“The tiny—”
“Shite, Justice. Shite is shite nae matter how ye spin it. Who wants to step into someone’s shite? So?” He ends in a snarl.
“Brody, I’m . . .” If I thought the old guy was killing me with a jagged glower, Brody’s scowl is like electric execution coursing through my veins. My eyes flicker over the food and glass on the ground. “It’s a little easier for me to chat while making drinks or cleaning. Next time you have a temper tantrum, you will clean this mess.”
I start for the kitchen.
“I did it. I will clean it. Wit lass? Thought things through?”
“Yes. It’s okay to argue, Brody. Damn, I was clearing the air, and you . . . grrr! I’ll clean while we chat. That way, you’re not worried about me fleeing. That’s it, right? You care, and you’re scared I’ll leave again?”
Brody’s intense demeanor has me nervous as a rooster come early morning. I grab a dishrag, stalk back over to the mess, crouch down, and wipe it up while collecting the shards of glass. Brody has disappeared. So much for the chat. He returns, pushing the trash can next to me.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“Och, helping someone clean, it’s a common courtesy, like not running off when ye fight with someone ye care for.” His mouth clinches shut.
“You’re on to something, keyword, fight. I didn’t have a moment to let it sink in. When I tried to connect with you, you were just fine with me leaving.” I shrug my shoulders. He helps me to my feet. We’re too close. “We need to talk, Brody. I’ve accepted that our relationship includes these three verbs—cuss, shout, fuck. We can screw later. Let’s cuss and shout now. Okay?”
“I’ve talked with ye more than anybody in or out of me clan, lass. If you’re staying, we should feck first.”
“Where’s the mop?” I fidget with my fingers, determined to do something. It’s too early for a cocktail.
“The pantry.”
“Oh, I . . .” I thought I’d seen a broom leaning against the garage door, which he doesn’t make use of. I start toward the pantry, turning the knob.
This pantry is enormous. It’s also empty. I glance around the alcoves. My voice echoes when I ask, “But where?”
“Over there . . .”
I step a few paces inside, meandering in a circle. “Brody, there’s nothing in—”
The door slams shut. I fell into the trap of my life. I run to the door, clasping the knob. “Let me out, lunatic!”
With the flats of my fist, I bang on the door. “Brody, Brooody, motherfu . . . Grrr!”
I slide my cellphone from my pocket. I might not call the cops on his ass, but there’s one person he has an aversion to. I press Chevelle’s number, and a no-service light pings.
Then Brody’s call comes in.
“You sneaky snake! How the hell are you calling me?” I ask.
“Leith created an app that blocks service for anyone who ain’t got it, just so ya know.”
“Let me out,” I growl, glaring holes in the door.
“Look around, sugar tits and pussy lips. The room is soundproof.”
“I hate you.”
“That’s alright. Ye were correct ‘bout one thing. I’m afraid ye will skedaddle off. A motherfecker like me hates to have fears.”
“What are you doing?” I place my ear to the door. Useless. On the phone, I ask, “Are you starting your truck?”
“If ye must know, aye. I’ve neglected me because of ye. I’ve an appointment with me barber.”
My fist tightens around the cellphone. “I’ll chop that beard off your face, asshole.”
“Be back in an hour, Justice. I’ll pick up breakfast. Denny’s?”
“Screw you and your Denny’s joke. As a matter of fact, I hope you get a paper cut while handling the pancakes—”
I bang my hands against the door.
“Nobody can hear ye, hen.”
The call goes dead. Through the length of our short relationship, I’ve sorted Brody’s actions. I designate the pros for the good and the cons for the dirty and or depraved. The con side of the list keeps multiplying. But I’m mentally smashing the bad side to smithereens. He called me hen.