“Then”—Ally twitches—“I scald him and make sure his future endeavors in procreation are physiologically futile. We burn the bastard.”
Knew it.
“I don’t even know what he looks like.” Shit. I’m nowhere near ready to pick up strays at coffee holes. By definition, Cruise is doing a lousy job of directing me in all things “hookup.”
“He’s bald and looks like every single stranger your mother ever warned you about.” Lauren says, pedaling me to the back of the store. “Just picture him asking you to look for his lost kitten while luring you into a windowless van.”
A small cry escapes my throat. “God, Lauren, you are so going to owe me for this.”
“Done,” she says, ducking behind some foliage.
I take a seat at an empty table and wait for a tall, bald predator to walk through those doors and see if I qualify to be his sex kitten.
Cruise
The smell of rust and hairspray, fumes me out from underneath the bathroom sink.
I look up at my sister who’s wielding a can of toxic hair glue like it was a lethal weapon.
“You mind?” I bury my face in my armpit and take a deep breath. I’d rather inhale the remnants of my deodorant than asphyxiate myself with the vaporous shit Molly insists on suffocating me with. “I’m going to die of lung cancer one day, and it’s going to be all your fault,” I say, tossing my wrench back in the tool bag.
“Sorry, but I have to look perfect.” She twirls the curling iron in her hair, and a series of vapors emit from the wand. I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to smoke like that. I’ve held down the fort more than a few times, at the Crappy Hair and Snail Salon where the new logo should be; We’ll age you thirty years! Not sure why Kenny never lawyered up. My mother is damn lucky she still has a roof over her head—me too for that matter.
“What do you need to look so perfect for?” I say, getting up and dusting the rust off my jeans.
“I got a date.”
“A what?” I look at her in the mirror. Her face is painted like a kabuki doll, complete with bright red lipstick, and her hair is twirled in perfect ringlets like she’s going to prom. “You can’t go on a date.”
“Says who?” Her bright pink nails maneuver the curling iron around another stray lock.
“Says me.”
“You’re not my dad.”
“You don’t have one, so I sort of am.” I bend over to pick up my tool bag, and she knees me solid in the balls. “Shit.” My head dips to my thighs as a blinding pain spreads through my body, slow and searing like molasses on fire. “Moll,” I say, following her agitated footsteps down the halls. “I’m sorry.” I pound against the door. “Can I come in?”
“No. I hate you!” The soft sound of sobbing emits from the other side.
“I’m sorry.” I wiggle the doorknob until it unlocks itself. Nothing ever works around here, so it’s no big surprise I can manipulate the bolt with a flick of the wrist.
Molly lies on the bed, crumpled and broken. She depresses her face in the pillow as her back heaves in a wild fit of tears.
“Hey.” I go over and sit on the edge, rubbing her shoulders with my deep regret. “I just don’t want to see you getting hurt, kiddo. That’s all.” Shit. Could I damage her any more than I already have? It’s not her fault her dad is a screw up. He landed in the pen five years ago on a cocaine bust that ended with a body, and now here I am, rubbing her face in it. “You really like this guy?”
She twists around and looks at me with those tear-filled eyes. Her lipstick’s smeared, and her neat curls have exchanged themselves for a ball of frizz. She might very well be transforming into a beautiful young woman but all I see is that six-year-old who used to follow me around like a puppy—wish it was still so.
“Yes, I like him.” She straightens her legs, and I’m shocked to see they almost dangle off the bed.
“Does he treat you well?”
“No.” She doesn’t hesitate to answer.
“Then what the hell are you doing with him?”
“I don’t know. I just want him to like me. I want him to tell me he cares about me—that he loves me, but he never does. He just slobbers all over me and pretends like that’s enough. At least buy me a freaking flower before you stick your tongue down my throat.”
“You know I’m going to have to kill him.”
Her eyes slit to nothing. “Touch him and I’ll arrange the need for a brand new set of tires and repeat the effort.”
My stomach sours at the thought of anyone hurting Molly—cheating on her. All she wants is a few kind sentiments and flowers and gets neither.