Page 80 of Down Bad

Why does it seem like Spruce is working overtime lately sticking its nose in my business?

“Dude seriously needs to get laid,” grunts Diego, his helpful observation, before finally kicking back his drink.

—16—

Diego

I drive us home in Wyatt’s car.

He had three more drinks.

Maybe four.

I’m not letting him behind any wheel tonight.

“He’ll get over it,” says Wyatt sleepily, head drooped back on the passenger seat.

It takes me a sec to realize he’s talking about his friend. “It isn’t his business what we were doing,” I say back. “And my name ain’t Derek.”

“I can’t believe I missed Jimmy’s dance.”

I don’t even know who Jimmy is or whether he was any of the people we met. “Someone probably recorded it.”

“Isn’t the same as seeing it live. In the flesh. From the second row. With your own …” He turns his head toward me, looking me up and down. “… eyes.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I don’t get drunk. I get fun.” He sighs. “Or so says Connie.”

“That your sister?”

“Yep. My one and only. One of my birthdays, she came from outta town, it was a whole surprise thing, and after two rounds of shots at Tumbleweeds, she said I was the funnest I’ve ever been. Funnest? That a word? Most funnerest. Most fun?” He laughs at himself, then pauses. “Wait, how’d you know Connie’s my sister?”

I stare blankly at the road. “Lucky guess.”

He gives it another second of thought, then lets it go and curls up like a cat in his seat, tugging on the seatbelt. “We play chess on an online app. I let her win. Every game.” He yawns, rubs his face, droops his head back again. “She doesn’t know.”

I frown. “Why?”

“It’s easier that way. Everything’s easier that way.”

I leave it alone. Debating the rights and wrongs of letting your sister believe she’s a secret chess grandmaster isn’t a battle worth waging on four-to-five glasses of wannabe moonshine.

The drive home is way longer than I thought, especially in the dark. Starting to think calling those rich folks “Spruce residents” is either a local joke or this town’s borders stretch ten counties.

But then we’re in his driveway, and the car’s off.

And Wyatt’s sound-the-fuck asleep.

I nudge him once. Twice.

Nothing.

I get out of the car and come around, opening his door. I undo his seatbelt, scoop him into my arms, kick shut the door, and head to his front porch. The door’s unlocked—I swear, Wyatt, I just don’t get you—so I manage to get it open without dropping him, shove my way inside, bump it shut behind me, and hunt for his bed.

I lay him down gently.

And of course it’s then that he squirms, squeezes an eye open, mumbles, “Sexy kitten, doin’ your thing, mmm, butter that bread,” and immediately passes back out.