“You’ll never get a girl like that. She’s all wholesome and shit,” he says. “Besides, you’re only into crew girls.”
“Maybe it’s time for a change,” I say, though his words eat at me. “If you’re not into her, I’ve got a chance.”
I hate that he might be right, hate that my words are even truer than his. Most of all, I hate that I have to feel him out about every girl before I make a move, because every fucking time they end up falling for him and leaving me to eat shit.
“You havenochance,” he says, shoving my leg off him. “Get yourpecuecaoff me andgo take a shower, or even the crew girls won’t lick your smelly ass.”
I laugh and toss down my controller like it doesn’t matter. “So youareinto her,” I say. “You’re just trying to trick me into not being interested, so you can mack on her.”
“I don’t have tomackon anyone,” he says, focusing on the game. “If I wanted her, I could get her to bounce on my dick without lifting a finger. Meanwhile, you wouldn’t know what to do with a chick that cute if you had her, you fucking freak.Necesitas un cucha para calmar tu arrechera.”
I don’t let myself wince at his words. I am a freak. He knows it, but it’s funny to him.
It’s not funny to me.
“Knew it,” I say, swinging up from the couch with a smug grin that makes him glare like he wants to bust out my front teeth. Better that than having him guess the truth of how deeply it bothers me. I laugh and slug his shoulder. “You think she’s hot, too.”
“Fuck off,” he says, shoving me with his foot. “Or I’ll nut in her ass just to piss you off.”
“If she’s too wholesome for me, she’s sure as hell too wholesome for your sick mind,” I shoot back, heading down the hall to shower. And maybe picture her pouty pink lips begging for mercy and her eyes streaming with tears when I jerk off and imagine giving her none.
three
#1 on the Billboard Chart:
“MMMBop”—Hanson
Rae West
Half asleep, I stumble out from the dim interior of our house into the blinding sun, step into my rubber boots, grab the bucket and shovel I found in the decrepit old shed, and head for the pool. It’s close to a hundred degrees out, but I’d rather work in the heat than in the evening under Lee’s critical eye. He’s not impressed with my progress, and to be honest, I can’t blame him. After two weeks of work, I’ve only managed to lower the level of sludge by a couple inches.
I come to an abrupt halt when I reach the edge of the pool and see four men below. Still groggy after staying up until 4 A.M. finishingChristineand then sleeping until noon, I didn’t register the sounds coming from my own backyard. I’ve gotten used to the neighborhood noises—old men smoking on porches, their wives gossiping over fences, TVs blaring, babies crying. Everything happens in slow-mo under the molasses of summer heat.
Everything except the four men shoveling sludge into a dozen buckets, their pants and boots slick with mud, brown droplets splattering their arms and sunburned shoulders.
One of them looks up, and I’m startled to see the guy I’ve affectionately deemed Jerk Face. I haven’t had any more close encounters, but I’ve seen him from my window.
Not that I was watching for him or anything. Total coincidence.
He just happens to run by at around seven every evening, and I happen to sit in my window seat around that time, and it’s hard not to be distracted by all that tan skin, muscle, and ink. He’s shirtless again today—all four of them are—and sweat tracks down his taut abs, glistening in the blistering sun. Our eyes meet, and he glares like I’ve assigned him this odious task.
“Gonna get down here and help, little girl?” he asks. “Or are you afraid to get your hands dirty?”
“What are you doing?” I demand.
“Bailing your ass out,” he says, glowering. “Unless you don’t need help.”
I’m tempted to mouth off and tell him I don’t need anything from an asshole like him, that I’m dead set on getting this done and I can do it myself. But the truth is, they’ve already done as much in one morning as I’ve done in two weeks working alone. It’s not like they’re swooping in on the last day and taking all the credit when I did all the work.
“But why?” I ask, climbing down the rusty ladder to join them.
“I told you, Sunshine,” says my neighbor, who’s also hard at work. “It’ll be good to have a pool on the block.”
“Did you talk to my stepdad?” I ask, scooping a shovelful of rotting leaves and muck into my bucket.
“Nah,” he says. “But we waited for him to go to work before invading.”
He flashes me a smile and swipes a forearm over his forehead, leaving behind a smudge of brown mud above his glasses. It’s somehow endearing, which is a good thing, because I’m in danger of fainting from the heat waves coming off him. If he was gorgeous with a shirt on, he’s heart stopping without one. He’s built more like a runner than the other guy, muscular but lean, with long limbs. He’s also tattooed, a black crow stretching its wings across his entire chest, a skull superimposed over its body, and its tail spread over the top of his abs. A raised, brown scar runs over his hipbone and down into the top of his jeans, where a wallet chain hangs. But the dimpled smile and warm gaze soften what would otherwise be a scary sight.