“Yeah, that's great,” Sydney's saying, giving me a thumbs-up. I smile back at her and drop my hand, finishing off my apple and looking around for a rubbish bin. She gets up, still on the phone and smiles, kicking at a spot on the lower cabinets. A drawer pops out and voila, there it is in all its fantastical stainless steel glory. “Trash compactor,” she mouths as she pulls on the handle and opens it for me. “See you in forty,” Sydney finishes, hanging up her phone and giving me a raised eyebrow as I shake my head in disbelief.
“Whatever happened to a simple, plastic bin?” I ask, finding the situation suddenly funny. “Or, like when I was growing up, a freaking bucket? We'd just toss our rubbish in there and my dad would take it out and light it on fucking fire.” I poke the stainless steel with my foot and throw up my arms, tilting my head back and taking a deep breath. Shit, I don't want anyone to think I'm complaining about all this luxury. It's just … not me.
“Consider yourself lucky that you had a garbage can and a dad that gave a shit. My dad was always coked up and trying to figure out what his next scheme was going to be, you know, to get more money to buy more fucking crack.” Sydney laughs and leans against the counter like she actually finds her story amusing. I search her eyes for pain, and can only find the slightest sliver of pity. She's over her childhood, really over it. I'm impressed. “Anyway,” Sydney waves her hand and forges on with her story, “he used to just throw garbage, let it lie where it may, you know? So Trey and I, of course, followed in his footsteps. I think I was seven or eight before I realized it wasn't normal to walk around in a foot of smelly crap.” Sydney sighs and shakes her head, pointing down at the trash compactor. “So as ridiculously stupid as this thing is, I kind of like it.”
“Kind of like what?” her brother asks, wheeling himself into the kitchen and around the center island. Trey looks like shit still, making me feel like a complete horse's ass again. Seems kind of fucked that we'd both get shot, but that I'd walk away from it easy while he's stuck in that chair, suffering. The universe works in mysterious ways – most of them pretty fucked up. I try to smile at Trey and he returns the look with a wary one, like he doesn't trust me. Rightfully so, I guess. I have no idea what Ronnie's told him about me, but I hope this works out. I really do. The fact that these people are even still talking to me is a miracle – let alone letting me live in their house. I cross my arms over my chest and try to breathe. “What is that anyway?”
Sydney snorts and ruffles her brother's brown hair.
“It's called a trash compactor, dumb ass. You put garbage in and then you press a button and it smashes it all together.” She claps her hands and her tits jiggle like nobody's business. Trey notices and wrinkles his nose. “You don't have to take it out as often, makes life easier.” She shrugs and Trey scowls, like a Turner clone.
“Who cares about that? Milo says he's hiring a cleaning staff anyway.” Trey rolls himself back a few feet and angles towards the fridge, reaching out to pull it open while his sister looks on in disgust.
“Cleaning staff or not, that doesn't mean you can just throw your shit on the ground. I hope you're aware of that.” Trey ignores her and Sydney sighs again, waving her hand dismissively and pushing off from the counter. “After the pizza gets here,” she says and then glances over at her brother, “and you're paying by the way,” he snorts but doesn't offer up a smart ass comment, “I was thinking of going to the hospital to visit Naomi.” Sydney pauses and glances away for a moment before turning her blue eyes back to mine. “Blair's there, too, and she's not doing well at all. I thought maybe Dax might show up … ”
Sydney trails off, and I smile.
“I'll be there,” I say, because if I'm going to make a life of it here, I'm going to need friends. Sydney seems like as good a place to start as any.
Naomi Knox looks beautiful, like a sleeping princess or some shit. If I believed in all of that fairy-tale crap, I'd be calling up Turner and asking him to stop by and give her a deep, sexy pash to wake her arse up. I cross my arms over my chest and lean back, looking down at the spread of blonde hair around her face, at Sydney as she combs out the tangles. In the fucking movies, people in comas always have perfect hair, don't they? But Naomi's was a rat's nest before we got to it. She still looks pretty though, like a fucking rock star.
“What happens if she never wakes up?” I ask, feeling yet another stab of guilt through the gut. God. I can't help but taste the impact of my involvement in all of this, like a blob of rotten fruit, molding and turning to mush on the tip of my tongue. No matter how hard I try, I can't wash away the fucking guilt. “What happens to Turner?”