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“Nothing, mate.” Again that faint accent, drilling under my skin, a strange little itch. “Did you order the pizza?”
“Yeah, I ordered the damn pizza. Why’re you hiding in here?” I gesture at the familiar room—black drapes, black bedspread with white skulls. “What’s gotten up your ass?”
“Interested in my ass suddenly, are you?” He shoots a crooked grin at me, and I’m momentarily speechless. He didn’t notice me watching today, did he?
I mean, whatever. Dudes stare at each other all the time. Comparing dicks and shit.
“I’m interested in your ass planted in the chair in front of the TV so that I can kick it playing,” I clarify. “Wasn’t that what we said we’d do?”
“Sure.” He shrugs one shoulder. “I was just gonna grab a sweater. It’s chilly in there.”
Chilly? Is he fucking with me? It’s summer. We’re in T-shirts. I have no f
ucking clue what’s going on here, but I let it slide for now, because it’s Jet, and sooner or later he’ll spill.
Has to. We’re like brothers, dammit. Fucker will let me in all the fucking way someday, I just know it. I only need to be patient.
Like now.
So I don’t push him more. Instead, I grab his arm and yank him to his feet. “Pizza. Video game. Beer.”
“Now we’re talking,” he mutters and gamely lets me haul him out of his room and drop him on our worn couch. “Where’s the pizza?”
Have I mentioned that occasionally I want to strangle the idiot?
“I literally just called. Give it a fucking minute, will ya?”
“Did you get the one with the anchovies that I—”
“Yes, Jesus fuck, Jet, I know what you like, okay? Sit tight, pizza’s on its way.”
He relaxes marginally into the cushions, that crooked grin making another appearance, and something inside my chest unwinds.
Everything’s fine. A usual evening in the J&J household. This is my home, even more so than the one I grew up in. Don’t get me wrong. I love my parents, and my sister, but I never felt at ease there.
Here, with Jet, I do. With pizza on the way, video games to be played, Jet’s eyes lighting up with mischief as he grabs the controls, and despite the sharp sliver of the memory of her—the sexy girl at the bookstore—this is gonna be a damn good evening.
***
I want to see her again.
The thought fills up my mind, expands and contracts, randomly flashes through my thoughts like a light saber randomly as I go through my day at work.
It shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. I should be fucking focused on learning and on making a good impression. I breezed through college on my scholarship and sports and fun, and treated my business studies as a necessary evil.
Well, now the evil has taken over my life. Okay, it’s not that bad, but finding the requisite excitement is tough. Landing a job at a multimillion corporation with branches everywhere in the world is a good thing. Even if my tasks are limited to secretarial stuff so far. Write letters. Type up stuff. Make photocopies. Make phone calls.
Hey, it will get better. I will be given more responsibilities, climb the ladder, learn more about the company and its goals. I know it’s my first job, and time is of the essence. Patience, is what my parents keep telling me. And they’re right.
But when was I ever known for my patience?
And when was I interested in oil, natural gas and investments? I love running, playing video games with Jethro, chasing chicks, reading about ancient history, checking on my little sister—who’s not so little anymore, as she often reminds me—and cooking.
Hey, sometimes when thinking bogs me down, doing something with my hands helps. I sort of switch off, and at the end of it, there’s something good to eat, too. Win-win.
Besides, I’m in charge of feeding Jethro, who often forgets that breathing isn’t enough sustenance. Fucker owes me. I hope he appreciates it.
Speaking of doing something with my hands… Even better would be to use them on the girl at the bookstore. Why didn’t I ask her name? Why didn’t I ask her out?
