Breakable
Page 51
‘Dumbass smokes through half his profits, though, man,’ Boyce said. From one of the rocks overlooking the beach, we watched Rick circle through the crush of bodies. He was selling a good time in a baggie, and business was thriving.
‘Or gives them away.’ As if to illustrate my point, Brittney Loper circled her arms round him from behind, pressing her chest into his back and speaking into his ear. Without stopping his conversation with a couple of potential clients, he brought her round front with one arm and transferred a small baggie from his hoodie pocket to the front pocket of her jeans with the other.
She leaned into him and kissed him while the two guys glanced at each other. One of them said something, Rick shook his head and turned Brittney round, snaking an arm round her rib cage. The guys stared at her ample cle**age. She stuck a hand out and each of them shook it. Cash and baggies swapped hands, and Brittney walked off down the beach between the two out-of-towners.
‘Man, that girl lives dangerously,’ Boyce said, taking one last drag on his cigarette.
‘Seriously.’ I tossed back the rest of my beer and chewed the corner of my lip. After a minute, I added, ‘I’m thinking about getting my tongue pierced.’
He made a pretence of shivering. ‘Damn, Maxfield, why the hell would you do that?’
Boyce had no piercings and only one tattoo – Semper Fi above an Eagle, Globe and Anchor emblem on his shoulder, in memory of his only sibling, a Marine who’d died in Iraq. ‘I didn’t know how much I hated needles until then. Burned like a motherfucker,’ he’d told me once. ‘If I hadn’t been doing it for Brent, I’da told Arianna to quit with the damned bird’s head.’
‘I heard a tongue stud makes it better for the girl when you go down on her,’ I answered.
He crooked an eyebrow, his beer halfway to his mouth. ‘That so?’ He took a swallow. ‘Even still. Maybe if it made it better for me …’
I shrugged, smirking. ‘If it’s better for her, it’s better for me.’
He peered at me. ‘That sounds suspiciously like you’re f**kin’ someone you care about, Maxfield.’ I said nothing, and after a few seconds, he groaned, head falling back. ‘Oh, man – for real? Shit. Why don’t you ever listen to the Boyce of reason?’ I grunted at his pun and shook my head as he sighed. ‘You know when I’m the one talkin’ sense, you’re in deep shit.’ He scanned the crowd. ‘So where is she?’
‘Houston for a couple nights. She and her mom go shopping every year during spring break.’
Boyce dropped his cigarette butt into his empty bottle. ‘Watch your back. You know Richards is a grade-A dickhole.’
‘I don’t think he gives a shit.’
‘About her? Probably not. But he gives a shit about appearances, and he doesn’t like to lose.’
‘Neither do I.’ My phone vibrated and I pulled up a text from Melody, along with two dressing-room-mirror selfies of lacy nothings – one black, one red. I lay back on the rock, staring. ‘Holy, holy shit.’
Melody: Lingerie shopping. This? Or this?
Me: BOTH. EITHER. Is this a trick question??
Melody: I’ll be wearing one of them Friday, if you still want to go out.
Me: A. Of course I want to go out. B. You can’t go out in that, unless you want me to kill the first guy who touches you.
Melody: Under my clothes, silly. You’ll know, but no one else will.;)
Me: I’ll never make it through dinner.
‘What? Is she sexting you?’ Boyce asked, reaching for my phone. ‘Lemme see.’
I shoved it in my pocket. ‘Nope. That’s all mine.’
‘Lucky bastard.’
I shook my head, sitting up. ‘I thought you guys couldn’t stand each other?’
Spreading his arms, he asked, ‘Who’s gotta stand her to appreciate her naked?’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘You’d better hope that never happens.’
He put his hands up. ‘All right, all right – keep your shorts on.’
I took a deep breath, hand on my phone inside my pocket. My fingers itched to pull up those photos and study every detail. Meticulously. ‘I need a beer or five.’
Boyce hopped down to the sand. ‘On it, bro. Let’s go.’
