Page 25 of Colt
She turned bright red, though. And the trouble is, it’s not like harassing her when she was young. I used to get a kick out of her face turning red because I knew she was annoyed at me. Now it makes me think of other things. Because she’s not a kid, she doesn’t look like a kid. She’s a woman. And when her cheeks turned pink, I think of…
God damn. I wonder if I can actually call one of the women that I normally hook up with and see if she wants to help me with one of those erections. Because if my brain is going there, that means I’m hard up. Even if my physical body hasn’t fully realized it.
This is Allison. My stepsister.
Beehives. Pond sludge. Stepsister.
Getting gutted by a bull.
There. One of those ought to do it.
Of course, if I call one of those women, they’re going to look at me with pity in their eyes rather than lust.
Damn. That does it. Turned off. No. I don’t want to be pitied. That is not who I am. I’m Colt Campbell, and I’ve always gone after what I wanted. I’ve always been an object of admiration. Pity? No. Never.
“Do you have any grocery delivery apps on your phone?”
It’s such a banal question in contrast with what I was thinking.
“No?”
“How do you survive?”
“Half the year on the road, and half the year subsisting like a basement possum scrounging around for whatever I can find, going out to the bar, going out to the other bar, going out to Mustard Seed…”
“Well, I’m going to make a grocery order for you. I’ll bring everything over tomorrow and I’ll put it away.”
“That sounds perilously close to you being my housekeeper.”
“I’m not. I have a job. And I’m going to school. So, I’m a little bit too busy to be your housekeeper, but I can keep you alive.”
“I can place my own grocery order; you just have to tell me what service I want.”
“And you’re going to put everything away?”
I don’t like that. Because putting groceries away is nothing, but right now it sounds like so much work. Right now, it sounds like something I would really struggle to do, and it just seems so basic.
“How about this, I’ll put a grocery order to my house, I’ll have some things for you, I’ll put it away, and I’ll make you dinner again tomorrow night.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Yeah, but you’re not going to like much of anything right now.”
That comment kills what I was going to say next. It outright dies on my tongue. Because she’s right. I don’t like any of this. So yeah, I’m not going to like her coming over and fixing dinner. I’m not going to like her doing food deliveries, her basically taking care of me. But also, it’s probably not smart of me to waste the energy that I have on small things. Maybe.
Not that I’m sure what I have that energy for.
She stays to watch the game, but we don’t do much talking. And then, the doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say. This is the millionth time I’ve had to thank her sincerely in a way too short an amount of time. But I’m reminded yet again that I’m not going to like anything right now.
“It’s Dallas. And Sarah.” She jerks the door open, and the enthusiastic sounds of greetings happen behind my head. I could turn, but I’m feeling tired. My body is starting to ache. I’m an old man.
That thought gives me enough impetus to turn my head. “Hey,” I say.
“Oh, Colt.” Sarah is looking at me like I’m a sad baby chicken.
