Chapter 2 #3
"Answers. You want answers."
"Yes. But I'll settle for just a civilized, adult conversation."
"No."
"Then I'm not leaving."
"I could have you arrested for loitering or harassment or something."
"Fine. Do it. Hamish and Raquel will bail me out, and I’ll be right back here."
"Dane Badd. Don't be impossible."
"It's too LAAAAATE to apologiiiiiize—" I sang, intentionally off-key.
"Oh god, please don’t sing."
"Then let me in."
"NO!"
I queued up "I'll Be Watching You" by Sting and the Police, played it, and sang along, loudly and again terribly on purpose, just to be an annoying fuck.
"Jesus H Christ," she muttered. "You sound like a dying donkey."
I cackled. "You can stop it anytime you want, babe."
I launched into "Hit Me, Baby One More Time" in a falsetto that could get me indicted for attempted murder.
"JESUS, DANE! Shut the fuck up already!"
"Then let me in so we can talk."
"Not happening!”
"Okay. So, a rabbi, a priest, and an imam walk into a bar—"
"Ohmygod," she murmurs. "Shoot me now."
"What is this? says the bartender," I continued, "some kind of joke?"
"Jesus fucking Christ, Dane. I will have you arrested and handcuffed."
"How'd you know I have a bondage kink?" I asked.
Her silence was conspicuously loud.
"That was a joke," I said. "Please don't tie me up."
"Dane, for real. I'm fine. Just go away."
“Well, I'm not fine," I answered. "You got me fucked up."
"Dane, that's not fair."
"Not fair?" I couldn't stop the rant from tumbling out. "I've spent every day since that night wondering what the fuck I did wrong. What I could have done differently."
"Dane, I left you—"
"A note," I interrupted. "I know. "It wasn't me. But pardon me if that doesn't help at fucking all."
"Dane—"
"You can tell me it's not me all you want, doesn't mean my subconscious is going to fucking listen.
I get that you're a woman, so this might be difficult for you to understand, but when a girl has a complete nervous breakdown mid-blow job, it tends to make you wonder what it is about you that caused the breakdown. "
"Dane, it wasn't—"
"I fucking know, Lindsey. Try telling it to my psyche."
"Goddammit," I hear her hiss. "Now you're guilt-tripping me?"
"Yup."
"Asshole." A long pause. “What if I'm incapable of giving you the answers you want?"
"How do you know if you won't try?" I countered.
She didn't answer. I settled against her door, turned on a playlist of my favorite music to annoy people with: black metal. Lots of screeching and other fun noises that most sane people can't stand, but I, being less than sane, happen to enjoy.
"What the fuck is that sound?" she demands.
"‘Cradle of Filth’, obviously. Nymphetamine is a classic banger."
"Turn it off, Jesus fuck, man."
I turned my volume all the way up and put the speaker to the gap between the door and the floor.
"DANE!"
"That's not how you were saying it that night," I quipped.
"Really, asshole?"
"Really, bitch."
"You did not."
"I did."
"You can't call me a bitch."
"But you can call me an asshole?"
"Yup." A sigh. “You're really, actually going to sit outside my door and be as obnoxious as possible until I let you in, aren't you?"
"You've guessed correctly!" I said in my best game show announcer voice. "Tell her what she's won, Bob!"
"An all expenses paid trip to a remote desert island where I can be LEFT THE FUCK ALONE?" she said. "Perfect!"
"Nope, just me being an obnoxious piece of shit."
"So your natural state, then?"
"Yup."
"Dane, please. All jokes aside. I really just need some time."
"I hear you," I said. "I really, really do. I just happen to disagree."
"You disagree with what I need?"
"I disagree that that's what you need."
"But—but—"
“You can refuse to give me word one of an explanation for what happened, my fault or not. That's your right. It's my right to feel like I should get something. If you never want to see me again, that can be arranged. After you let me in."
