CHAPTER 2 #2
“Jesus fucking Christ, Chase. You didn’t have to come here. Palmer is just being dramatic.” He rolls his eyes. “You know how women are.”
I feel Moore tense beside me. His voice is terse. “Hello, Clay. PJ asked me to come, so here I am.”
Clay. Now I’ve got a name and a face for the piece of shit.
Still probably just going to call him “piece of shit.”
Looking past Moore, Clay seems to realize he’s got an audience and pulls himself up to his full height. He curls his lip into a sneer. “Good evening, gentlemen. Not sure why you’re all here, but you can all stay outsi—”
Moore cuts him off. “Actually, Clay.” He nearly spits the name. “We will all be coming inside. PJ requested it, so if you would kindly—” Moore gestures with his hand for Clay to get the fuck out of the way.
Clay’s nostrils flare, but he appears to have the good sense to move. “Whatever.” He stalks away from the door, and the five of us file inside.
The space is cozy. Through one end of the living room, I can see the entry to the kitchen and dining room.
Through the other, there’s a hallway, where I am assuming is a bathroom and bedroom as Clay disappears through the doorway.
He comes back through carrying a box. Stopping just short of me, he shoves the box at Phillips. “Carry this to my car.”
Shocked, Phillips takes it then turns toward the door.
I speak up. “No, Phillips. Just set it there.”
Clay turns slowly to face me, face red and eyes bulging.
I keep my fists balled in my pockets, forcing my expression to remain neutral, and train my gaze on his eyes as I leisurely walk toward him. Nobody is getting hit today.
Even if I really want to.
I stop about a foot away, size him up, then nonchalantly speak, as if we’re talking about the weather. “Say please.”
“What?”
Stepping a little closer, I lean in and enunciate, “I said, say. Please.” I turn and walk away, just as calmly as I had approached, to study the framed photos that line the shelves around the fireplace.
He wants to think he’s a big, strong man.
I want him to know that he is so insignificant to me and the rest of the world that I don’t mind putting my back to him for any period of time.
Most of the photos are of the same two people with a few others randomly sprinkled in. I recognize Clay, which must mean that the other person in them is PJ.
Palmer, Lindy had called her.
In every image, freckles decorate her whole face in varying stages based on the season of the photo, and wavy blond hair frames her soft, round face.
I can see that she’s curvy, even though she’s thoroughly covered in all the pictures.
In every photo, she wears a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
She doesn’t look sad necessarily, just… lonely.
I ought to recognize the look. I’ve seen it enough on my mom’s face to know.
Can’t say I blame her after what this dickweed has put her through. Based on the photos, this probably wasn’t the first time he’d done something shitty to her. And based on my limited interactions with this peach of a guy, whatever he does to her ends up being her fault.
Following my lead, the rest of the guys find their way to one of the pieces of furniture and take a seat.
Cooper and Adams get into a shoving match over the one armchair, which ends in Adams plopping onto Cooper’s lap.
He wiggles his hips dramatically, and with the same volume and tenacity of the world’s most annoying middle school boy, Cooper moans, “What’re you doing, stepbro! ”
That elicits a laugh from everyone.
Well, everyone except Clay, of course.
Moore perches on the back of the loveseat and speaks in a low, even tone. “Hurry up, Clay. You need to give me your key and get out.”
Clay redirects his anger, spitting words. “Fuck off, Chase. Do you want to get your ass kicked? Because that’s how you fucking do it.”
Without turning away from the photos or a hint of amusement in my voice, I say, “Last I checked, we have permission to be here, and you don’t…
Clay, was it? I may not really know your girl—well, the girl who used to be—but I do know she doesn’t want you here and, frankly, neither do I.
I suggest you pick up the pace, pipe down, and get the fuck out. Let’s go.”
Clay stalks out of the room, seething. He keeps muttering under his breath, but he does seem to start working faster, taking trips out the front door with partially filled boxes.
I continue studying the photos, Clay with his big toothy grin that looks more like a snarl and Palmer with her forced, sad smile. Without further thought, I start taking the pictures that have both Palmer and Clay in them out of frames and stack them neatly in my hand.
“Diaz, what’re you doing?” Moore asks.
I turn to face him, photos in hand. “Honestly, I don’t know, man.
I just doubt she’s going to want to look at this motherfucker when she gets home, especially if she does bring someone with her.
” I look down at pictures, rage roiling in my stomach.
“I’m just going to stack these up. She shouldn’t have to look at him anymore unless she wants to, and he doesn’t deserve to be memorialized on her wall if she doesn’t. ”
He pauses for a beat, then says, “Fair enough.”
I don’t stop until every trace of the piece of shit is off the wall and in a pile on the table, ready for whatever she wants to do with it.