Page 18 of Getting It Twisted

“I guess.” He plops into a kitchen chair with his leg up. The chair in question looks like it’ll fall to pieces at any moment, the wood dry and splintered.

I open one of the cupboards and find nothing but a wide assortment of liquor bottles, both empty and full. There’s a weird, pent-up smell to the place, as if both time and air have stood still.

“So you live here with no light or running water and risk sepsis every time you enter the house. How do you even eat?”

“There were some cans in the cupboards when I got here. I’m almost out though.” He folds his knees into his arms, gaze downcast. The arrogant confidence from before is nowhere to be found. Instead, he looks . . . pitiful. Younger than his years. Childlike and crestfallen.

“Why don’t you get some more?”

He shrugs and gives no reply, but it’s not like I don’t already know. It’s not because he hasn’t got any money. Rather, it’s the same reason he doesn’t pay the utility bills. When we were teens, he’d go days living on nothing but candy bars, cigarettes, and the odd burger here and there. I used to sneak leftover dinner to my room just to get some nutrients into him.

He fishes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and points to the floor, to a patch of darkened wood. “I think that’s the spot. I can almost smell the vomit.”

My stomach turns when I realize what he means. “Where is she now?”

“Burned to cinders.”

“No funeral?”

He flicks the lighter, cursing when all it gives off is sparks. “Why bother? No one gave a shit about her, except for the truckers who fucked her for cash.”

I grimace. “Don’t you think that’s a little cold, even for you? I mean, I getwhy, but . . .”

His eyes narrow. “Doyou get it though? You didn’t live under the same roof as her. You don’t know what it was like.”

“Yeah, I don’t because you never told me.” The last bit comes out laced with thorns, bringing up memories I’d rather leave alone.

In this house, Nathan grew up to the beat of a crooked drum, with a mother who despised him and fed him scraps. Beat him, neglected him, and God knows what. He can’t be in his right mind to want to live here alone. Not even for one night.

“How long do you plan to stay here, anyway?”

He discards his cigarette and gets up from the chair. “It depends.”

“On what?”

“You.”

My mouth goes dry. Without thinking, I back up a step. “Meaning what?”

He takes a step closer. “You tell me.”

“I thought I told you to stay away.”

“Yeah, but then you robbed me of a fuck. You owe me one.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what I said.”

“You shut your mouth, or I’ll make you shut it.”

“Foreplay. I like it.” His eyes flick to my lips.

No. Nope. No way. Either he’s drunker than I thought, or his self-destructive tendencies have reached a fucking crescendo.

I grip his shirt and push him roughly away from me. “What did I tell you?” My nostrils flare, and I feel like a bull about to charge on a red flag, which is fitting. I ought to rip him apart, slice him with my horns, and stomp him to the ground.

“Fine, fine.” He holds his hands up. “You win. But if you don’t want to fuck me, why did you bring me here?”

---