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Boyd
My knuckles rap against the trailer door, unease spreading like poison ivy through my gut when I’m met with deafening silence, no sign of movement coming from the other side. I knock again, checking my watch to make sure I’m not going over on my break.
School’s out for Riley today because of some kind of teachers-only gig, and since I haven’t been back in a week, I figured I’d pop over on my lunch and make sure things hadn’t gotten progressively worse. There’s only so much I can do for my sister from afar, and the knowledge that she might be in danger any other time tends to keep me up at night.
I’d be lying, too, if I said part of me isn’t at least a little curious to see how LeeAnn is. Especially after the shitstorm with Craig Ivers getting shot after our rendezvous at his house—he’d supposedly been minding his business when the tires of his car were shot out, and when he stopped to assess the damage and call for a tow, someone attacked him.
I’ve been slightly more on edge ever since. Clearly, someone has it out for the Ivers, and those flash drives turning up the day before Craig was shot wasn’t a coincidence.
So now, here I am, checking on my deadbeat mother. To see if she’s okay, but also to see if she’s apologetic or if she’s been riding a perpetual high since our fight, pretending nothing happened so she doesn’t have to live with her mistakes or their consequences.
Pathetic. I shouldn’t give a single fuck about the woman, especially considering what happened last week, but for whatever fucking reason, she’s stuck on my permanent list of things to obsess over.
I’ve added sneaking around with Fiona to that list, though, stealing kisses from her ruby red lips and copping a feel every chance I get—between courses at weekly family dinners and in the elevator when she brings her mother in for lunch dates with Craig.
It wasn’t supposed to turn into anything, that night I spent at her house. But when you go looking for comfort, sometimes you get attached to the things that bring it, and watching Fiona let go of her troubles and that carefully curated bubblegum personality for just a few moments as she came against me was too fucking addicting.
When I went home the next morning, I could still smell her on me.
Roses. Candy. Anxiety.
She may try to deny it, but I recognize the signs. Researched the possibilities.
Know how the worry can sink its claws into you and squeeze until there’s no room for anything else. And I know how fucking good it feels when it retracts, even if temporarily.
Problem is, I can’t seem to get enough of her. Can’t stop thinking about the way her face flushed as she came, or that I could feel her pulse against me between her thighs, and how badly I wanted to tear the clothes from her body and bury myself inside of her.
Later, when she’d fallen asleep curled against my side, the inherent rightness of having her there began to wash away, replaced by guilt. An emotion I’m not used to feeling, and yet every time an illicit thought about my best friend’s baby sister pops up, warning bells chime, signaling that our union might be apocalyptic.
I’m torn between the loyalty I have to him and his family, and the knowledge that if the situation were reversed, they wouldn’t deny themselves something they’re so desperate for.
So, I indulge, because I’m nothing if not a connoisseur of bad decisions.
Beating the side of my fist on the door one last time, I glance over my shoulder at where my bike’s parked in the empty carport, wondering if it’s possible LeeAnn took Riley somewhere. Then again, if she had, surely my aunt Dottie would’ve been notified since the Volkswagen LeeAnn drives is in her friend’s name. Or one of the PIs I have occasionally tailing them would’ve texted me a heads-up.
My hand falls to my side, and I’m turning to move off the makeshift porch when the door finally swings open, revealing LeeAnn in a wrinkled beige pantsuit, pulling her dirty hair into a bun. She scans me from head to toe with a scoff, stepping back and walking into the kitchen, leaving the decision to engage up to me.
As fucking always. If she isn’t in need, then LeeAnn doesn’t make the first move.
Slamming the door shut behind me, I fold my arms over my chest and glance around the area. It’s practically spotless, no evidence of the general filth she likes to live in or the mess from our fight last week. That, paired with the fact that she’s awake and dressed before two in the afternoon, makes me wary.
“What’d you do, fuck a maid or something?” I grunt, watching as she pours a cup of coffee into a mug I recognize from my seventh-grade art class. It’s black ceramic and has the words “WORLD’S BEST MOM” painted in white on the side—something I’d asked my art teacher to assist with so I didn’t mess up.
LeeAnn was always bad at receiving gifts, typically expecting money or jewelry, despite dating losers and me being a child. So, when I made her the mug, I wanted it to be perfect.
This is the first time I’ve ever seen her use it.
Spooning some sugar into the mug, she gives me a bland look. “Hilarious, Boyd. I’ve been cleaning my home since before you were born.”
“Right, you’re just usually too high to do it.”
She rolls her eyes, taking a sip of her coffee and returning it to the counter. “Did you come here just to berate me again? Honestly, the constant bickering between us is getting exhausting. Do you think you can come here just once and not start a damn fight?”
My hands ball into fists and I bite down on my tongue, irritation swirling around at the suggestion that I’m to blame for the bad blood between us. Scrubbing my hand over the stubble on my jaw, I jerk my head toward the back of the trailer, not taking the bait. “Riley home?”
“No, she stayed the night at her father’s. They were supposed to go to some lake this afternoon so she could get started on some kind of community service.” Pausing, LeeAnn’s head tilts to one side as she considers this. “What’s she doing community service for, anyway? She in some kind of trouble?”
“Wouldn’t you have heard about it, if she were?”
