Page 15 of Rough Around the Hedges

Pig-Headed Ponce

“Jake. Pour.” I slammed my glass down on the dining table in front of him.

My brother stared at me with disgust. “I’m your brother, not your slave.”

“Wrong. Being my younger brother makes you my slave,” I said shoving my glass closer to him. “And your big sister is inemotional distress. I am having a crisis, baby brother. My life is ending. I’ve ruined everything.”

“So, you keep saying, but you haven’t told me why.”

“Because you’re my brother. There are things about me you don’t need to know. I don’t want to dirty your pure, innocent ears.”

“Gross.”

“Get me a drink before I go to the pub, cause carnage, and bring shame on our family by getting arrested.”

“You’ve been thrown in a jail cell enough times that it’s impossible to bring shame in that way. There’s a betting pool at the rugby club on how long it’ll take you get locked up again.”

I looked up at the sound of the new voice.

Shaun Patrick: rugby player, rum drinker, and the police officer who was usually responsible for my timeouts in jail. Also, my lifelong best friend who was, inexplicably, secretly in love with Isadora.

She was enough in love with herself without Shaun’s unrequited longing feeding her ego.

“A betting pool? How fucking rude,” I said, glaring at him. “Did you start that? I bet you cheated and looked at my record.”

He held up his hands, and the bag hooked around his arm clinked. “I’m merely utilising the tools at my disposal. However, as a responsible member of the Hanbury Police Force, I cannot allow the resident troublemaker to go out in such a terrible mood.”

“Then,officer, there better be booze in that damn bag of yours.”

He set it on the dining table with a grin. “Isa got called in for an emergency with a hedgehog, so I’ve been roped in to keep you in line while she finishes up.”

“Then be a good friend and pour me a drink. This brat won’t.” I cocked my thumb in the direction of my brother right as he cracked open a can of beer. “Brat.”

“I was only refusing because I don’t want to deal with your drunk arse,” Jake said, grabbing an empty glass for Shaun. “Now your babysitter is here, you can do what you want.”

“Why am I the babysitter? That’s Isa’s job.” Shaun took the glass from Jake and unveiled the contents of his shopping bags.

Wine.

Rum.

Vodka.

And the biggest fucking bags of Flamin’ Hot Monster Munch I’d seen in a long time.

“Score,” I said, grabbing one and tearing into it.

Shaun poured me a glass of wine. “So, why are we in hysterics tonight?”

“I am not in hysterics. Hysterics implies I’m not in control of my emotions, but I am. In fact, I have such a high level of control that I recognise I’m so angry that Dante would name a level of Hell after me.”

“There’s already one,” Jake said. “It’s called my life.”

“Fuck off.”

“Jake, drink your drink and stop winding her up even more,” Shaun said, passing me the wine. “What’s pissed on your cornflakes, Rose?”

“That bastard.” I aggressively bit into my crisp. “That rich, handsome, pompous, pig-headed ponce!”

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