16. Montana
16
Montana
I wake up to three missed calls and seven unread text messages awaiting my tired and aching eyes.
Markie Mark: How did the dinner go?
Markie Mark: Did you and step-bro go sneak off and fuck while your parents cooked dinner? If you didn’t, you should have. Shame on you.
Markie Mark: God, that’d be so hot. Is that why you aren’t answering me? Your hands are always “busy” these days.
Markie Mark: C’mon, what happened?
Markie Mark: Phil being an insensitive dickwad again?
Markie Mark: Money Shot, what’s wrong?
Markie Mark: Babes…you good?
I quickly type back that everything went really well, the meal was delicious, we shared great conversations, and I apologize for falling asleep on her, knowing she’ll see through my lies.
Before getting home from the dinner from hell, I’d walked to a bus stop a few blocks away, needing to escape.
Shane has them all fooled. They see him as some poor, unfortunate kid whose cards are stacked against him when, in reality, all he craves is the destruction of those cards and everyone else around him. Thriving in the thrill of fucking up everyone else’s stacks. He lives for my downfall, but his reasons fall short.
Was he upset that my father took over his mother’s attention? Clearly, she only has eyes for one man. Shane never seemed bothered by Phil, though. I assumed they’d worked out whatever issues they needed to before I arrived because there wasn’t much, if any, hostility between the two. As if Phil could provide hostility. That man is as sturdy as a sponge.
It appeared they both knew to stay in their lane when it came to the other. Easier that way, I guess.
I rode around aimlessly from stop to stop, finding some strange comfort in the loneliness of the city bus. Maybe the fact that it, too, doesn’t really have a home, and that each stop is just another point on a map where me and this junk on wheels connect. I’ve never felt there was a place I truly belonged, but I found a home in that.
My mind also couldn’t stop circling back to that photo I saw on the wall before I left. Various kids lined up on the stairs of a porch, sitting in oddly stacked rows as if made to pose for the picture. I could barely recognize Shane as the boy with the round cheeks and shaggy brown hair. He looked like a far cry from the man with the blood-shot eyes sunken into his pale flesh, his short fade doing more to showcase the jagged edges of his cheekbones. The ink, now a part of his flesh, was nonexistent on the boy on the stairs, who sat untouched by scars and stories. But the most shocking part of seeing that photo wasn’t Shane’s dramatic and terrifying transformation. It was the haunting smile of the older girl sitting above him, her arm wrapped protectively around her little brother.
I’d finally gotten off the bus after sitting in my mindless space, making my way back to the house to clean up and hopefully nap. I should have focused on getting in a few more hours of cello practice, but sleep took me after my warm shower, and I finally got the chance to catch up on some much-needed rest.
It’s now after seven o’clock the following morning, and I desperately need to practice the last few sonatas again before meeting with Conductor Hopkins and the orchestra later this afternoon. But when I sit up in bed and look for my music folder on my desk, terror hits when I see it’s missing.
I know I set it there.
My phone vibrates on my nightstand. Wesley’s name appears.
Wes: Can’t wait to see you at my match today. Missing you, baby.
My heart does that little flutter thing when he says stuff like this, reminding me that someone somewhere still pretends to care. It’s enough for me to feed on.
I quickly text him back before slipping a sweatshirt over my head, on a mission to find my music. Walking out into the kitchen, I do a quick sweep of the table and countertops, searching throughout the space for the black folder. Beads of sweat collect at my brow as I drop to my knees, peering beneath the table to see if maybe, by chance, I’d kicked it to the floor.
A low whistle sounds behind me, and I shoot up, clunking the back of my head on the underside of the wooden table.
“Oh shit, sorry!” Wheeter laughs, his footsteps approaching. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
He offers me his hand, and I get a strong whiff of weed as he pulls me to my feet.
“What were you looking for?”
My fucking mind . “Have you seen Sh—Croix?” I ask.
He saunters back to the living room, grabs something from the end table, and sits on the edge of the couch.
“Uh, last I saw, he was knocking out the windows of a Honda Civic before setting a trash bin on fire off 76th,” he comments casually, popping open a plastic container. “I don’t think he came home last night, so he’s probably well on his way to shooting up an office building by now.”
I move in closer, sitting on one of the mismatched rocking chairs across from him. Chipped black nails work to pick at a brick of weed. He carefully and deliberately separates the seeds and stems, placing the good stuff in another bag and discarding what he doesn’t need.