Melody’s parents were less than thrilled to see me at the door Friday to pick her up, or the old blue-and-white Ford F-100 at the end of their curving pebbled walk. I’d worn boots, jeans and a snap-front western shirt I’d taken from Grandpa’s stuff before Dad gave the rest of it away. The shirt was faded blue, soft as hell, and way older than me. There was a tear by the cuff, so I rolled the sleeves and pushed them up to my elbows. I forgot about my tattoos until her mom focused on them two seconds after opening the door – once her eyes unfocused from my truck.
Fingering the necklace at her throat as though I might snatch it off and run out the door, she spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Landon. Hello. Melody will be down in a minute.’
Her father was less subtle. One glance at me, and he turned to his wife. ‘Barb, may I see you in the kitchen?’
‘Wait here, please,’ she told me. I nodded.
Melody came down the stairs a moment later wearing a short red sundress with boots, and my mouth went dry, immediately imagining those red lacy things she’d promised to wear underneath. I knew every detail of them except how they’d feel to the touch, because I’d stared at those photos for so many hours that they were all but burned into my retinas.
‘Ooh, cool vintage shirt,’ Melody said, running a hand down my chest. My whole body responded to her touch, everything constricting at once. I was in deep shit with this girl.
We could hear her parents arguing in the kitchen. ‘Did you approve her going out with that Maxfield boy?’ her father said.
‘Of course not –’
‘What the hell were you thinking? What happened to Clark?’
Her mother’s answer was inaudible.
Melody rolled her eyes. ‘God. Let’s get out of here.’
She got no argument from me.
We took the ferry and drove to a Peruvian seafood joint for ceviche and fish tacos.
‘So you like working on cars?’ Melody asked, sipping her iced tea.
I’d hung around Boyce a few times when he was working at his dad’s garage. He liked the grease under his nails, the smell of the exhaust, and getting his hands dirty while diving into the bowels of the machine under a hood. That wasn’t me. ‘Kinda, but not really. It might be cool to design cars. I mean, I like figuring out how mechanical things work, but only so I can use that knowledge to build something else. Once I know how it all connects, it’s not that fascinating any more. When I was a kid, I took stuff apart all the time – radios, clocks, toasters, a doorbell chime …’
‘Or gives them away.’ As if to illustrate my point, Brittney Loper circled her arms round him from behind, pressing her chest into his back and speaking into his ear. Without stopping his conversation with a couple of potential clients, he brought her round front with one arm and transferred a small baggie from his hoodie pocket to the front pocket of her jeans with the other.
She leaned into him and kissed him while the two guys glanced at each other. One of them said something, Rick shook his head and turned Brittney round, snaking an arm round her rib cage. The guys stared at her ample cle**age. She stuck a hand out and each of them shook it. Cash and baggies swapped hands, and Brittney walked off down the beach between the two out-of-towners.
‘Man, that girl lives dangerously,’ Boyce said, taking one last drag on his cigarette.
‘Seriously.’ I tossed back the rest of my beer and chewed the corner of my lip. After a minute, I added, ‘I’m thinking about getting my tongue pierced.’
He made a pretence of shivering. ‘Damn, Maxfield, why the hell would you do that?’
Boyce had no piercings and only one tattoo – Semper Fi above an Eagle, Globe and Anchor emblem on his shoulder, in memory of his only sibling, a Marine who’d died in Iraq. ‘I didn’t know how much I hated needles until then. Burned like a motherfucker,’ he’d told me once. ‘If I hadn’t been doing it for Brent, I’da told Arianna to quit with the damned bird’s head.’
‘I heard a tongue stud makes it better for the girl when you go down on her,’ I answered.
He crooked an eyebrow, his beer halfway to his mouth. ‘That so?’ He took a swallow. ‘Even still. Maybe if it made it better for me …’
I shrugged, smirking. ‘If it’s better for her, it’s better for me.’
He peered at me. ‘That sounds suspiciously like you’re f**kin’ someone you care about, Maxfield.’ I said nothing, and after a few seconds, he groaned, head falling back. ‘Oh, man – for real? Shit. Why don’t you ever listen to the Boyce of reason?’ I grunted at his pun and shook my head as he sighed. ‘You know when I’m the one talkin’ sense, you’re in deep shit.’ He scanned the crowd. ‘So where is she?’
