Reaper's Fall
Page 37
I glanced out the window again, watching Tinker Garrett’s perfect ass twitching as she walked away.
Somehow she didn’t strike me as a drug kingpin. Cougar? Now that I could see.
MELANIE
The week after Chase’s accident was strange. He survived, but he had a long recovery ahead of him. Everyone in town seemed sort of gloomy and unhappy, although they’d really pulled together to support him, too. There’d even been a group of kids who set up a lemonade stand down the street from us as a fundraiser. Sometimes I got tired of living in Coeur d’Alene—it wasn’t a big city and it wasn’t exciting like Seattle or Portland, but when something like this happened, we all liked to help. Kit had even organized one of those online fundraiser things to help with his medical expenses.
Contributing to the gloom was the fact that I hadn’t heard from Painter for several days. I’d sent him a couple text messages at first, but stopped after he didn’t respond.
“You think he lost his phone?” I finally asked Jessica. It was Thursday night, and we’d built ourselves a study nest in the dining room. She’d found an old table on Tuesday, dragging it back home to show me, proud as a kid with her first buck.
Now it was so covered with books you’d never have guessed it hadn’t been here for months.
“Yeah, I’m sure he lost his phone,” she said, typing aggressively on her laptop. “He’s totally been meaning to call—you know, because he has such a great history of staying in touch—but he’s completely forgotten how to use text, email, social media, or any other kind of telecommunication.”
“Shit, you don’t have to be a bitch about it,” I snapped, glaring at her. She sighed, sitting back in her chair.
“Sorry—Taz hasn’t called me or anything, either. Guess I’m feeling hostile toward men. Bikers. Fuck all of ’em.”
“Did he say he’d call you?” I asked.
She nodded. “Don’t they all?”
• • •
On Friday I broke down and walked by Painter’s apartment. No signs of life. I was feeling all sorry for myself, so after that I went down to the coffee shop to indulge in one of their brownies with all the thick, fudgy frosting. I was halfway through it (staring at my phone, willing him to message me) when I had my big revelation.
This was fucking ridiculous.
Here I was, a twenty-year-old woman with all the potential on earth, and I was sitting in a coffee shop stuffing my face because of a man. All I needed was to start singing “All By Myself” and buy a cat to complete the stereotype.
What the hell was wrong with me?
My life had sucked before I moved in with London, but she gave me a second chance. I’d busted ass, working constantly to build a life for myself. It wasn’t perfect, but it was damned good—I had a full ride to college and all the potential on earth, yet here I sat, eating chocolate.
Fuck this.
I grabbed my phone, shooting a text off to Jessica.
ME: What are you doing right now?
JESS: Working on stuff for the carnival tomorrow. You still volunteering, right? Kit’s still around and she said she’d help, but I’ll need more than just her.
Oh shit. I’d totally forgotten in the midst of my Painter-induced haze. Oops.
ME: Of course I’m still volunteering—can’t wait. What did you want me to do?
JESS: Face paint.
ME: Um, you remember how artistic I’m not?
JESS: I want you painting little duckies and ladybugs and lizards and stuff. You know, on the kids cheeks. How hard can it be?
ME: I suck at painting
JESS: I have a book you can use with directions. Super easy
ME: Can’t I run the popcorn machine or something?
JESS: Chicken
ME: Yes I’m chicken. I can acknowledge that
JESS: Stop being such a giant pussy. I’ll give you paint tonight and you can practice. Easy
I glared down at the phone, because it was just like her to stick me with something hard and uncomfortable that I didn’t want to do. Hateful girl.
ME: Ok but you owe me
JESS: Put it on my tab ;)
Fucking winkie face, taunting me . . . I sighed and finished my brownie. I wouldn’t let myself get all pathetic again, I’d already decided that. But I couldn’t just walk away from a brownie midway through a sad eating binge. In all fairness, there wasn’t even enough to wrap up and take home.
ME: If I get all fat we r blaming Painter
JESS: Your insane. I love you butthead.
And just like that, I was smiling again. Grabbing my phone and bag, I started walking down to the college. Class didn’t start for another hour, but I could get some work done on my paper at the library if I hurried.
No more letting Painter get in my way. Life was too damned short.
• • •
It was eleven p.m. that same Friday night, and I was all alone (in the dark) getting my ass kicked by a ladybug.
Wasn’t even a real ladybug.
I stared down at the little instruction booklet, trying to figure out how something so allegedly simple—painting a harmless insect in six easy steps—was completely beyond me. I’d been trying for forty-five minutes now, dabbing unattractive, runny gloops of red, black, and white over and over each other in an endless cycle of incompetence. Some looked like aliens and others looked like mutant trolls, but not one of them could possibly be mistaken for a ladybug.
