Page 4 of Hot Doggin'
I cross my legs, or try to. Fuck it, my thighs are too thick to cross my legs. “Was not!”
Stiles laughs, pulling his sandwich from the bag and unwrapping it. He licks the grease from his fingers. “I bet you jack off to her videos every night.”
So what? “That’s a terrible thing to say. We met Betty. She’s a nice girl.”
He rolls his eyes at my pious assessment of the freaky knitter. “Yeah, but it’s true. You do.”
“You’re gross. Is that all you think about?”
“No,” he snorts, “but it’s allyouthink about.”
“I do not!”
“Bullshit! I bet you keep your lube next to your knitting needles in your top drawer.”
“Do not!” Without warning, he hops up and heads into my room. I’m quick to follow. “Do not open that drawer!”
“I knew it!”
“It’s just that it’s easier to reach if it’s all in one place.”
“Bullshit!” he laughs.
This is utterly ridiculous. “Why are we even arguing about this?”
Stiles pauses, looking confused as he considers it. “I have no idea. Just wanna hear you tell me I’m right.”
And there it is, the motive behind all our arguments. “And I just want you to go fuck off.”
“You probably don’t have enough lube left for me to go fuck myself, so I’ll just sit back down and eat my sandwich if that’s all right with you.” He throws his shoulder into mine as he passes me, laughing.
It’s not until I hear the frame of my old couch squeak, and I know that he’s sitting down again, that I feel safe enough to leave my bedroom unguarded. Christ, he almost opened my drawer, and then what? I’d never live that shit down. He's already digging into his sandwich by the time I get comfortable beside him.
“Do you have to chew so fucking loud?” I ask, suddenly irritated because he invaded my privacy.
“I could go back to my house and eat this,” he points out, sounding as annoyed as I feel.
“Whatever. You gotta work tomorrow?”
“Nope,” he says, popping the P.
“You want a beer?”
“Yup.” He repeats the popping sound. “What do you want to watch?” he calls out as I move toward the kitchen. “Pimp My Bike or The Day I Almost Died?”
I pop the tops on both cans of beer. “I’m feeling dangerous, let’s watch The Day I Almost Died.”
“Sounds good.”
Resuming my seat, I take a swig, the sour effervescent bubbles fizzing all over my tongue, and swallow it down. Looking around my apartment, I take in the worn gray carpet covered with stains from the previous tenant, the Formica kitchen countertop full of gouges and knicks and scratches, the popcorn ceiling dotted with water stains, and the hole behind the front door where the knob went through the wall, again from the previous tenant, and I’m filled with a deep sense of satisfaction. It’s not fancy, but it’s all mine. I’ve got my best friend beside me, cold beer, greasy sandwiches, and a good show to watch on a decent-sized TV with cable.
“You know what? This is living.”
“Hell yeah,” he agrees, propping his foot over his other knee.
I hold up my beer and Stiles clunks his can into mine in a toast. “L.I.V.I.N.”
“You bet.” He burps loudly. “We going riding tomorrow?”
