Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Roxanne
“Hey, Foxy Roxy!”
I cringed as the nickname I’d suffered through having since high school followed me down the sidewalk.
One of the negatives about having lived all your life in the same small town was that your past still walked around with you wherever you went.
Predictably, the voice calling after me was male.
Also predictably, it was followed by a lewd, sexual hoot.
I had just finished my shift at the local pharmacy.
I was heading home after a long day of answering customers’ questions about the difference between aspirin and Ibuprofen, which formula was best for underweight infants, and whether laxatives could help you lose weight.
I was only a pharmacy assistant, but even so, it seemed like I spent a lot of time every day answering questions while the full-time pharmacist was busy helping other customers.
My feet were killing me, my head hurt, and I was in no mood for the stupid catcalls that probably came from one of my former classmates -- if I’d had the energy to turn around and see who it was.
What was more, I still needed to go grocery shopping before I went home to the house I shared with my older brother, Les.
I knew there was hardly any food in the fridge, and Les had already eaten up all the leftovers I’d prepared for the week.
It wouldn’t be so bad if he ever took on any of the cooking duties himself, I complained in my head as I wandered toward my car.
Then I snorted to myself, because really, the idea of Les taking on any of the household duties was flat-out hilarious.
Most of the time, he lived there like he was lord and master, and I was his lowly servant.
Or like it was a hotel, and I was simultaneously the maid and room service.
At least he never argued when I asked him for money to help with the groceries or pay the utility bill.
Unlocking my ancient Ford sedan, I climbed into the front seat, wondering idly whether Lester would be there when I got back.
I looked at my watch: five-thirty. It seemed likely I’d find him sprawled out on the faded couch watching TV when I got home.
I didn’t know his schedule this week, though.
Les worked a swing shift at the window factory just outside of town, either the evening shift or the graveyard shift.
When he actually showed up to work, that was.
He’d been working there for almost a year, and every day, I wondered when they’d finally get sick of his lack of responsibility and just fire him.
Lucky for Les, though, when he did show up, he was a good worker, and well liked by the supervisors.
Not to mention he usually managed to be charming as hell, and was good looking to boot.
My brother got away with a hell of a lot more than he should in life -- a fact that alternately fascinated and irritated me, since I didn’t seem to have inherited the same luck.
I stopped off at the local supermarket for milk, eggs, bread, orange juice, and a few other staples.
After paying the bill with a twenty I had stuffed in my bag, I steered my car through the streets of the town I’d spent all my life in.
Eventually, I pulled into the driveway of the only house I’d ever lived in, a smallish beige stucco ranch with terra cotta trim.
Les and I were the only occupants of it now, our dad having died a couple years back and left it to us.
Well, technically I suppose it might belong to our mom — if she was even still alive, that is.
But Mom had flown the coop years ago. She ran off with some traveling salesman or other when Les and I were both kids and we hadn’t seen or heard from her since.
Since she’d actually have to show up to claim the house as her own, we were probably pretty safe on that front.
Thankfully, the mortgage on the little stucco house was paid for, so our expenses were minimal.
That was probably most of the reason Les and I continued to live together even though we were both well into our twenties.
It wasn’t an ideal situation in every way, but it was one that neither one of us had taken any steps to change.
I kept telling myself that I should move out, get my own apartment.
But even though Les wasn’t much help around the house, he wasn’t really a bad roommate.
He kept my car running, after all. And he was good at fixing stuff when it broke.
So he did keep down my expenses when normally I would have to hire someone to do those kinds of repairs.
Just as I’d predicted, my brother was lying on the couch watching some game show when I walked in the door, my arms laden with grocery bags.
“Hey, deadbeat,” I called over to him. “You wanna help me with these?”
Les groaned, but got up off his butt. He took the bags from me and walked them into the kitchen.
I kicked off my shoes and followed him so I could put everything away.
By the time I got there, he was already looking through the bags to see what I’d bought.
“Oh, man, there’s no chips in here,” he complained. “I’m hungry.”
“There was plenty of stuff to eat in the fridge yesterday, before you cleaned out all the leftovers,” I pointed out. “Besides, I’m gonna make dinner in a few minutes. Spaghetti okay with you?”
Les shrugged, a lock of messy blond hair falling into his eyes. “I dunno. I’ll probably just get dinner down at the Angus. I’m meeting a couple of the guys down there for beers in a little while.”
I suppressed a sigh. The Blue Angus was a favorite watering hole for my brother and his friends.
A couple of his buddies from high school owned it now, having bought it from the original owner when he retired last year.
That purchase had meant that now, Les and his friends spent even more time -- and money -- there than they had before the change of ownership.
I just hoped my brother would manage to stop at a couple of beers and come home at a decent time.
Not that I had any control over that, of course.
I just didn’t like it when he drank too much and drove home on his motorcycle afterwards.
Once Les had pawed through the rest of the groceries and determined there was nothing of interest for him to eat, he ambled off to the bathroom to take a shower.
He emerged about fifteen minutes later in a clean T-shirt and jeans, his hair still damp.
“Okay, sis, I’m gonna get going. See ya when I see ya. ”
I was already boiling water for the spaghetti, a small pan on the stove heating up a bottle of sauce I planned to doctor with some onions and garlic.
“Don’t be out too late,” I said absently as he slammed the door, and then wondered why I even bothered.
I sounded like my mom -- or rather, my idea of someone’s mom. A mom that cared where her kids were.
Sighing, I started chopping onions and berated myself for trying to police my older brother into being more responsible. Les was Les. He did what he wanted. Always had, always would. I just had to shake my head in resignation and hope for the best.