“Knocking out windows, starting fires, and shooting up office spaces. Just another Tuesday morning,” I mock. “Where’s Josiah?”
“Hopefully out fucking that blonde that was strapped to his back on his bike last night.”
His statement surprises me. “You aren’t…aren’t you guys…doesn’t that make you…”
“Jealous?” He peers up at me with an amused grin.
“Well, yeah.”
“No.” He laughs as if it’s the most absurd thing I could’ve asked him. “We’re not together. We just like to have fun with each other from time to time. Fuck and suck. Besides, he’s not really my type. Not really into what I’m into.”
My brows lower. “Which is?”
“Cosplay.” He sniffs casually as I watch him finish filling up a baggie, dusting off some residual from the table into his palm and brushing it inside.
“Cosplay,” I echo.
“Yeah, but it’s deeper than just that.”
“Deeper…as in?”
“Ever heard of Furries?”
“Like people pretending to be animals?”
“Yeah, more or less,” he continues. “Sigh lost a bet and had to be my pet for a week, but he couldn’t commit to the role, so what we have remains superficial.”
His tone and casual demeanor always leave me questioning if he’s serious or not. But just one look of his lopsided grin with his signature pink locks falling into his eyes, I can tell he’s as serious as they come.
He’s a handsome guy—sharp jawline, big blue eyes that melt you with their charm, and clearly into some illegal shit—but his infectious smile and energy just emit so much love and positivity. Wheeter is just comforting to be around. Simple as that.
“I see,” I reply quietly, twisting my fingers in my lap. I don’t know how to steer the conversation from this.
“So, did you scratch his bike up?”
My eyes focus back on him, narrowing at his question.
“Fuck up his hard drive?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Croix,” he states simply. “What’d you do that’s got you on his list?”
“What list?”
“The people he’d like to mutilate list. It’s clear he fucking hates you. Just wondering what you did to piss him off?”
“Who’s to say I did anything?” I retort.
“Chill, baby girl.” He laughs at my outburst. “Croix just seems to have strong negative emotions when it comes to all things Money Shot .”
“And here I thought maybe you could tell me what was wrong with your friend .”
“Ah, so you wanted me to snitch on my boy, eh? Lay out all the deets. Spill his dark and dirty secrets…”
“Well, you know my stepbrother better than I do.”
“I do,” he replies sharply. “Which brings me caution when it comes to you.”
I don’t like where he’s going with this. His tone darkened in a matter of seconds. The friendly banter has been shelved, and a wall now sits in its place, separating us. It always feels like these guys are part of some sort of mean-boys club, and I don’t have access to the perks.
I sit up in my seat, folding my arms across my chest. “What do you mean?”
He clears his throat, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “Look. I don’t know you at all, and trust in our world isn’t given easily. I know you’re a seemingly accomplished musician who had some sort of setback in your home-life that brought you here. I know that you’re dating the son of a very well-respected man in the community whose best quality is his ability to regurgitate another man’s accomplishments through an entirely too expensive and useless education.”
His statement quirks my brow, earning a half-grin. I share his view on education.
“What I can’t seem to understand is why someone I consider my family—my brother—someone who’s loyal to a fault, someone who hits first, asks questions later when it comes to protecting his own, would waste his energy on a gutter-rat from the trenches.”
The name brings out my claws, and my glare sets on him. I sit forward in my chair, ready to pop off.
“No”—he shakes his hands in the air, his head moving side to side, worry striking through him—“not my words…his. I’d never call you that. I don’t think you resemble a rodent whatsoever. Maybe a panther with the way…your ears do that thing…” He draws circles around his own ears. “Fuck, I don’t know.”
I release a heavy sigh, wondering where this conversation is going.
“It’s just…I got my teeth knocked out a few years back.” He lifts his upper lip, showing me where a different-colored tooth sits next to his incisor. “This guy, Darin from school, made a big show out of kicking my ass in front of the rest of the rugby team. He was proving himself.”
“Like a hazing thing, or…?”
“Nah, not a hazing thing.” He runs a hand down his face and looks at the floor, remembering. “He didn’t want to be seen fraternizing with a faggot. ” He blinks, gauging my reaction. “Especially playing a sport with those tiny-ass shorts, rubbing up on each other like that. At least not without knocking the life outta him first.”
