Chapter 31 Brighton
“Hey, Hellcat,” I call as I walk through the apartment.
I heard her come home — singing some stupid song at the top of her lungs in the shower again.
It’s always something new, and she’ll sing it until she’s bored with it.
Luckily for me, and the rest of the Hollow, she has a pretty decent voice, and it’s kind of endearing.
I look around, putting my hand on my hip, but she isn’t in the kitchen, and her bedroom door is closed.
It creaks open, and she appears in a pair of black shorts and an oversized nineties-style shirt with a wrestler collage on the front of it.
Her hair is pulled off her face in a ponytail, and she's surprisingly lacking any of the makeup she normally wears for work. She’s staring at me like I’m insane, and she’s got those filthy string headphones in again.
I hate them. They’re not even white anymore, are constantly tangled and the rubber around the ends has started to shred.
She wears them around the apartment and can never hear anything.
Half the time, she’s talking to herself while she makes a mess in the kitchen for me to clean up later.
I step forward and gently tug them from her ears.
“What’s up?” She leans against the frame and crosses her arms beneath her chest, but I keep my eyes on her face. I know I should step back, but I can’t make myself even if I wanted to. I like being in her space and I like how she reacts to it.
“Uh—” I start and stop, unsure how to ask. “I'm calling in my favor.”
“You are?” She perks up a little, almost like she has been waiting for me to do it and was losing hope that I ever would.
“I have a birthday party to go to, and the guys always bring their girlfriends and wives… and they—” I roll out my shoulders in the dark blue button-down shirt I’m wearing and push up the sleeves to the elbows as the temperature rises.
“They always give me hell for not bringing anyone, and it would be nice to shut them up for once.”
“Can I change?” she asks me.
“Please don’t,” I say quickly, and she freezes, looking down at herself. “That’s perfect.” You’re perfect. “It’s just bowling.”
A squeal leaves her lips, and she grabs something off her dresser before shutting her door and sliding across the floor to the shoe closet.
“I love bowling.” The words come out in an excited string of mumbled mess as she pulls on a pair of sneakers and ties them.
Somehow, the addition of her white socks and dad shoes makes everything even cuter, and I’m cursing myself for even suggesting this.
“You ready?” I ask her, and she springs up from the floor.
“Can I drive?” she asks, and I almost say yes because of the tone in her voice, and then I remember her Bronco is a war zone and shake my head. “Boo!” she teases, but follows me from the apartment to the street out front.
As I’m opening the door for her, a truck rolls by us, and something like a string of curse words leaves her lips before she climbs up, supporting herself on the roof of my truck as a loud, free laugh leaves her lips.
I lift my hand to her lower back and stare as the truck stops at the stoplight at the end of the street.
Miles’ truck is covered in nasty claw marks and drawings that look like dicks all down the driver’s side, and on the tailgate is bright orange spray paint that says BIG TRUCK, LITTLE DICK in scratchy letters that I recognize as Sunday’s handwriting.
“I can’t believe he’s driving it around like that,” she all but screams and looks down at me with the biggest smile I’ve ever seen. I can. I reported his truck stolen to every mechanic shop in town. If he wants it fixed, he has to go to Lorette.
“Even more unbelievable that they didn’t get caught doing it,” I say, putting my hand down before she can notice, and she sinks into the passenger seat.
“I never said thank you,” she adds as I go to close the door. “You’re a good friend, Brighton.”
“I didn’t do anything.” I pat the doorframe with my fingers and close it over her.
I climb in on my side and hand her my phone as I start the truck, and she finds music to listen to.
“Oh uh—” I put my palm out, and she drops my phone back into it, her nails tickling the skin of my palm.
I’ve never seen her with her nails done, and I furrow my brows at the sight of the clean, black talon-like length.
“We had staff photos,” she says, scowling. “They’re press-ons,” she sticks her finger between her teeth and pops the acrylic off the base of her pinky finger. “See?” She drops it in my cup holder and starts to work on the rest of them with her mouth.
“You’re disgusting,” I groan. “Do not leave those there.”
She stares at me for a moment before nodding to my phone, reminding me that I took it from her for a reason.
“I made you something…”
“You made me something?” She stops gnawing her thumb and leans closer as I turn the screen for her to see. “You made me a mixtape!” Her voice goes high, and her smile spreads like an infection across her face, making her cheeks turn pink and her eyes brighten.
