Mateo
Chapter three
Ichoke down six ibuprofen capsules and wish for the five hundredth time since surgery that I'd opted for real painkillers.
That's one thing nobody tells you about getting older.
Everything hurts, and it takes twice as long to heal.
I'm tired, swollen, and stuffed. If I don't get out of this fucking house, Mom's going to personally see to it I gain fifty pounds.
I'm already a solid dude. I can't afford to gain weight.
My ass is already leaving an imprint in this damn recliner, and it's only been two days.
The countdown is on for the war wagon, and I grab the game controller from my lap.
One good thing about surgery? It's forcing me to relax, even if I suck at it.
This cartoon shooter game, though, is a guilty pleasure.
And I'm good, like absurdly good. I tried getting into the more lifelike shooter games, but they're too dark for my taste.
I like the bright colors and the non-realistic gameplay of this one.
It's reminiscent of the video games of my youth.
"You deployed too early," a little voice says.
"No, I didn't," I say.
"You did."
I risk shifting my attention off-screen to see who the hell I'm talking to. Fuck me, why is there a small person in the house? A little boy, maybe seven, sits on the couch. He has short, dark brown hair and is wearing a Nirvana T-shirt.
Is this Addie's friend's son? I can't remember his name, or hers for that matter. But Mom and Dad mentioned they come over for dinner sometimes.
He points to the TV and says, "You're under attack."
I look back at my game and see the kid is right. "Motherfucker," I grumble and then wince. Oops. It's not often I'm around kids outside of signing a baseball or publicity events.
"I didn't know old people played this."
I turn, glowering at him. "Who are you calling old?"
"You're dead," he says, his tone even. "You're not very good at this game."
"I'm actually excellent when I don't have pint-sized punks distracting me. Who the hell do you belong to, anyway?"
"I bet I can beat you."
"No offense, kid, but you're what, seven?" I ask.
"No, I'm eight and two months."
I put down the controller and narrow my eyes at him. "I'll let you play if you can name a song."
He raises an eyebrow at me, and I nod to his shirt. "Name a Nirvana song, and I'll let you play."
"Aneurysm."
Is that a Nirvana song? To be honest, I'm not good with titles. I didn't think he'd come up with one, and if he did, I expected to recognize it. He rolls his eyes and picks up his phone, tapping the screen until he finds what he's looking for, then turns it, showing it to me.
Well, fuck me, I don't know who Addie's friend is, but I think I want to marry her.
He pulls a portable game system out of the backpack on the coffee table and looks at me with a sly grin.
"What do I get when you lose?" he asks, settling back on the couch.
I scrub my hand over my face to hide my grin. My bare hand. The empty one. The one that hasn't had a glove on it in weeks. It feels more naked than my bare upper half.
"Five bucks?"
"Ten."
Fucking pint-sized hustler.
Apparently, I'm not as good as I thought, because the little shit annihilates me. Not once, but twice. I scowl at him, and he shrugs.
"Pay up, Grandpa," he says.
Where's the nearest jeweler? Because as soon as this brace is off my damn leg, I'll be down on one knee for this spawn of Satan's mother.
The sliding door off the kitchen opens, and Addie pokes her head into the living room.
"Remind me to fix that door for Mom and Dad when I can move again," I say. "There's something wrong with it. It shouldn't be squealing like that."
Addie nods and looks at the kid.
"Coop, come help me bring plates and stuff outside," she says.
"And you," she points at me. "Go put a shirt on.
No nipples at the dinner table." She makes a face and turns on her heel with the kid right behind her.
I slide my phone into the pocket of my athletic shorts and then use the power lift button on the chair to get to my feet. Well, one foot and my crutches, anyway.
"Yeah, no nipples at the table," the kid says over his shoulder. Addie hip-checks him, and he catches himself on the wall. "Brat," he says.
She sticks her tongue out at him, and he makes a face as they saunter into the kitchen.
I hobble down the hall to my room, feeling like the sweetest pitch of my life dangles over the plate, waiting for me to slam a home run. I can't hobble fast enough. Who is this kid? Is it wrong to hope he's not who I think he is? That Addie's friend isn't his mom and she's single? Is she even here?
I'm getting ahead of myself, in more ways than one.
My relationships have always been superficial.
Nothing ever had substance because nothing felt real.
I've been searching for a relationship that emulated the most prominent examples in my life—my parents and my grandparents.
I don't think it exists, so I'm coming to terms with the fact that I'm destined to end up alone.
It's an uncomfortable realization.
That and I may need to buy shorts with a string because these aren't working well. The band of my shorts, the side with my phone in the pocket, slides down my hip with each swing of my leg. I can't wait to throw these fucking crutches in the trash.
Behind me, the slider off the kitchen squeals again. I'm still ten feet from the bedroom door and wishing with every step I'd opted to put on underwear today. I hobble faster, my shorts sliding down my legs.
"Unless you want to see a full moon, you should—"
"Oh my God, is that a butterfly on your ass cheek?" a woman says.
That wasn't a voice I recognize. With my shorts hung up on the brace on my left leg, I stop in my tracks and look over my shoulder, keeping my front out of view.
I'm met with deep brown eyes, the color of espresso.
She's tall, at least five foot nine with curves wrapped in black leggings and a Simple Plan T-shirt cut above her navel.
I feel like Jim Carrey in The Mask, like my tongue has rolled out a red carpet for her.
My dick twitches. Fuck. She's gorgeous but definitely younger than me, which means she's precisely who I hoped she wasn't. So now, I'm doomed.
"It's always on the fucking ass cheek," she says and then murmurs something about men. Or maybe she said something coherent, and I missed it because I'm hypnotized by her full lips and the silver ring decorating the bottom one.
"Do you mind?" she asks, gesturing to the bathroom door I'm blocking.
"Not if you don't," I say and turn back toward the bedroom. I move far enough to let her pass and sneak a glance over my shoulder, where I find her staring.
She cocks a plucked brow at me and enters the bathroom, her long hair whipping behind her as she closes the door.
I'm not positive this is Addie's friend, although all signs point in that direction. I don't know her name, but I know one thing: she's a storm cloud of dark hair and attitude, and I desperately want to get caught in the rain.