Chapter 23 – Thomas
Chapter Twenty-Three
Thomas
I don’t want to hand my phone over to her.
Showing someone the contents of your cellphone these days is a lot like showing them your knickers.
It’s just not appropriate. It simply isn’t done.
But Clover sticks her hand out with a threatening look on her face, like she won’t take no for an answer. She’s fucking impossible.
At least she didn’t kill me for entering her bedroom.
I hand over my cellphone and she reads the email out loud.
To: tbainbridge@
From: spicyfreak69@
Subject: dead meat
You didn’t listen, baby.
Now she’s going to pay.
Leave ￡500 in an envelope on the whispering bench.
Or else I’ll cut her deep.
xo spicy
“Who is this talking about?” Clover asks.
“Dunno.”
“You couldn’t have sent it to yourself,” she answers.
She gives me an apologetic expression for stating the obvious.
“It’s probably a dumb prank,” I tell her.
“Are you going to leave the money?”
“Whispering bench?”
“It’s the semi-circular stone bench overlooking the soccer fields.”
Soccer. She draws out all the vowels in such an American way. It’s too fucking hard not to get distracted by her accent.
“Don’t see the point.”
“She’s going to pay? Do you have like a secret girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Could it be Sylvia?”
“Maybe it’s you. Since Spicy’s also blackmailing you?”
She snorts. “You definitely don’t care enough to pay ￡500 to save me. I’ll give you the money. You can leave it on the bench.”
“You’ve got ￡500 lying around?”
Clover’s eyes narrow. “Not lying around. But yes, I have it.”
“I thought most African Americans were impoverished.”
Clover’s nostrils flare so wide, I half-expect her brains to spill out. Have I said something wrong?
“How dare you,” she hisses. “And you know what? You’re not even allowed to be here.”
I shrug and walk over to her roommate’s bed, leaning against it. Clover’s eyes get so wide, I realize that her eyes aren’t as dark brown as I thought. They’re a little bit sorrel in color.
“Don’t lean on her bed!”
I do everything wrong around her.
“Fine.” I cross the room and lean against Clover’s bed, which only gets her angrier. She whips around to face me, nearly hitting my arm with her swinging dreadlocks.
“Not every single African American is poor. That’s racist, Thomas. And that’s exactly why we aren’t friends and never will be. If this Spicy bitch thinks there’s anything going on between us, they’re wrong.”
“We kissed,” I remind her, a move which turns out to be another mistake as far as Clover’s concerned.
She takes a paperback from her desk and tosses it at my head. You don’t grow up with as many brothers as I did without gaining superb reflexes. I catch the book instead and have myself a look at the title.
Surviving The Robinsons by Cayla Robinson.
There’s a black woman on the front who looks nothing like Clover. She’s darker, dressed like a model, and she has long straight hair and loads of makeup.
“Is that your mum?”
“Give that back,” Clover snaps.
“Your mum’s an author?”
Clover lunges at me, but I hoist the book out of reach effortlessly.
I dunno why I thought that would stop her.
She jams her fist into my side and jumps for the book as I groan.
I still hold it over her head despite my pain.
She jumps on me, throwing me backwards onto her bed.
I grunt as she hits my side again and then scrambles on me to grab the book back.
I move in just the right way to force her legs apart and as she lunges one last time for the book she straddles me and still fails to achieve her goal, collapsing forward and losing her balance as she falls against my chest.
“OW!” Clover yelps. I take the book and smack her bottom with it. Hard.
Clover sits up (still straddling me, still getting me fucking hard) and slaps me across the face. Holy fuck. Does she have a ping pong paddle inside her palm? I face her once the pain subsides and shove the book under my back.
“You’re not getting that back until you answer my question,” I whisper.
She tries to scramble off me, but I hook my hands on her thighs and pull her against me. If she really wanted to get away, she could. At least she could certainly lob another attack at my head, something she’s shown no hesitation to do in the past.
“Yes,” she hisses, slamming her fist against my chest. “It’s my mom’s book. Now give it back.”
“Why are you so worked up?”
Her nostrils flare again. I’m still in trouble, I know. But I want answers. I also don’t want to leave this bed. I don’t want her to stop straddling me.
“Because…” she hisses. “It’s embarrassing.”
“What’s so embarrassing about it?”
“Never mind. And don’t look into it.”
I take my phone out of my pocket. I’ve obviously got to look into it. Clover tries to snatch my phone out of my hand and after a few minutes of fighting over it. I finally give up.
“If you don’t want me to look it up, tell me.”
“Why? We aren’t friends.”
“Exactly. So I don’t care about your embarrassing mum.”
If she wants to see embarrassing, she should come to a Bainbridge family party.
Now those are embarrassing. And cold. Quiet.
The pending divorce only made things worse.
I bet Clover’s normal. I bet she’s not like me.
She shakes her head and the fists on my chest open out into palms. Her right hand presses into my heart beat.
She must feel how fucking nervous I am to have her on me like this.
I just hope she doesn’t feel how hard she gets me.
“My parents filmed every minute of my life and my brother’s life and made millions doing it, okay? My mom has several R&B singles, a clothing line, and this stupid book.”
“You’re online?”
“Everyone’s online,” she snaps. “That’s not the issue. The problem is having every moment of my life documented for the world to comment on and criticize. I just don’t want to deal with that here. So leave the book alone and honestly, leave me alone too.”
“Not a chance.”
“Don’t make me punch you again.”
“I meant… just for tonight. I’ll sleep on the floor. I just… In case the blackmail’s real. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I can do just fine without you.”
“Just tonight,” I tell her. “I promise I’ll leave you alone tomorrow.”
I don’t know what the fuck she’ll say, but I want her to say yes, even if I don’t think I have the strength to let go of the gorgeous dark brown thighs I clutch in my palms.
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