Why would it?
Loosening a knot in my shoulder, I purse my lips.
It doesn’t bother me at all.
With a long exhale, I glance up at Kyle, who waves. The only way to know for sure if this is a date would be to check if he tucked condoms in his wallet, and though I’m tempted to turn him upside down and shake him like maracas to see what comes out, I stand and enter the house instead.
Getting her bag, she said? Well, Primrose is refreshing her lipstick, checking her reflection on the glass panel of the cabinet door.
Making herself even prettier.
For Kyle.
She turns to me, abandoning her lipstick on the table, and waits. I should tell her she looks good. Have fun, or Be safe, or whatever. Instead, I mutter, “Those shoes are ridiculous,” and her smile falls.
“Nobody asked you.”
“He’s bringing you to the valley. It gets muddy there after it rains, and it’s been pouring down for a week.”
She shrugs. “Nobody asked you that either.”
“Fine. Don’t come crying to me when you get hurt.”
“I wouldn’t come to you crying or otherwise,” she says as she struts past me.
Good. Maybe Kyle should deal with Derek then, since he’s the one who gets to take her out. I don’t need the headache.
Fuck. Why am I so annoyed?
“I’m going on a ride,” I mumble as I grab my bike keys. The two piglets, resting beside the couch, scurry away, probably unnerved by the edge in our voices, and without looking back, I leave out the door, ignoring her quick steps behind me.
“A ride? Seriously?”
I ignore that too and strut to the garage.
“It’s dangerous, Logan. What if you have another panic?—”
“You don’t know that it was a panic attack,” I quickly interrupt. “And anyway, don’t you have a date to go on?”
She flinches, then scowls. “It’s not a date. He wanted to hang out.”
“Yeah. ’Cause he wants to fuck you.”
“No,” she says pointedly. “Because I’m a nice person.”
She crosses her arms, and I slip my helmet on. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t like ‘nice.’ I don’t do ‘nice.’”
“Yeah, clearly. Why are you so angry, huh? Are you weirdly jealous or something?”
“Jealous? Of Kyle? I don’t even like you. We’re not friends, or more than friends, or less than friends—we’re nothing, okay?”
“Dude!” We both spin to find Kyle, arms wide and a shocked expression on his face. “What the fuck? Do you mind?”
Jesus Christ. What am I doing?
Primrose slowly exhales, her crystal blue eyes meeting mine. “For the record, I meant jealous of me hanging out with your friend. I understand how you feel about me.” She shrugs and, before turning around, mumbles, “I’m microwaved leftovers.”