his shoulder as he picks the strings of his guitar like he’s in his own little world. “Waverly?”
I shrug, as if to neither confirm nor deny. She sees right through it.
“Not Waverly.” Liberty laughs. “She’s so sweet and innocent.”
Kian puts his guitar down and pulls a cigarette from a pack in his pocket. He lights up and passes it to Liberty, who takes a long drag and gives it back. Watching them together is like watching the inner workings of a clock: intricate, intentional, and in sync.
“What’d she do?” she asks, exhaling a lungful of smoke.
“Not in the mood to talk about it.” I recline in my seat and rest my hands behind my head. Her walls are covered in posters of various rock and metal bands. How she and the Miller girls could possibly be from the same genetic pool is beyond me.
“Anybody want a beer?” Kian sits his guitar aside and rises up.
“I’ll take one,” Liberty says. I found out earlier that day that she was twenty-one. She appears a lot younger, minus the tattoos. “Jensen, you want one?”
“Got anything stronger?” I ask.
Kian laughs. “You’ve got a lot of balls, man. I like you. You sure you’re still in high school?”
“Told you,” Liberty says. “He acts older than the two of us combined.”
I feel old as fuck sometimes. It tends to happen like that when you spend the majority of your youth raising yourself, questioning authority, and growing up long before everyone else.
Kian comes back with two Pabst Blue Ribbon tallboys and a fifth of off-brand vodka that’s half gone. “Take this. You can have it. Hide it. You didn’t get it from me.”
I accept his offering. “Thanks, man.”
Kian winks. “I know what it’s like.”
He leaves it at that, and I’m not in a mood to pry. It’s none of my business, and Kian seems like the kind of guy who doesn’t appreciate another man prying into his personal affairs, much like myself.
Kian’s phone dings.
“Who the hell’s texting you this late at night?” Liberty’s entire demeanor shifts. Her blue eyes burn dark and she sits up. Kian yanks the phone away from her like he’s hiding something.
“Okay, well, I should probably head out before anyone notices I’m gone…” I rise, shoving the half-empty fifth of vodka into my interior coat pocket and heading toward the door. They continue bickering like cats and dogs, and I’m not even sure they saw me leave.
Liberty will probably apologize tomorrow at work. Then again, she might not. She doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who’s sorry for a whole lot. I like that about her. She’s a take-me-or-leave-me kind of girl.
She’s earned my respect, that’s for damn sure.
***
I park in front of the main house, fully expecting Mark to be standing in the living room window again, hands on his hips, ready to give me a talking-to, but the house is dark.
Either no one noticed I left or no one fucking cares. The latter wouldn’t surprise me.
I carefully pad up the sidewalk and ready my key.
“Jensen.”
My heart drops. I don’t startle easily, but when you’re trying to sneak in to your own house and someone whispers your name from the bushes, it has a tendency to do that to a person.
Bushes rustle to my right, and I squint only to find what looks like Bellamy crouched down in between two trimmed hedges.
“What the hell are you doing down there?” I hop off the steps and reach for her hand, pulling her up. She’s dressed like a five-dollar hooker. Well, not quite. She actually looks hot as fuck. Two-dollar whore is what Josiah Mackey would call any woman who wore anything that showed any bit of skin. Juliette was the exception. She couldn’t hide her curves behind even her most conservative Sunday best, and Josiah liked that.
“I’m locked out.” She stands, smoothing the creases of her tight, dark dress. A small fur something-or-other hugs her shoulders. Other than that she’s got a whole lot of skin showing for a cool spring
I shrug, as if to neither confirm nor deny. She sees right through it.
“Not Waverly.” Liberty laughs. “She’s so sweet and innocent.”
Kian puts his guitar down and pulls a cigarette from a pack in his pocket. He lights up and passes it to Liberty, who takes a long drag and gives it back. Watching them together is like watching the inner workings of a clock: intricate, intentional, and in sync.
“What’d she do?” she asks, exhaling a lungful of smoke.
“Not in the mood to talk about it.” I recline in my seat and rest my hands behind my head. Her walls are covered in posters of various rock and metal bands. How she and the Miller girls could possibly be from the same genetic pool is beyond me.
“Anybody want a beer?” Kian sits his guitar aside and rises up.
“I’ll take one,” Liberty says. I found out earlier that day that she was twenty-one. She appears a lot younger, minus the tattoos. “Jensen, you want one?”
“Got anything stronger?” I ask.
Kian laughs. “You’ve got a lot of balls, man. I like you. You sure you’re still in high school?”
“Told you,” Liberty says. “He acts older than the two of us combined.”
I feel old as fuck sometimes. It tends to happen like that when you spend the majority of your youth raising yourself, questioning authority, and growing up long before everyone else.
Kian comes back with two Pabst Blue Ribbon tallboys and a fifth of off-brand vodka that’s half gone. “Take this. You can have it. Hide it. You didn’t get it from me.”
I accept his offering. “Thanks, man.”
Kian winks. “I know what it’s like.”
He leaves it at that, and I’m not in a mood to pry. It’s none of my business, and Kian seems like the kind of guy who doesn’t appreciate another man prying into his personal affairs, much like myself.
Kian’s phone dings.
“Who the hell’s texting you this late at night?” Liberty’s entire demeanor shifts. Her blue eyes burn dark and she sits up. Kian yanks the phone away from her like he’s hiding something.
“Okay, well, I should probably head out before anyone notices I’m gone…” I rise, shoving the half-empty fifth of vodka into my interior coat pocket and heading toward the door. They continue bickering like cats and dogs, and I’m not even sure they saw me leave.
Liberty will probably apologize tomorrow at work. Then again, she might not. She doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who’s sorry for a whole lot. I like that about her. She’s a take-me-or-leave-me kind of girl.
She’s earned my respect, that’s for damn sure.
***
I park in front of the main house, fully expecting Mark to be standing in the living room window again, hands on his hips, ready to give me a talking-to, but the house is dark.
Either no one noticed I left or no one fucking cares. The latter wouldn’t surprise me.
I carefully pad up the sidewalk and ready my key.
“Jensen.”
My heart drops. I don’t startle easily, but when you’re trying to sneak in to your own house and someone whispers your name from the bushes, it has a tendency to do that to a person.
Bushes rustle to my right, and I squint only to find what looks like Bellamy crouched down in between two trimmed hedges.
“What the hell are you doing down there?” I hop off the steps and reach for her hand, pulling her up. She’s dressed like a five-dollar hooker. Well, not quite. She actually looks hot as fuck. Two-dollar whore is what Josiah Mackey would call any woman who wore anything that showed any bit of skin. Juliette was the exception. She couldn’t hide her curves behind even her most conservative Sunday best, and Josiah liked that.
“I’m locked out.” She stands, smoothing the creases of her tight, dark dress. A small fur something-or-other hugs her shoulders. Other than that she’s got a whole lot of skin showing for a cool spring
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