Page 15 of Indigo Sky

"Dude, first of all, Ashley is a fucking lesbian, okay? And second of all, she tried to help me study for a test I ended up failing anyway. I thought I had told you that. Andthirdof all, what the fuck are you going on about, youcoveredfor me? Mom and Dadknewwhere I was going. In fact, I think Dad dropped me off one time."

Nate was quiet for a moment, and I turned to see his look of stupefied confusion.

"Well, fuck. I thought you were hooking up with her. I told your parents you were at the library."

"I wasn't hooking up with anyone," I said with a snort, then faced the TV again. "And I can't believe you lied to my parents when they knew where I was."

He burst into a string of chuckles, and I easily joined along. Man, it was crazy to think about where we'd been just a few short years ago. Shit had changed so much, and now, we were here, in our own place, gainfully employed and actually enjoying life. Who would've thought?

Man, I was content. Genuinely good with how things were.

"So, what's the policy on smoking in this place?" Nate asked, standing up and walking toward the window.

"Outside only," I said, settling on a Mad Max movie. "Either on the balcony or in the parking lot. Not on the sidewalk."

"Lame."

"Yeah, well, I guess other people give a fuck about their lungs."

"Not us though," he quipped, opening the window.

"Nope," I muttered when, actually, Ididgive a fuck. I would've quit. But it was hard to give something up when the only person you hung out with was doing that very thing you wanted to quit. It was like waving a steak in front of a starving dog.

There are worse things, I figured. Drugs. Booze. A myriad of other shit I was sure Nate thought about, but hadn't gotten into. And I assumed it was my good—or at least decent—influence that had kept him from getting into them.

So, yeah, there were always worse things.

Way worse things than cigarettes.

***

Roy Warner was a good guy. He and my dad had grown up together, so I'd known him on and off since I had been born. He was one of the few people who never treated me differently after the accident when everyone else either handled me with kid gloves or like I was something to avoid.

He wasn't under any sort of obligation to give me or my friend a job right out of school, but he had, and I never took that for granted. Even if the work he gave us was stupid, grunt shit. Janitorial stuff, oil changes, making sure the crappy closet of a break room was stocked with instant coffee and bottles of water … that sorta crap.

Nate hated it, but I understood. We were earning our keep; we were proving ourselves to the boss. I figured, as soon as Roy trusted we could do the big jobs, he'd give them to us. No biggie. As it was, together, we made enough money to pay our rent, my parents kept our fridge stocked, and anything else we wanted, we either had the money or we had to save up for it.

Honestly, there wasn't much to complain about. I mean, especially considering how cool my parents were about keeping us supplied with the necessities. Shit, compared to a lot of young guys right out of school, we had it fuckingmade.

But Nate didn't agree. Nate was greedy.

I guessed, sometimes, when you came from nothing, there was no such thing as too much of a good thing. And when you got an idea on how to get more …

I guessed it was hard to turn that off.

***

"Nathan! You busy?" Roy called from the front desk.

Nate looked up from his crudely made turkey sandwich, mouth full, and eyed me with a threat. He had been Roy's gopher all morning, running errands and mopping the floor and changing spark plugs on two different cars. To give him a break, I would've answered Roy’s call had I not presently had my hands drenched in oil from a leak that wouldn't stop.

"Sorry, man," I said, gesturing toward the puddle at my feet.

"Son of a bitch. Why can’t Donny do some of this shit?" he grumbled, tossing his sandwich onto the flimsy card table we kept in the break room.

“Because Donny’s been working here since he was, like, four,” I replied, referring to Roy’s son—a guy about our age, give or take a year or two.

Nate huffed with bitter resentment. “Yeah, too bad he fuckin’ sucks at what he does.” He brushed his hands off on his dirty coveralls—Roy's logo emblazoned on the back—and headed up front.

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