‘Houston for a couple nights. She and her mom go shopping every year during spring break.’
Boyce dropped his cigarette butt into his empty bottle. ‘Watch your back. You know Richards is a grade-A dickhole.’
‘I don’t think he gives a shit.’
‘About her? Probably not. But he gives a shit about appearances, and he doesn’t like to lose.’
‘Neither do I.’ My phone vibrated and I pulled up a text from Melody, along with two dressing-room-mirror selfies of lacy nothings – one black, one red. I lay back on the rock, staring. ‘Holy, holy shit.’
Melody: Lingerie shopping. This? Or this?
Me: BOTH. EITHER. Is this a trick question??
Melody: I’ll be wearing one of them Friday, if you still want to go out.
Me: A. Of course I want to go out. B. You can’t go out in that, unless you want me to kill the first guy who touches you.
Melody: Under my clothes, silly. You’ll know, but no one else will.;)
Me: I’ll never make it through dinner.
‘What? Is she sexting you?’ Boyce asked, reaching for my phone. ‘Lemme see.’
I shoved it in my pocket. ‘Nope. That’s all mine.’
‘Lucky bastard.’
I shook my head, sitting up. ‘I thought you guys couldn’t stand each other?’
Spreading his arms, he asked, ‘Who’s gotta stand her to appreciate her naked?’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘You’d better hope that never happens.’
He put his hands up. ‘All right, all right – keep your shorts on.’
I took a deep breath, hand on my phone inside my pocket. My fingers itched to pull up those photos and study every detail. Meticulously. ‘I need a beer or five.’
Boyce hopped down to the sand. ‘On it, bro. Let’s go.’
Melody’s parents were less than thrilled to see me at the door Friday to pick her up, or the old blue-and-white Ford F-100 at the end of their curving pebbled walk. I’d worn boots, jeans and a snap-front western shirt I’d taken from Grandpa’s stuff before Dad gave the rest of it away. The shirt was faded blue, soft as hell, and way older than me. There was a tear by the cuff, so I rolled the sleeves and pushed them up to my elbows. I forgot about my tattoos until her mom focused on them two seconds after opening the door – once her eyes unfocused from my truck.
Fingering the necklace at her throat as though I might snatch it off and run out the door, she spoke through clenched teeth. ‘Landon. Hello. Melody will be down in a minute.’
Her father was less subtle. One glance at me, and he turned to his wife. ‘Barb, may I see you in the kitchen?’
‘Wait here, please,’ she told me. I nodded.
Melody came down the stairs a moment later wearing a short red sundress with boots, and my mouth went dry, immediately imagining those red lacy things she’d promised to wear underneath. I knew every detail of them except how they’d feel to the touch, because I’d stared at those photos for so many hours that they were all but burned into my retinas.
‘Ooh, cool vintage shirt,’ Melody said, running a hand down my chest. My whole body responded to her touch, everything constricting at once. I was in deep shit with this girl.
We could hear her parents arguing in the kitchen. ‘Did you approve her going out with that Maxfield boy?’ her father said.
‘Of course not –’
‘What the hell were you thinking? What happened to Clark?’
Her mother’s answer was inaudible.
Melody rolled her eyes. ‘God. Let’s get out of here.’
She got no argument from me.
We took the ferry and drove to a Peruvian seafood joint for ceviche and fish tacos.
‘So you like working on cars?’ Melody asked, sipping her iced tea.
I’d hung around Boyce a few times when he was working at his dad’s garage. He liked the grease under his nails, the smell of the exhaust, and getting his hands dirty while diving into the bowels of the machine under a hood. That wasn’t me. ‘Kinda, but not really. It might be cool to design cars. I mean, I like figuring out how mechanical things work, but only so I can use that knowledge to build something else. Once I know how it all connects, it’s not that fascinating any more. When I was a kid, I took stuff apart all the time – radios, clocks, toasters, a doorbell chime …’