I wince at his words, clearly a direct repeat of the insult spoken to him by said rugby player.
“Word got out that I sucked him off after practice before their home game, which was crazy because that night, I was fucking Chrissy in the backseat of her stepmom’s Buick at the park-and-ride off 29th. It was the previous week I’d sucked him off after practice. But, potato, pineapple…”
I chuckle at his inability to use the phrase correctly.
“The point of this story is that I had a lisp for a while.”
“That’s the point of this story?”
He scratches the top of his head. “Yeah. I needed a new tooth and ended up getting a retainer thing while I was waiting for my post to heal…blah, blah, blah. I had a lisp.”
“That’s…awful?” I still have no clue why he’s telling me this.
“This teacher in my statistics class at the time really had it out for me. Turns out, he was Darin’s second cousin, and the whole family had gotten word that I’d tried to destroy his reputation by attempting to rape him with my mouth.” He rolls his eyes. “They threatened a defamation case and everything. Pretty wild for a thirty-second blowjob.”
His statement earns a smile, and I look at him with admiration.
“But Mr. Leroy wouldn’t let up, and when they realized they didn’t have a case against me, the family resorted to humiliation. He’d continuously call on me during lectures, forcing me to answer questions before the class just to embarrass me, or he’d threaten to fail me.”
My spine steels at the mention of the teacher’s name.
“Math is all I have. It’s my constant. It got me through some rough times, and school is my only hope out of this shithole town. Croix knew that. He knew that as much as I hated many of the idiots at the college, I’d pushed through because it wasn’t much longer. Another year until I could forget any of them ever existed.”
“But Sigh was fucking a girl in my class during that time, and once he got wind of what was going on, he punched me in the chest for not saying anything and proceeded to tell Croix. Not what I wanted to happen. I didn’t mind the teasing. Words and physical shit can only go so far when you’ve got your happiness on lockdown.” He taps his temple, smirking at me. “Most would call him crazy, but Croix did what he had to do to protect his own without question or hesitation. No one’s bothered me since.”
I know the rest of this story. I heard what he did to Mr. Leroy, resulting in his expulsion. He sacrificed himself so Wheeter had a way out. Croix—the guy who’s currently holding a sex tape over my head.
“Which is why I’m confused,” Wheeter continues, his tone dropping back into one of contempt. “Croix isn’t the type to let shit rule him. Not anymore, anyway. He let those demons die. But something about you…” he trails, staring at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. Almost as if maybe he’ll notice something he didn’t before if he looks hard enough. “Something about you gets under his skin like nothing else.”
“Mommy issues, I’m assuming.”
He laughs. “Nah, his mother’s never truly cared for him.”
I’m thrown through a loop at his remark. “What?”
“She’s just playing a role. They simply coexist in a delusional world. She focuses on finding ways to cope with past regrets, and he appeases her with stories to keep her outta his shit.”
“Like lying about working for VitaCare.”
A mischievous smirk grows across his face, and he leans back on the seat of the couch, chewing the tip of his thumb. “You know about that?”
“You gonna tell me what he actually does for work?”
“What are you gonna do for me?”
“What do you want me to do for you?”
I’m not beneath doing a few things…I’ve got a few tricks in my bag I wouldn’t mind pulling out for a friend. Shit, if it gets me more information, I’d dress up like a bunny for him. Shake my tail—all that.
He smiles as if actually contemplating. “I want you to never ask what he does for work again.”
His answer confuses me further, but I guess the more people who know about illegal activity get questioned by the authorities, so keeping me out of the loop is best for the home.
“As long as it doesn’t come back to fuck me over, I’m cool with it. I need this place,” I say.
“Well, it’s settled then.” He stands abruptly, dusting his hands on his jeans. Grabbing the baggies he’s separated, he grabs an old maroon tackle box that was sitting beside him on the floor, filing his baggies inside, shuffling through different ones as he does. “Here.” His hand reaches out to me containing a baggy with two white circular pills in it. “For inspiration.”
I eye the pills in the palm of my hand, using my thumb to rub them affectionately, before gazing back at him. Gifts, even ecstasy from my drug-selling roommate, are a rarity. My chest swells with something uncomfortable. Even kindness feels painful when you’re not used to it.
He grips his tackle box in one hand before reaching behind the couch to reveal a large fishing pole.
“Time to go fish.” He winks.