"You do realize you’re the reason I ran away? Not because of what happened—that's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. But this—what you're doing right now. This is why I ran away. I don't know how to give you the answers you want, even if you do deserve them."
"Then we're at an impasse." I took pity on her and turned off the playlist, trading it for the Canary album from a few years ago that won all those Grammys.
"Oh, now that's just mean," Lindsey groaned. "Busting out Canary? Really?"
"It's a good album!" I said.
"No shit it is," she mutters. "It won like six Grammys. That's not the point."
"Then what, pray tell, is the point?"
"Pray tell? Okay, Shakespeare."
“The point is," she grumbles, "I listened to this album on repeat every day for a month. It got me through a seriously hard time in my life."
"Wait, really?"
"Yeah. A breakup."
"Oh, shit. It was supposed to be funny. They're my aunt and uncle."
Silence, then: "Funny, Dane. Good one."
"Um, I'm not kidding?"
"You're not?"
"That's a weird thing to make up, isn't it?"
“Well, yeah. But have you met you?"
I laughed. "Good point, but Canary really is my aunt and uncle. Canaan and Aerie—Canary."
"So? Everyone knows where the name came from."
"What, I need to prove who my relations are?"
"Yeah. I mean, what's next? More famous relatives?"
I laughed uncomfortably. "Well…?"
"Shut the fuck up." A pause. "Who?"
"Harlow Grace is my aunt, and her husband is my uncle, Xavier Badd."
A heavy sigh. "Oh, come on. Really?"
"Rune didn't tell you? Dunc got Uncle Xavier and Aunt Low to let Raquel and Hamish sleep on their yacht before my other uncle flew them to Anchorage for the wedding."
"It must have slipped her mind," she deadpanned. “The bitch. Keeping piping hot tea like that to herself?"
"I don't think it was intentional, Linz. There was sort of a lot going on."
"She spent the night on a yacht owned by HARLOW GRACE and Xavier Badd?"
"Yes."
“She could have told me."
"I believe you know about my sister Emerson marrying Hunter Hawkins."
"We're not talking about that. I've never met this Emerson person, but she stole my dream man."
"You and most of the women in the country, and more than a few of the men," I said, laughing.
"What the fuck is with your family, though?" she asked. "Every male I saw or met at the wedding was fucking hot as hell. Even the old dudes were silver foxes. The one with the salt-and-pepper beard and all the tattoos in the front row? Mmmmm-mmmm! Yummy."
"My father, you mean?"
“Oh. Um. Sorry, not sorry, your dad is hot A-F, for an old dude. The women all made me feel frumpy, too."
I just laughed. "You could never be frumpy." I paused as something occurred to me. "Literally, my entire family was there. How did you not realize that they're related to me?"
"Honestly? I just thought they were guests, like someone knew someone well-connected or something. I didn't realize they were your relatives."
"It was a family-only wedding, Linz."
"There were dozens of people there! How was I supposed to know you have the world's biggest family?"
"I guess that's valid."
A long silence.
I felt her on the other side of the door. Heard a sniffle. "Dane, I…" A sigh. "You're really not gonna leave me alone, are you?"
"Nope."
"Fuck. Fine."
I heard a deadbolt thunk, but I was too slow in reacting to stop myself from slumping backward as she opened the door—my head hit the floor with a thud.
I looked up—bare legs. More bare legs. Jesus, so much leg—bare, curvy…
and a little prickly from being unshaven, if I'm honest. Not that I cared, mind you.
She was wearing a plain white T-shirt that looked sort of familiar—it was too big, hanging just low enough to cover all the good stuff.
The oversized bagginess of it couldn't hide the monstrous size and melon-shaped perfection of her glorious tits, though, swinging free and unhindered behind the shirt as they were.
"Hey, that's my shirt," I said.
“Not anymore." She backed up, pressing a hand over her crotch. "And stop trying to see up my shirt, Dane."
"Why? Because I haven't seen it already?"
"Not the point." She put a foot on my chest and applied a tiny amount of pressure. "Come on, perv."