Page 12 of My Brother's Bad Best Friend

I pull out some eggs, some spinach, a little cheese, and some red peppers I chopped up but didn’t use last night. “You eat eggs?” I ask, cracking one into a bowl.

“I guess so,” she says, sitting down at the counter and leaning forward on her elbows. The blanket falls down around her shoulders and I glance at the low-cut tank top she’s wearing, her breasts pressed together, white and full and fucking beautiful, better than my plants.

I look away quickly, willing my cock not to get hard. I crack another egg, mix them up, get a pan nice and hot, add a little pat of butter, and start the omelet. When it sets slightly, I add cheese, spinach, and the red peppers before flipping and letting it cook.

When the cheese melts, I put it on a plate, give her a fork, a knife, and a napkin, before grabbing a beer from the refrigerator for myself.

“People always want to feed me,” she says.

“You’re skinny,” I note.

“I’m not that skinny.” She frowns, taking a bite. That bite turns into another, and soon she’s wolfing it down.

I smile and watch. “Slow down,” I say. “You’re not that hungry, remember?”

“I didn’t say that,” she answers, mouth full. “I said everyone tries to feed me. I’m always hungry.”

I laugh, taking a long pull of beer.

“Your mom cook?”

She snorts. “Never. We had a cook named Yolanda for a while, she was amazing, but my mom thought she stole some silverware so she fired her.”

I shake my head, unable to stop myself from smiling. Another suburban rich lady cliché. “You stopped eating after that?”

“Nah,” she says. “Just went out a lot.”

“You can’t cook?”

“I can make ramen,” she says defensively. “The good kind, I mean.”

“Oh, fancy,” I say, smirking. I take another quick pull on my beer as she finishes her dinner. “You’ll have to make it for me sometime.”

“All I need are the packets, some water, and a microwave.” She grins huge at me, and I laugh.

“Real fancy,” I lean up against the counter and it’s strange how relaxed I feel. Normally I have to smoke a whole joint to get to this place, but tonight I didn’t even bother finishing half before I stubbed it out and balanced it on a pot outside. For some reason, I don’t feel the need to be stoned around Lizzie.

“I like your place,” she says. “I’m guessing you put it all together.”

“Most of it,” I admit.

“I saw Ezra’s room. It’s a mess. He was like that as a kid.”

“Annoys the hell out of me,” I admit.

“You’re full of surprises.”

I sigh, smirking a little as I sip my beer again. “You think I should live in a crack den then?”

“Probably,” she says, shrugging, face betraying nothing. “I mean, you are a drug dealer, right?”

I wince a little. I’ve been called worse, much worse. Fuck, I think of myself as a thug and a druggie, so what’s the problem with her thinking it too? But for some reason, hearing it come out of her mouth hurts.

“I sell weed legally,” I say. “Not a dealer.”

“Not anymore.”

I laugh a little. “You’re tough.”

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