13. Done For Me #2
Car thefts aren’t exactly high around here, but some brain-dead teenager might find it funny to hop in my baby, take it for a joy ride, and trash it.
I witnessed the aftermath of things like that on campus.
The mere thought of someone taking a knife to my seats has me wanting to drive my knee up into his manhood.
Still, he keeps up that perfect mask of innocence. “Why on earth would I want to do that?”
“You mean apart from the fact that you’re a dick?”
“Ali!”
I bristle at the voice behind me, only now realizing we aren’t alone.
My dad sits at the kitchen table, out of view from my current position.
But Jase knew he was there. That much is evident by his widening smile as I’m berated, firstly, for my “unladylike language.” And leave it to Dad to only twist the knife deeper. “What would Jase gain by touching your car?”
I’m not above throwing the asshole under the bus, but my dad doesn’t give me the chance.
“Your sister borrowed your car.” He says this slowly, punctuating the point that I, indeed, am acting like an irrational bitch.
Which is precisely what Jase wanted.
And that’s not an assumption, given that he stage whispers, “Ooooh, did I forget to mention that?” when Dad excuses himself to answer a call. “Yeah, Vanessa told me to tell you she needed to take your car for some work thing. She’ll be back in about a half hour.”
I’m glaring visual daggers into every inch of his face, even after Dad returns, but I don’t bother arguing it any further. As much of a dick as Jase may be, my problem right now is with my sister, and God forbid anybody criticize her in front of our father.
Since I’m trapped here for the next thirty minutes and Blythe isn’t home, I take advantage of the one silver lining to this scenario and pull out the box of microwavable bacon from the fridge.
Pretty much anything I eat that has a scent to it, the Stepmonster bitches about the smell making her sick, usually resulting in me no longer being allowed to cook it.
The love between me and bacon couldn’t be killed that easily since Dad also eats it, but I’m still only permitted to have it when Blythe isn’t here to smell the results.
Between my early-morning avoidance schedule and the Stepmonster being home every day this past week, I haven’t had the opportunity to cook anything for breakfast.
I don’t care what anyone says. As questionable as most microwavable foods may be, bacon in this form is absolutely delicious, especially when burned to a crisp.
Yes, it makes the smell stronger, but I kinda-sorta-maybe have a case of the fuck-its right now.
If the house still reeks of bacon by the time Blythe comes home, I won’t be here for the fallout.
Sadly, that doesn’t spare me from the current conversation underway as my dad asks, “You planning on visiting your old man while you’re on the east coast?”
Jase simply shrugs. “Probably not. He made it clear years ago that he didn’t want my mom or me to see him like that. I doubt his opinion changed.”
“How long does he have left?”
“Fourteen months, and then probation.”
I’m all too happy to keep myself distracted with preparing my food, because if I even begin participating in this conversation, things won’t go well. Especially for me. The last thing I need is another notch on the “Ali’s crazier than a bag full of cats” post.
Seeing as how I’ve done everything possible to avoid being near Jase, let alone look at him, I haven’t given myself the chance to know what the tattoos on his arm depict. With him invading my space, however, it’s pretty much impossible not to notice at least a few of the designs.
The Count of Monte Cristo is my favorite book, so it’s easy to recognize the quote.
Inked in calligraphy on the inside of his forearm reads, “ Do your worst, for I will do mine.”
Despite their context in the novel, those are about the least comforting words I could see right about now. Well, that and the chess piece tattoo accompanied by the Napoleon quote from 2002 adaptation declaring, “ We are all either kings or pawns.”
I obviously know that the book has been internationally famous for hundreds of years, but I feel an irrational sense of anger, as if Jase stole it directly from me.
It had been my favorite long before we ever met. He has no right poaching it, let alone inking it to his skin.
Thankfully, the other pieces of artwork aren’t as daunting, showing imagery from Alice In Wonderland to The Dresden Files to the works of Edgar Allan Poe.
It’s all inspired by literature, which I would normally appreciate.
Unfortunately, everything is designed in a very particular—and very gothic—style.
There isn’t any color incorporated into the tattoos, only further adding to the haunting imagery.
I move around Jase, glimpsing the only design to cover his body apart from his right arm.
It’s positioned above his heart, appearing to be a compass rose with a section of an old map behind it.
The last thing I want is get caught staring too long, especially given his lack of clothing, so I can’t make out the remaining details as I step to the side to let Jase walk past.
When I find my bacon is just shy of being burnt black, I pull it out of the microwave and slide the strips onto a plate. Jase has the gall to try snatching one, but I slap his hand away.
He takes this as a dare, and his outstretched hand is promptly rewarded with my fork stabbing the flesh just below his thumb. It’s not hard enough to break the skin, but he still snatches his hand back like I suddenly transformed into a werewolf.
“I warned you. Fuck around, and find out.”
“I believe the words you’re looking for are, ‘I’m sorry.’”
“How does that quote go?” I say, tapping my chin in mock contemplation. “‘If you expect nothing from somebody, you’re never disappointed.’ Well, it’s not exactly like you’ve given me anything good to go off of, so I expect less than nothing from you. I anticipate the worst .”
“‘And nothing is more dangerous for a new truth than an old misconception,’” he fires back in kind.
