2. Dirty
DIRTY
Birds were singing in the tree above his head as Fisher pushed the car door open, making it rebound hard enough to whack his shin when his seat belt caught his chest, jolting him back against the leather.
He grunted at the pain radiating up his knee, then scowled when the birds overhead screeched in response and several splotches of bird shit splattered across his windshield.
It had already been a morning of microscopic inconveniences—sleeping past his alarm, not being able to locate a pair of matching socks, accidentally putting both legs through the same hole of his boxers—all before he’d even managed to exit his bedroom.
Though the events that followed had certainly not been an improvement.
Fisher sighed deeply. His hands were slower, more purposeful, as they located the latch of his seat belt. He grabbed the hastily-wrapped gift from his passenger seat and left the vehicle at a much more reasonable pace, though he made it a point to avoid looking at his windshield.
His eyes caught on the sidewalk, and despite being in a hurry, he slowed, staring down at the colorful chalk designs scrawled across the path.
The biggest of them was a scribbled oval with thirty scrawny sticks surrounding it.
He would’ve thought it was the sun, except for the clear face in the middle, and the fact that it was red and black. Is it a spider?
“Uncle Fisher!” a voice screeched seconds before a body latched itself around his legs with the tenacity of an attacking octopus. “Do you like my ladybug?”
“Ladybug, huh?” Fisher grunted, tilting his head and squinting one eye as he stared down at the abstract drawing.
But then Tristan was moving on, his tone accusing as wide brown eyes stared up at him from waist height. “Mom said you weren’t gonna make it!”
“Well”—he shrugged—“it’s not the first time your mom’s been wrong.”
“Watch it.” A familiar biting voice drifted across the lawn. Fisher’s eyes rose to spot his twin leaning against a post on the porch, arms crossed over her chest, and a scowl on her lips.
She looked just like him—the same dark hair, blue eyes, and lean build.
Their mom always said they must’ve started identical, but then God realized the world couldn’t handle two Bree women at the same time.
His sister was the first girl born in the family in decades, and she’d come out squalling, making it a point from day one to be just as loud and proud as all of the Bree men.
Fisher’s opinion, however, was that his sister was simply too much of a man-eater to be born with a dick.
She’d run Tristan’s asshole of a father off easily enough.
Fisher and his cousins never even got an opportunity to intervene—she had him fleeing the state in his shitty little Honda before the piss was even dry on the stick.
“Morning, Brea Bree,” he called, watching as her scowl deepened at the nickname.
Their father had wanted to honor the Bree name, and thus, the name Breanna Nora Bree was chosen.
Unfortunately for Brea, she was born into a family that never let anything go, where mocking people’s names was prime comedic material. She’d never stood a chance.
“Strike two, Fish. You don’t want to be embarrassed in front of your nephew, do you?”
“Uh-oh. She’s in a mood.” He widened his eyes, making the boy giggle.
“Be careful,” Tristan mumbled in response, cupping a tiny hand over his mouth. “She already took my Wii this morning.”
“On your birthday?” Fisher’s shocked gaze rose to Brea. “What is this? I move away, and you turn into a monster?”
“Haven’t you heard?” She rolled her eyes.
“I’ve always been a monster.” She turned to the side, nudging the front door open with her toe as she tilted her head toward the dark entryway, where even then, Fisher could hear the sounds of his family spilling out into the sunshine.
“I’m sure you’ll make do without your Wii, with all these people over for your party. ”
Tristan sighed, his golden hair falling into his eyes as he hung his head.
“I guess so,” he answered with all the sullenness a five-year-old could muster.
But then Carmen appeared in the doorway, the five-year-old daughter of their cousin, Connor, and Tristan perked right up, chasing after her when she disappeared back into the house.
“I can’t believe you took his Wii.” Fisher tsked, shaking his head.
“Birthday or not, he’ll learn that no means no, even if I have to tattoo it across his adorable freckled forehead.”
Fisher’s brows drew together as he considered his sister and the vehemence of her words.
“He is…five.”
She blinked, glancing back over at him as she straightened her shoulders. “I know that. And I also know that he’ll survive a day without his games. A lesson you were never forced to learn.”
