Arrogant Bastard(31)

“Hey,” she says as she pulls the door open. She lives in a little apartment above her father’s shop. “What are you doing here? Need into the shop?”

There’s music coming from behind her, which I assume is her guitar-wielding boyfriend, Kian. I met him at work yesterday when he came in to drop dinner off for her.

She examines my face and chews on her lip. “Shit go down at Uncle Mark’s?”

I shrug.

“Oh, God. What’d he do?” Liberty pulls the door wide and welcomes me in. I lock eyes with Kian, who’s cradling a cherry red Fender guitar and gives me a tightlipped smile.

Kian’s wearing a white tank top that shows off his sleeves. Every inch of his arms is covered in multicolored tats.

My people.

“Mark didn’t do anything,” I say, taking a seat on a stained, velour sofa. I’m not sure what color it’s supposed to be, but it ain’t pretty. Judging by the general appearance of her apartment, it’s been ridden hard and put away wet one too many times. Empty beer cans line the kitchen sink, and there’s a perpetual beer-burp scent in the air. These are the people my father warned me about, and they’re the nicest, most laidback people I’ve ever met in my life.

“Oh.” Liberty scratches the side of her head and slides in next to Kian, resting her head on his shoulder as he picks the strings of his guitar like he’s in his own little world. “Waverly?”

I shrug, as if to neither confirm nor deny. She sees right through it.

“Not Waverly.” Liberty laughs. “She’s so sweet and innocent.”

Kian puts his guitar down and pulls a cigarette from a pack in his pocket. He lights up and passes it to Liberty, who takes a long drag and gives it back. Watching them together is like watching the inner workings of a clock: intricate, intentional, and in sync.

“What’d she do?” she asks, exhaling a lungful of smoke.

“Not in the mood to talk about it.” I recline in my seat and rest my hands behind my head. Her walls are covered in posters of various rock and metal bands. How she and the Miller girls could possibly be from the same genetic pool is beyond me.

“Anybody want a beer?” Kian sits his guitar aside and rises up.

“I’ll take one,” Liberty says. I found out earlier that day that she was twenty-one. She appears a lot younger, minus the tattoos. “Jensen, you want one?”

“Got anything stronger?” I ask.

Kian laughs. “You’ve got a lot of balls, man. I like you. You sure you’re still in high school?”

“Told you,” Liberty says. “He acts older than the two of us combined.”

I feel old as fuck sometimes. It tends to happen like that when you spend the majority of your youth raising yourself, questioning authority, and growing up long before everyone else.

Kian comes back with two Pabst Blue Ribbon tallboys and a fifth of off-brand vodka that’s half gone. “Take this. You can have it. Hide it. You didn’t get it from me.”

I accept his offering. “Thanks, man.”

Kian winks. “I know what it’s like.”

He leaves it at that, and I’m not in a mood to pry. It’s none of my business, and Kian seems like the kind of guy who doesn’t appreciate another man prying into his personal affairs, much like myself.

Kian’s phone dings.

“Who the hell’s texting you this late at night?” Liberty’s entire demeanor shifts. Her blue eyes burn dark and she sits up. Kian yanks the phone away from her like he’s hiding something.

“Okay, well, I should probably head out before anyone notices I’m gone…” I rise, shoving the half-empty fifth of vodka into my interior coat pocket and heading toward the door. They continue bickering like cats and dogs, and I’m not even sure they saw me leave.

Liberty will probably apologize tomorrow at work. Then again, she might not. She doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who’s sorry for a whole lot. I like that about her. She’s a take-me-or-leave-me kind of girl.

She’s earned my respect, that’s for damn sure.

***

I park in front of the main house, fully expecting Mark to be standing in the living room window again, hands on his hips, ready to give me a talking-to, but the house is dark.

Either no one noticed I left or no one fucking cares. The latter wouldn’t surprise me.

I carefully pad up the sidewalk and ready my key.

“Jensen.”

My heart drops. I don’t startle easily, but when you’re trying to sneak in to your own house and someone whispers your name from the bushes, it has a tendency to do that to a person.

Bushes rustle to my right, and I squint only to find what looks like Bellamy crouched down in between two trimmed hedges.