Page 10 of My Brother's Bad Best Friend

Jonas

Ipull a deep drag of smoke from my vape pen and hold it in my lungs as Don speeds toward the five stair rail.

I slip the pen back into my jeans pockets just as Don hits his jump, the board leaping up with his feet. It looks almost superhuman and impossible, this little Vietnamese guy leaping through the air like this, but his front trucks hit the rail and slide down. He stands balanced, small body compact and tight, and as he reaches the end of the rail, he leans back slightly, kicking his back heel down.

I let out the smoke as Don overcorrects. The board hits the ground and he swerves before the board kicks out and he slams backwards onto the pavement.

“Oh, fuck,” Shrink says.

“Keep filming,” I grunt at him. He glances over at me but listens. The lights are bright overtop Don as he slowly gets to his feet. Everyone’s tense and quiet as Shrink gets the shot, moving around Don in a slow circle. The little man finally gets to his feet, hand touching the back of his head and coming up red.

“Shit, man,” Shrink says, his eyes wide and staring back at me. “He’s bleeding.

“You good, Don?”

Don looks back at me. He looks at his fingers once before wiping them on his jeans. “I’m good,” he says. “I gotta hit that before we finish.”

“Good man.” I look at Shrink. “Get back in position. And make sure those fucking lights are right.”

Shrink hesitates, but Vinny’s already moving, going to reset the lighting. Don grabs his board and walks slowly back up the stairs as Shrink follows him, filming the whole time.

Don’s the toughest fucking bastard I know. If I had said that we should stop filming for the day, he would’ve been pissed for a week about that. Any sign of weakness from him is like the end of the fucking world, and I know better than to assume he’s hurt before he says so. Shrink’s relatively new to this whole thing, although he’s a good skater himself, he doesn’t put his body on the line like Don does. He’ll never get to that next level like Don will because of it.

Fuck, most of us won’t get to that level. Don has that special something, that unique mix of raw talent and incredible disregard for his own well-being that allows him to go for tricks that most people would be terrified to even consider.

Don lines up again and I feel the weed working in my skin, a soft tingle along the hairs on my arms. I don’t let myself get baked out and stupid, but I like a nice, easy buzz keeping me in the zone and concentrating.

This is going to be fucking incredible when it’s finished. The shot of Don looking at his bloody hands before going for this trick again is going to be the opening scene to this whole film. I can close my eyes and see it all already, and I know it’s going to be fucking fire.

Don lands the trick on the next try. Shrink gets it all, since he’s probably a better cameraman than he is a daredevil. Don grins at me with those crooked teeth.

“See, boss,” he says. “I got that shit.”

I nod and hand him my vape pen. “Good, man. Keep that.”

He grins again, taking a big hit.

“And Don,” I say more softly, “you might want to see a doctor.”

His grin falters. “You think so?”

“Shit, man,” I say, laughing and shaking my head. Shrink and Vinny are breaking down the lighting, so they can’t hear this bit. “I’m pretty sure you have a concussion. I have no clue how you got up, let alone landed that shit.”

“Magical abilities, boss,” he says, grinning again.

“Just go see the doctor.” I slap him on the shoulder as I walk away. “Later, boys,” I call out, waving at Shrink and Vinny.

They wave back. My Jeep’s parked not far away. I climb in and fire up the engine before sitting there a second, watching the guys joke around as they finish cleaning up from the shoot.

It’s only a ten-minute drive back to the apartment. It’s been a long fucking day, between all the usual shit at the weed shop and shooting this with Don and the two idiots, I’m pretty fucking beat. All I want to do is smoke some more weed, play some mindless videogames, and pass the fuck out before I have to do this all over again tomorrow.

I know I can’t do that, though. I know what’s waiting for me back at home, and I don’t know how I really feel about it.

I pull out slowly. I keep thinking about Lizzie’s black eye, the way she kept trying to hide it with her hair and failing miserably, and the way she stared at me when I told her to slap me. She was thinking about it, but not in an angry way. I think it excited her, to imagine touching my face, and that sends a thrill down my spine. For once, the chills I’m getting aren’t from the drugs, but from picturing my fingers grazing along Lizzie’s skin.

Fucked-up thing, though. She’s Ezra’s sister, five years younger than us, and she needs help, not dick. Shit, maybe she needs dick too, but not right now. She needs to sleep, ice that eye up, and figure her future out. I’m pretty far from what she really needs.

I pull out slowly and head home. It’s around nine when I finally park and go inside. I type in the pin and open the front door, walking up the old, creaking steps toward the second floor. I unlock the door loudly, trying to make as much noise as possible before stepping foot into my apartment.

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