“It’s a playlist. Stuff we both listen to—so we can share.” I try my hardest not to sound like an absolute idiot as I explain it to her. We regularly spent mornings fighting over what songs played on the stereo in the kitchen, and in the Hollow after close, and in my truck… “It’s probably stupid.”
She looks up at me like she’s offended, I'd even say that, and gently takes the phone out of my hand again. “It’s not stupid,” she whispers, scrolling through the perfectly balanced list. It’s all her favorites, all of mine, and some that I think she might like. “It’s really nice.”
Ignoring the way she looks at me, I put the truck in drive and pull out into traffic as she finds the perfect starter.
The alley is across town, and Rhea goes through some of the playlist as she continues to chew on her hand like an animal.
You would pick the feral one. I pull into the parking lot to unplug the phone, but she snatches it from me.
“Don’t you dare,” she warns, “you don’t stop this one in the middle!”
I look at the dashboard, and it’s one of the David Bowie songs that she’s always singing around the apartment. She throws her head back and follows along at the top of her lungs as I watch her, trying not to laugh. Trying not to fall for her.
“Oh come on, Brighton, I know you know this song,” she giggles and encourages me to join her with a shove.
Part of me wants to say no, but I find myself parting my lips and shouting along with her as loud as I can.
My cheeks hurt from smiling as the song fades out, and Rhea is breathless beside me. It feels too good to relax.
“Can we bowl now?” I ask her, drinking in her messy raven hair and flushed features. I never noticed the freckles across the bridge of her nose, or maybe it’s because she always covers them, but I find them enticing. What else are you hiding, Hellcat?
I climb out, and she pops her door open, and I stop her from sliding out. “What did I tell you?”
She stares at me and sighs, “I can open my own door. I’m capable.”
“It’s good manners.”
“It’s high maintenance," she corrects.
“It’s bare minimum,” I say, and she stares me down for a second. Everything about Rhea Drake screams how little she sees herself as valuable, and it’s infuriating.
“Just like you ordering my burgers without tomatoes?” She questions, I knew eventually she would.
“You don’t like them,” I say to her, my fingers flexing around the door frame. “So why not say that?”
“Because it’s one more unnecessary thing Boone has to do when he’s doing a hundred other things for other people.” She brushes it off.
“That black bean burger is only on the menu because of you,” I tell her.
“What?” Her brows furrow, and I want to smooth the lines between them with my finger. Friendly, really friendly. Check yourself, Killjoy. You’re losing your control.
“Kaia told Boone you don’t eat meat, so he made sure you had something you’d actually enjoy. You aren’t a hassle asking for no tomato.”
Rhea opens her mouth to argue and closes it again. Thinking about what she can say that validates her point. “I don’t like to be a burden,” she confesses.
“I know,” I narrow my eyes at her. “Who told you that not liking tomatoes makes you a burden? I’ll kick their ass.”
That makes her laugh, finally, remembering our conversation from the night I taught her how to make the martini. She stretches out her legs and kicks my thigh gently. “Can we bowl now?” she asks, mocking me back.
“Yeah.” I give her my hand, ignoring the tremor and how it stills when she presses her palm against mine as she hops from the truck to the cement.
Inside, the bowling alley hasn’t left the early two-thousands with its dirty, blue carpet and scuffed hardwood floors.
Most of the lanes are empty except for three at the other end of the building, occupied by most of the guys from my old squad and a few from the group. “Come on.”
“So, if I’m pretending to be your girlfriend, do we need a complicated backstory? We can say we met at the Hollow, you’re clumsy, so you spilled a martini on me…”
There she goes again, poking the bear for fun. I turn from the kid behind the counter, handing out shoes, and growl at her, and she laughs. “Size eleven, please,” she says, keeping her eyes off me.
“Ten,” I say to him, “I have tiny feet for a guy my size, don’t tease me.” I don’t look away as I try to deflect from how nervous she was to say that out loud in front of me.
“Scouts honor,” she hums with a soft smile.
“You’re my roommate tonight,” I tell her. “No need to lie. These guys will see through it anyway.” I lead her down toward the commotion that’s happening at the end, and as we get closer, I hear them starting to take note that I’ve brought someone with me. “Don’t back down,” I warn.