“Oh? And what misconception do I have about you exactly?” I ask with sugary sweetness. “Because the last I checked, you fucked me over, threw me to the wolves, and sat on your hands while they tore into me.”
“Funny how you conveniently left out a few crucial details there.”
“Such as?”
A dark smile pulls at his lips, and it’s enough to leave the hairs on my arms standing on end. Before he can answer, heels clack down the main hallway, and Jase skirts around me to grab the folded fabric sitting on the counter.
I glimpse his back and see evidence of a rather large tattoo inked there.
It’s up around his shoulder blades, but when I try to get a better look at what it is, he pulls the t-shirt over his head, hiding all evidence.
All I caught was a macabre depiction of what appeared to be a crow flying away with something in its talons as a healthy amount of blood drips from it.
Lovely.
Like an idiot, I expect to see Vanessa strolling into the kitchen, only to find the Stepmonster.
She hears my dad talking in the other room and doesn’t so much as bat an eye at the smell consuming the kitchen.
She’s even humming. Before I allow the delusional thought to cross my mind that Blythe isn’t about to ream me out, her happy demeanor collapses when she realizes Jase isn’t the only person in the kitchen.
As soon as her eyes land on me, that humming cuts out, and Blythe looks down at the plate in my hands.
Now she’s the one who looks like she’s about to transform into a ravenous werewolf with the way her upper lip peels up slightly in disgust. Sure enough, I get the same spiel as always, where she swears talking to me is like “talking to a wall” and that I clearly have no regard for her wellbeing, as I already know how the mere smell of anything I fucking eat makes her “queasy.” Blythe even begins to fan her eyes so as to not ruin her makeup, despite them being bone-dry.
Of all things, Jase plucks the plate out of my hands and practically shovels an entire piece of bacon into his mouth. “It’s mine, actually. Our little Ali here was just moving it out of the way so she could clean up the island.”
The fact he purposely says this around a mouthful of food makes it obvious he’s trying to goad a reaction from her.
And Blythe is, cringing, regarding him like he’s a Neanderthal.
However, good manners apparently precede her inherent hatred of me, because she forces a smile and spares him a lecture.
Yep, it seems I’m the only one capable of making her nauseous.
I’d say Jase just saved me, but all I see is red, having to watch the jackass eat every last piece of my bacon as I’m now stuck having to scrub down the kitchen island that I haven’t even used.
To add insult to injury, Blythe begins lecturing me about how I need to do a better job cleaning up after myself, because since I got back, “the stove and counters have been splattered” and “those kinds of messes aren’t ever an issue when you’re not here.”
I’m saved by the bell, or rather the cell, as her phone rings, and only once she’s too preoccupied with whoever is on the other line does Jase lean toward me and whisper, “You haven’t even cooked in here, have you?”
It’s not really a question, but I still offer a Pan Am smile all the same. “Nope, not one damn time.”
And it’s true. I didn’t even use the microwave until ten minutes ago.
Since coming back from school, I’ve skipped breakfast, made sure not to be home during the day, and eaten leftovers from Castelli’s for dinner, always in my room and out of the range of Blythe’s “sensitivities.” Yet, I’m somehow still culpable for the kitchen island being splattered with some kind of red sauce and smeared with what looks like pink icing.
Between being hungry and Jase eating my food, I’m already pissed.
Add in the lectures from both Blythe and my dad, along with now having to scrub and rewash the counter, I’m past rational thinking.
By the time my sister comes waltzing into the kitchen, I’m lucky I don’t have literal smoke pouring out of my ears.
“What the hell?” I’m well aware there’s a more diplomatic way to approach this, but literally everything that’s happened this past half hour wouldn’t even be happening if it wasn’t for Vanessa and her bullshit.
She has the audacity to look as if I slapped her. “What?”
“If you plan on stealing my car again, how about giving me a heads-up first? I do have a job, you know.”
Vanessa crosses her arms over her chest like she’s giving herself a hug. “I’m low on gas, and there wasn’t enough to make it to Bridget’s office and then back home.”
“Yes, if only there were these buildings with pumps you could use to put more gasoline into your car… Oh wait,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
My mockery evidently flips her bitch switch, because that defensiveness is obliterated as she glares at me with an expression I know all too well (though I’m used to it coming from the Stepmonster). “I’d explain, but it’s not like I’d expect you of all people to understand.”
Me of all people? What the hell is that supposed to mean? “Try me.”
Vanessa’s voice carries enough that it nabs Blythe’s attention, and like always, she’s ready to come to my sister’s defense.
She doesn’t even know what happened, yet with the limited information she overheard, our stepmom declares, “Your sister has been battling severe migraines this past year, and the smell of gasoline can trigger an attack.”
She says this as if the “duh” is implied. Like everyone should already be aware of this.
Then Blythe throws out the additional slap to my face with, “Honestly, Ali, it wouldn’t hurt to have a little compassion.”
Seriously?
“They do have these things called face masks that can help block odors.” I can’t help my tone. Not when I’m being ganged up on, despite the fact that my car was the one taken without permission.
How does my sister respond? By practically chucking my spare set of keys at me before she storms out of the room, screaming that I “just don’t get it!”
Of course, my father comes in only at the tail end of the conversation, and I’m rewarded with another reproachful look, as if I am, indeed, the bad guy here.
Super.