Page 2 of Derek
“Stevie needs you, though.” He states, and I grumble as I walk down the hall to the piercing area. Stevie is our piercer, and she’s one of the few people I mildly tolerate, and it’s only because she leaves me alone most of the time.
“Stevie?” I call as I enter her domain. I look over at the empty chair near the jewelry case and feel a sensation similar to heartburn set in, something that has become all too familiar over these last few months.
“Derek?” Her soft Louisiana accent comes from one of the private piercing rooms. “Come here.” I walk to the last room and see the girl bent over the table, looking at something on her tablet. Her bob haircut is freshly dyed, and I notice she chose a greenish color instead of her usual turquoise. She looks up at me from behind her glasses and smiles, causing her dimple piercings to move.
“What flavor of cake do you like?” I scrunch up my brows, confused by her question.
“What?” I ask, looking around the empty room. “Atlas said you needed me.”
“I do. I’m putting in the information for your birthday cake. Where are you going?” She calls to my retreating figure. Well, this has taken care of the whole “tolerating Stevie” thing.
“I don’t do birthdays!” I call back while leaving, but not before looking at the empty chair one more time.
* * *
Killingthe ignition after pulling my Yukon into the driveway, I stare out the windshield at my garage door. My brain betrays me when my thoughts drift back to the empty chair in Stevie’s piercing area, and I rub my chest as I get out and head inside. I need to find some antacids or something. This constant heartburn is becoming too much.
Walking into my sparsely furnished rancher, I lock the door behind me before turning on the light. The house is updated with grey wood floors, neutral walls, and a farmhouse-style kitchen. I moved out here alone from Virginia nearly twenty years ago, and the first thing I did was buy this house. It’s paid for, clean and up-to-date on renovations. I will die in this fucking house.
I look over at my futon sitting in front of my flatscreen. It’s both a couch and my bed. There’s no reason to waste money on a mattress or bedroom furniture, or any furniture, since it’s only me here. My clothes are in the closet. I have a television, a futon, and a coffee table. That’s all I need.
Heading to the kitchen, I pull out a prepped meal and turn the oven on to preheat. I’m not a fan of eating out. I was raised on home-cooked meals, which I prefer. Plus, I can’t see what the person making my food is doing, and it makes me cringe.
Once the oven is preheating, I walk to the laundry room, where my pajamas from last night lay in the washer. Stripping down completely, I throw my clothes in the washer before heading to the bathroom. I turn the shower on and stare at myself in the mirror, looking over my beard and brushing my hand over my short brown hair a few times. I can go another couple of days, and then I will trim my beard and cut my hair. Looking over my physique, I run a hand over my tattooed torso before wincing and stretching out my sore fingers. For the last few months, my hand and wrist have been killing me to the point I had to stop my physical contact workouts because the hand pain was affecting my job. Not that I would let anyone know that.
I step into the shower, and fuck; this new high-pressure shower head is probably my greatest purchase. My old one broke last week, and somehow, Janie caught wind that I needed a new shower head and went out to get it for me. Typically, I would say no, but Janie is a hard one to say no to, even for me, and though I’ll die before admitting it, it’s amazing on my tense neck.
After my shower, I wipe down the shower walls, dry off and head to put on clean pajamas. The oven should be preheated by now, so I throw my towel in the washer and start it, pop the meal in the oven, walk to my couch, and sit down, turning the television on. Settling on a documentary about the pharmaceutical industry, I begin to relax just as my phone dings. I roll my eyes, groaning. I purposely do not partake in social situations so that I won’t have to deal with texts and conversations. Glaring at my illuminated phone screen, I grab the device and open the text alert, frowning when I see it’s a group text thread with my younger siblings.
Jackson: Alright, we all in here?
Jensen: Man, how do you not know how to send a text message?
Jackson: I know how to send a message, you dipshit.
Carter: I am supposed to have my face buried in between Emma’s thighs right now. What do y’all want?
Me: I’m three seconds from blocking the lot of ya.
Theo: HOLLYWOOOOOOOOOOOD
Carter: Our long-lost brother!!!
Jensen: The prodigal son has returned
Jackson: Will y’all shut the fuck up? This is serious.
Jackson: Pops is declining and we need to start preparing.
I feel a slight tick in my jaw as I continue typing.
Me: So prepare. Send me a bill.
Carter: Wow.
Theo: Typical Derek, cold and uncaring.
Me: There are four of y’all there. You’re telling me you can’t handle this shit?