Fisher snorted. “You used to steal my PlayStation all the time.”
“Only when you were bad.”
“More like when you got bored,” he shot back, lifting one brow when she only shrugged in response.
“Fisher Bree,” a sultry voice called from the sidewalk, making the muscles in his back tighten at the familiarity in her tone. He released a slow breath, holding Brea’s semi-apologetic eyes.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” she whispered quickly as the click of Rena’s heels made their way closer.
Fisher’s eyes narrowed to a squint just as a row of blood-red manicured fingers wrapped around his bicep. The touch was unwelcome, and he was quick to step further onto the porch, brushing away her hold.
“Oh, we’re being like that?” Rena rolled her heavily lined eyes. “You wanna play games? That’s fine.” She winked, her smile predatory. “I like to play.”
“I’m not playing anything, Rena. I’ve got a girlfriend now.”
“What? No, you don’t.” Rena snorted. She glanced to the side, and her smug expression fell as she took in my sister’s grimace. “The fuck? You knew about this?”
“I found out last night,” Brea answered, the bite returning to her tone. “Evidently, he’s been dating someone for months, and that’s why he hasn’t been coming home to visit. Why he almost missed Tristan’s party.”
“No.” He interrupted quickly. “I told you I had to miss the party for work, but then my manager, Pat, came through and showed up to cover for me, so I was able to come. That’s why I was running late.
And why I can’t stay,” he lied. His eyes shifted to Rena for half a beat, noting the flush to her cheeks.
That was never a good sign. Rena’s temper was always right there, just an inch beneath the surface.
She was passionate and impulsive and fierce, but it was exhausting to keep up with her.
Any little thing could set her off. The emotions were a sort of high for her.
She was always primed for a fight and looking for a target.
He could feel his ire rising to match hers. She was uniquely skilled at riling him up. Ever since they’d been children, she knew exactly how to draw out a reaction, to get him right where she wanted him. His head was already buzzing when he met her furious glare.
But for once, in the face of Rena’s growing anger, Fisher didn’t feel the need to react. This time, instead of engaging, he felt a gnawing urge to leave. To back away and exit the same way he’d arrived.
“Why didn’t you bring her then? Are you embarrassed of her?” Rena began, the toe of her high heel tapping a rapid beat against the ancient planks of the porch. The tapping stopped as a sly smile stole across her lips. “Worried about making me jealous?”
“No,” he answered, shaking off the question. “I just…didn’t. It was a last-minute decision to come and—Well, we’re still pretty new.”
“Still new?” Brea rejoined the conversation with a bemused huff. “You said it’s been going on for months. If you’re not ready to introduce family after months, it doesn’t sound very serious.”
“I—”
“It’s okay if you want to explore, babe.” Rena sidled closer. “But you know that you and I belong—”
He stepped back, avoiding the claws she extended his way. “I need to leave.”
“But you just got here. And Tristan…”
“Tristan has a lot of people here. He’ll be okay,” he answered, shoving the gift into Rena’s arms as he slipped around her and hurried down the steps.
“Fisher, you can’t just—” Brea yelled.
“Love you too, sis. Call you later,” he called back, a moment before he yanked the car door shut and twisted the key.
Fisher swiped at his nose as he stepped off the sidewalk into the park, and the floral aroma of spring made itself known. His foot caught on the edge of an exposed root, causing him to stumble forward a couple of feet, and he paused, grinding his teeth as the annoyance flared hot.
The day that followed his brief appearance at Tristan’s party had proven to be one slow, downward spiral into madness.
It was Saturday, so he’d traded his library badge for the coveralls he wore to work in the shop, changing oil and replacing tires in the oppressively muggy heat one learns to expect out of spring in Alabama.
With his shirt plastered to his body, a blackening bruise along his wrist, courtesy of his uncooperative wrench, and one arm so splattered in filthy, errant oil that he looked like he boasted a full blacked-out sleeve of tattoos, Fisher was approximately one irate customer away from turning them all into a headline by the time the shop closed its doors.
