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“Hey, my sweet boy,” my mom coos. My mom is the infamous Eliza Sutton. With a body count higher than most men, and known for being unhinged, she has changed so much since having kids. She kisses my forehead, pushing my hair back. “Will you go get Jasmine for me? I would like for her to eat with us tonight.”
Smiling, I push off my bed. “It would be my pleasure.”
* * *
“Snitch!” I yell through the house, but she doesn’t respond. Of course she doesn’t, because who would respond to a name like that. Gritting my teeth, I yell her legal name, but still no response. Okay then. I look out the floor-to-ceiling window and see her painting. “Yo, Jasmine!” I say, walking out the back door.
She sighs, her head falling forward. As if my voice personally offends here.
“Hey, my mom wants you over for dinner,” I say, coming up behind her, looking at her morbid painting. What kind of twisted shit has to happen to you that makes you want to paint such a picture?
“I can’t,” she says, clearing away her supplies.
My jaw tics. “And why’s that?” I ask, holding my annoyance back.
“It’s simple, really. I don’t want to be anywhere near you.”
My jaw goes slack. Last year, Jasmine would have never said that. She would have nodded, got her nice ass up, and went and ate with my family. “Well, that’s too bad. My mom wants to see you,” I try arguing, but she holds up her hand, silencing me. “What the fuck has gotten into you, Snitch?” I growl.
“That!” She swings herself around, stalking toward me. “You! You treat me like I’m a bad dog nobody loves. You force yourself on me, your friends. You bully me.” She looks up at me. Our bodies are so close they are almost touching. “I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry that I told on you. I’m not sorry that your mom punished you, and I’m not sorry that my existence is like a pesky mosquito you can’t get rid of in your life.” She raises her chin, glaring at me.
My hand twitches with the need to punish her. “Are you done?” I bite out.
“No, I’m not. In fact—” But she doesn’t finish. I grab her by the waist, swinging her over my shoulder, stalking around the backside of the yard. “Put me down!” I smack her ass, gripping the flesh, my nails digging into her thigh.
“No. I’m not going to put you down. You’re going to come over to my house. You’re going to actually eat my mom’s food. And you’re going to fucking smile.” She pounds on my back, but I continue, “Because guess what, Snitch? I see you. I see the way you self-destruct. I see the way you never eat. I don’t want to fucking see you, but I do. Ever since my lips touched yours, you’re all I see. And you’re drowning.”
I stalk across the street, walking up the steps to my house. She’s silent, her body slack against mine. Much easier to carry since she’s not fighting me anymore. I throw the door open, and it smacks against the wall. “What in the—Easton, put her down!” my mom screeches.
I set Jasmine down, who’s looking at me like I grew two heads. Our eyes connect and I feel fire lick my insides. Fuck. I actually want Snitch. “Package delivered, Mom,” I say sweetly to my mom who looks mildly amused. My dad, on the other hand, has a frown on his face. A knowing look in his eyes. I don’t like it. I don’t like how well he can read the situation. “We’re going to my room. Call us when dinner is ready.”
Snagging Jasmine's hand, I lead her up the stairs and into my room, shutting the door and locking it. I light up a joint, taking a big hit and walking to her. “Open,” I command, and her lips part. I put my lips to hers, pushing the smoke with my tongue into her mouth. My tongue licks the seam of her lips as she inhales. She starts coughing, her eyes watering. Her body relaxes, laying on my bed. Staring at nothing. Her body has sunk between my sheets, and I climb up next to her, shifting her so she’s laying under the covers with me planted firmly next to her.
“Have you ever thought about space?” she asks.
“No, not really. Why?”
She smiles at the ceiling, “It’s a vast expanse of nothingness, and we’re just floating around in it.”
“Yeah, not really something I like to think about,” I muse.
“One little shift and life as we know it,” she claps her hands, “boom. Gone.”
I grimace, because she’s right.
“And you know what else?”
“Tell me,” I whisper, a smile trying to break across my face as I look at her half-closed, red-rimmed eyes.
“Aliens.”
“Aliens,” I repeat.
“Yes, aliens. Everyone wants to know if they’re real, which they are, but I figure they see us as a trashy reality TV show, like The Edge of Nobility. Comical, entertaining, but I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole.”
I laugh. “I’ll make sure to let Branson know the next time I see him at a gala or something.”
“Please do. And let him know my name is Jasmine, not Jessica.”