Not even a ladybug that’d been squished. (And maybe run over a few times, just for good measure.)
Somehow she didn’t strike me as a drug kingpin. Cougar? Now that I could see.
MELANIE
The week after Chase’s accident was strange. He survived, but he had a long recovery ahead of him. Everyone in town seemed sort of gloomy and unhappy, although they’d really pulled together to support him, too. There’d even been a group of kids who set up a lemonade stand down the street from us as a fundraiser. Sometimes I got tired of living in Coeur d’Alene—it wasn’t a big city and it wasn’t exciting like Seattle or Portland, but when something like this happened, we all liked to help. Kit had even organized one of those online fundraiser things to help with his medical expenses.
Contributing to the gloom was the fact that I hadn’t heard from Painter for several days. I’d sent him a couple text messages at first, but stopped after he didn’t respond.
“You think he lost his phone?” I finally asked Jessica. It was Thursday night, and we’d built ourselves a study nest in the dining room. She’d found an old table on Tuesday, dragging it back home to show me, proud as a kid with her first buck.
Now it was so covered with books you’d never have guessed it hadn’t been here for months.
“Yeah, I’m sure he lost his phone,” she said, typing aggressively on her laptop. “He’s totally been meaning to call—you know, because he has such a great history of staying in touch—but he’s completely forgotten how to use text, email, social media, or any other kind of telecommunication.”
“Shit, you don’t have to be a bitch about it,” I snapped, glaring at her. She sighed, sitting back in her chair.
“Sorry—Taz hasn’t called me or anything, either. Guess I’m feeling hostile toward men. Bikers. Fuck all of ’em.”
“Did he say he’d call you?” I asked.
She nodded. “Don’t they all?”
• • •
On Friday I broke down and walked by Painter’s apartment. No signs of life. I was feeling all sorry for myself, so after that I went down to the coffee shop to indulge in one of their brownies with all the thick, fudgy frosting. I was halfway through it (staring at my phone, willing him to message me) when I had my big revelation.
This was fucking ridiculous.
Here I was, a twenty-year-old woman with all the potential on earth, and I was sitting in a coffee shop stuffing my face because of a man. All I needed was to start singing “All By Myself” and buy a cat to complete the stereotype.
What the hell was wrong with me?
My life had sucked before I moved in with London, but she gave me a second chance. I’d busted ass, working constantly to build a life for myself. It wasn’t perfect, but it was damned good—I had a full ride to college and all the potential on earth, yet here I sat, eating chocolate.
Fuck this.
I grabbed my phone, shooting a text off to Jessica.
ME: What are you doing right now?
JESS: Working on stuff for the carnival tomorrow. You still volunteering, right? Kit’s still around and she said she’d help, but I’ll need more than just her.
Oh shit. I’d totally forgotten in the midst of my Painter-induced haze. Oops.
ME: Of course I’m still volunteering—can’t wait. What did you want me to do?
JESS: Face paint.
ME: Um, you remember how artistic I’m not?
JESS: I want you painting little duckies and ladybugs and lizards and stuff. You know, on the kids cheeks. How hard can it be?
ME: I suck at painting
JESS: I have a book you can use with directions. Super easy
ME: Can’t I run the popcorn machine or something?
JESS: Chicken
ME: Yes I’m chicken. I can acknowledge that
JESS: Stop being such a giant pussy. I’ll give you paint tonight and you can practice. Easy
I glared down at the phone, because it was just like her to stick me with something hard and uncomfortable that I didn’t want to do. Hateful girl.
ME: Ok but you owe me
JESS: Put it on my tab ;)
Fucking winkie face, taunting me . . . I sighed and finished my brownie. I wouldn’t let myself get all pathetic again, I’d already decided that. But I couldn’t just walk away from a brownie midway through a sad eating binge. In all fairness, there wasn’t even enough to wrap up and take home.
ME: If I get all fat we r blaming Painter
JESS: Your insane. I love you butthead.
And just like that, I was smiling again. Grabbing my phone and bag, I started walking down to the college. Class didn’t start for another hour, but I could get some work done on my paper at the library if I hurried.
No more letting Painter get in my way. Life was too damned short.
• • •
It was eleven p.m. that same Friday night, and I was all alone (in the dark) getting my ass kicked by a ladybug.
Wasn’t even a real ladybug.
I stared down at the little instruction booklet, trying to figure out how something so allegedly simple—painting a harmless insect in six easy steps—was completely beyond me. I’d been trying for forty-five minutes now, dabbing unattractive, runny gloops of red, black, and white over and over each other in an endless cycle of incompetence. Some looked like aliens and others looked like mutant trolls, but not one of them could possibly be mistaken for a ladybug.
Not even a ladybug that’d been squished. (And maybe run over a few times, just for good measure.)