He’d intended to go straight home, shower, and then find Drie. For two months, that had been his weekend MO. But after the day he’d had, he didn’t even realize he’d left the path early until he stood at the edge of the park, a smile curving his lips as his eyes found her.
He always met her there, in that middle ground between their buildings. In the beginning, they’d simply sat on the swings and chatted until the sun would set beyond the water’s edge—and on one memorable occasion, until it rose once again.
After a time, they’d started going for walks around town, which then progressed to going to dinner.
Looking back on how it occurred, Fisher didn’t remember ever formally asking her out.
They never discussed where they wanted things to go or who they were to one another.
He’d told Brea that they were together, but he wasn’t sure Drie would even agree to such a statement.
All he knew for certain was that being with her was as natural and essential to him as the breath filling his lungs.
She glanced up in that moment, a grin brightening her eyes as she turned the swing sideways to watch him approach.
He’d never dated a woman like her before.
His only true foray into dating had been with Rena, a woman who was essentially Drie’s polar opposite.
Rena would’ve been disgusted by how dirty he was.
She would’ve demanded he leave. That he be clean in her presence.
But Drie…She looked at him no differently than how she looked at him in the library, when he was wearing his freshly-pressed polos.
“Watch out,” Fisher warned as he slipped past her, careful not to touch. “The oil stains everything. I was going to shower before coming, but I don’t even think I realized I was here until I saw you sitting there.”
Drie’s brows bunched as she tilted her head, her eyes assessing. “Are you okay?”
“It’s just been a long day,” he answered with a shrug, turning his swing to mirror hers.
“It doesn’t sound very serious,” his sister’s voice echoed in his mind, causing fresh anxiety to coil in his gut.
Things with Rena had always felt so urgent.
Everything was a fire. Everything was an emergency.
Everything was high-stakes. He could still feel the tension between them when she’d joined him on the porch that morning, an ever-present push and pull game where only she seemed to understand the rules.
Fisher had thought he loved it for a while. Or at least, he’d convinced himself that he did. But he couldn’t understand how his family seemed to thrive in the drama of their relationships, because the hot and cold of it all made him feel bone-tired. Love was fucking exhausting.
But this—whatever this was that he was exploring with Drie—was better.
It brought him peace. So maybe there weren’t fireworks.
Maybe there wasn’t love. And maybe this was just a friendship.
He didn’t need labels or explanations. He just needed her.
Those soft blue eyes were watching him, just waiting to see how she could help, like the angel she was.
He bent forward, propping his elbows on his knees and his chin in one palm as he smiled up at her. “It’s looking up now.”
He watched as a series of emotions flitted across her face, too quick to track, and then she stood from her swing and crossed the foot of space separating them. Her hands slipped around his nape, and then she was pressing their mouths together in a move so startling that Fisher never saw it coming.
Everything in his mind went quiet at once. All the frustration, the worries, the stress—wiped clean. All that existed was Drie. Her soft vanilla scent. The tips of her fingers toying with the ends of his hair. The softness of her lips as they parted to let her tongue caress the seam of his mouth.
His next breath came in a gasp as his hands gripped his knees in a bruising vice as he fought to keep his seat. To not get his grime all over her soft blue sweater.
“Why aren’t you touching me?” Drie asked as she pulled back just far enough to rest her forehead against his.
Her lips were so close, the pull magnetic.
Unavoidable. He tilted his head back to follow her, but she shifted further, making his hands clench tighter, resisting the urge to pull her back. “Fisher?”
He sucked in a deep, stuttering breath, the heavy floral breeze from the park just enough of a distraction to break the haze clouding his mind.
“I don’t want to get you dirty,” he mumbled, straining his neck further in an invitation—no, a plea for her to return—to bring back that blessed respite her touch inspired.
But then her hands were moving, slipping down his arms and curling around his own as she pulled them up, guiding his palms to her waist as she stepped fully between his legs.
His fingers flexed instinctively, and she rolled her bottom lip between her teeth, holding his gaze captive as she bypassed his mouth to whisper against his ear.
“Don’t hold back on my account,” she said, sliding her lips along his jaw in a series of peppered kisses until she once more hovered a mere centimeter above his lips, the mingling breaths between them heady and full of promise. “I like dirty.”