Page 105 of Chokehold
“The likelihood is that I will,” he argues. “It’s not so easy to ‘retrieve’”—he makes quotation marks—“a six-foot football player from a tree. He’s not a baby kitten.”
Snorting, I direct my attention to the fucker quivering on a thick branch near the top of the tree. “Maybe that should be your nickname moving forward? What do you say, kitten?”
“Babykitten,” Ronnie corrects, and I wave him off.
“Kitten. Baby kitten. Whatever. Why don’t you come down and play with us?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re sick in the head?” Jackson spits.
I screw my eyes into slits before ramming my foot into the trunk and whacking my baseball bat against it as though I’m Superman. Of course, nothing happens, but I’m sure Jackson nearly pisses himself. “Don’t make me come and get you, baby kitten.”
“Fuck you!”
“You already tried that, remember? I wasn’t interested then, and I’m certainly not interested now.”
“I’ll make you regret this,” he snarls.
“Oh?” I laugh. It starts out softly before gaining strength, like an incoming wave. I have to brace my hand on my trunk because I’m laughing so hard. “Are you threatening me, kitten?”
“You’re dead. So fucking dead!”
“You’re pretty ballsy for a guy who’s stuck up a tree. Want me to phone the fire brigade for you? I hear they rescue cats. We can get a man in uniform to help you down.”
Ronnie makes a strangled noise beside me, turns to face Tiago, and asks, “Where did you find those?”
Tiago sets a heavy plastic container on the leafy ground and holds up the saw in his hand. “I found it in their basement,” he says.
“It’ll take you hours to fell the tree with that,” says Ronnie, gawking. I roll my eyes and reach for the saw. Sometimes, he really is a fucking bore.
“Ready to come down yet?” I ask Jackson and rest the serrated blade against the trunk. “Or do we have to help you down?”
“Fuck off,” he snarls, his lips thinning over his teeth.
“Have it your way,” I reply, applying pressure to the saw. The blade cuts through the bark, and my dark smile grows until my cheeks hurt. I bet he’s trembling like the leaves surrounding him. “Scared yet, kitten?”
He curses, and I toss the saw to the ground, my muscles burning from the exertion of sawing through such a thick trunk. Ronnie was right—we would be here all night. I reach for the container and uncap the lid. Jackson shifts on the branch while I douse the trunk in gasoline. The pungent stench pricks my nose, reminding me of late afternoon trips with my dad to the garage when he needed his tires replaced. The lanky man behind the counter, with scraggly hair and yellowed teeth, used to wink at me while wiping his oil-stained hands on a dirty rag he pulledfrom his back pocket. I used to like those trips because I always got to pick a lolly from the jar the man kept behind the counter.
“What the fuck are you doing? Are you insane?” Jackson asks frantically. The liquid splashes against the trunk. I keep going until the container is empty, then toss it aside. Tiago throws me a small box of match sticks, which I catch mid-air. Anticipation hums in my veins. I strike a flame, watching it flicker menacingly in the darkness.
“Blaise?” Ronnie asks shakily.
“You fucked not only with me,” I tell Jackson, “but with what’s mine, too. Do you think what we did to your car is bad? Trust me, you’ve seen nothing yet.”
“Blaise,” Ronnie pleads. “Think about this… You’ll set the tree on fire. He’ll pass out from smoke inhalation and…” His unspoken words hang like whispered promises in the air. Jackson trembles visibly on the branch.
“Consider this a warning,” I say, blowing out the flame and winking at him.
It’s latewhen I return. The TV flickers in the living room. Dad nurses a beer on the couch while watching an old western. His wife is still nowhere in sight.
I sneak by, careful to avoid the creaky floorboards. I’ll be in deep shit if he spots me now. Sure, I’m eighteen and allowed to stay out late, but sneaking home past midnight, covered from head to toe in filth and sweat, is not my best look. It also raises questions. Dad won’t take well to me smashing up Jackson’s car, even if the fucker deserved it. My lips pull up at the thought.
When I enter the room, Cole is asleep. I close the door softly before crossing the floor and climbing into bed. The sheets smell of him, reminding me of the first time I met Cole.
Dust flecks dance in the air as a guy sidles past me in the kitchen doorway. A muscled arm brushes against my chest, and I catch a whiff of his cologne—he smells of citrus and late summer evenings.
I look up from my phone and frown.
Who are you, and why are you in our kitchen?
