Page 22 of Rough

“The circus clown. Did you see that cute little bike he’s riding? You should wait ‘till he gets ready to leave, and pull out in front of him. I’d tell you to throw your door open so we could watch him topple over the handlebars, but you don’t have one.”

“Keep it up, and I’ll make your bacon bouncy.”

“My apologies,” he said. “I don’t know what got into me.”

Tegan cleared her throat. “Let’s start over. Good morning, Bradley.”

“Morning, kid.”

“Sleep well?”

“Like a rock. How was dinner with Marcus?”

“Entertaining, thank you. Do you need anything before I start breakfast?”

“Catheter needs to be dumped afterward. It’s fine for now. Fill my water?”

She came around the corner with his cup in her hand and very little emotion on her face. Without speaking, she walked past me. I slid the omelet onto my plate and turned around. She stood at the sink rinsing his cup. Her little round ass was inviting, but not enough for me to say – or do – anything in my parent’s kitchen.

I unintentionally brushed against her as I placed the skillet in the sink. She looked up, lips pursed, and gave a shitty little closed-mouth grin.

“Mornin’,” I said.

“Good morning.” She looked in the sink, and sighed. “I’m his nurse, not your maid. Can you please rinse your dishes and put them in the dishwasher?”

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?”

She filled his cup with ice, and then glanced over her shoulder. “No, I’m not.”

I grabbed a fork from the silverware drawer and shoved it in my pocket. “This isn’t your fuckin’ house.”

“No, it’s not. But, my duties include cleaning up after myself, and after your father. Not you.”

She walked past me and into the living room.

You little bitch.

Aggravated, and ready to start an argument, I took off after her as soon as I got over the initial shock of her remark. When I came around the corner, she was on her way back to the kitchen.

I paused in the doorway. “Hold on a fuckin’ minute.”

A few feet from where I was standing, she cocked her hip and forced out a sigh. “Yes?”

“Use that skillet to cook your eggs. You’re still washing only one. Problem. Solved.”

“Rinse off your skillet, dip shit,” my father barked. “I’m not eating jalapeno residue.”

I stood firm in the middle of the doorway. “She can rinse it.” I reached for my fork and started eating.

“Rinse the god damned skillet, shithead. Don’t be a complete asshole. I raised you better than that.”

Being attacked by my father was nothing new. I’d spent a lifetime trying to gain his respect. Although it was a slow process, I eventually succeeded, but not without getting a constant earful of his opinions during the process.

Having him chastise me in front of Tegan, however, was irritating.

“I’ll rinse the motherfucker after I eat.”

She motioned behind me with a nod of her head. “Excuse me.”