Page 1 of Bedding Rose
ANGELO
Two Weeks Ago
“Die, motherfucker! WHY. WON’T. YOU. DIEEEEE?!”
I glance over at my raging best friend in utter amusement. Enrique’s cheeks are mottled red, his dark brows pulled down, arms flexing as he futilely swings his game controller and smashes the buttons harder, as if physical brutality is going to help him. He bites his lower lip as he perches on the edge of the couch and glares in frustration at the TV, and I can’t help but turn and laugh in his face as I lean back against the cushions, nonchalantly holding my own controller—rubbing it in, just because I can. He is the brother I never had, in all ways—we love to one up each other.
“If you wanna kill me, you’re gonna have to try harder than that.” I release the cheat code buttons I’ve been holding down. Thank you, internet, for making me theCall of Dutyking for the night.
Beer pong with Enrique Dalton—Quique to his family and to me—has transitioned into a marathon gaming session, the perfect release after a grueling week at work. I had no clue how much I needed to blow off steam with my boy until I got here, but I’m feeling more relaxed than I have in a long time. Now that I’m back home and doing the above-board work for my dad instead of all the things he had me do to prove my worth, the workdays can fill up and feel like wash, rinse, repeat. Build site after build site. Negotiation after negotiation. Subcontractor ass-chewing all day long. Blech.
But this? Pseudo-fucking-bloodshed, instead of the real thing, and yelling like maniacs? I feel like a kid again. This shit is fun.
“Suck on this!” I tell Quique, thumbs flying over my controller as I pummel his ass with bullets. I grin in smug satisfaction as I watch his avatar flop down and disappear.
“Dude! Unfair.” Enrique slouches back on the leather couch in his living room before sulkily sinking his hand into a bag of barbecue potato chips on the seat between us.
“Unfair? You’re such a noob! That was practically suicide on your part!” I quip as I toss my controller onto the coffee table and grab my bottle of beer. I swill down the rest, the bitter bubbles popping along my tongue and warming my throat.
“Motherfucker. Rematch?” Never one to hold a grudge—unlike me—Quique gives an easy grin as he ruffles his dark curls—he’s always messing with them.
“Sure. Yeah. Let me hit the head first and re-up the beer.” I toss my empty bottle up and catch it in the same hand as I stand and stroll around the couch into the adjacent kitchen area.
Quique’s mom’s place is one of those fancy, professionally-decorated houses where you don’t really want to touch anything because it’s all gray and white and shit. All uncomfortable and magazine-fake looking. Still—it’s better than my apartment, which is roughly the size of a glue trap. I should upgrade, but I haven’t found the motivation. When you spend all day building houses, all you see when you tour them are flaws.
Reaching underneath the marble counter tops, I yank open a cabinet door and slide out the hidden trash and recycling bins as I glance over at the clock above the stove. “Three a.m. and neither your mom or sister are home?” I ask.
“Not their keeper,” he replies nonchalantly.
I sigh and shake my head. I can’t be as casual about that shit as he can. I text my sister twice a day. And if my little sister looked like Rose … well, not my problem. I try to shake off the need to lecture Quique. He gets it enough from his mom for not following a “professional” career path. I toss my empty beer into the bin, listening to it clatter against the others we drank tonight.
“Touch my controller and I’ll shank you!” I warn as I simultaneously shove the bin in and push the cabinet door closed with a thump.
“With what?” Quique calls out from the living room, which is glowing a dull blue in the light of the television. “You don’t know how to make a shank, fool!”
“You don’t know what I know!” I shout as I roam down the hallway, a grin stretching across my face. I’m joking, but I’m not. There are things about me Quique doesn’t—and will never—know. But it feels good to be back home around someone who’s only ever seen the good side of me, who doesn’t side-eye me with suspicion or glance over their shoulder when they walk away. I’m glad I finally got the go-ahead from Dad to come back to Albuquerque.
Everything in life is almost perfect. Almost. There’s one thing missing, but it’s the kind of elusive thing that’s hard to put a finger on. Just a discontent of sorts. It doesn’t even make sense really, and it’s definitely not something I have words for, so I shake off whatever bullshit is crowding into my head. Nope. I only have room in there for a piss and maybe enough to look up one more quick cheat code before I go back and shred Quique’s self-esteem like pork, slather it in barbecue sauce and insults, and eat it right in front of him.
I pass a bunch of photographs of Quique and his sister, Rose, as they grew up. Photos of their parents are conspicuously absent since the divorce. I’ve seen those photos a million times, but have never really looked at them. I don’t bother now, already jonesing to kill him again. I reach the bathroom and grab the knob. It doesn’t turn, but the latch isn’t fully engaged, so I shove the door open instinctively, not really thinking. I get two steps inside before I realize there’s someone on the ground by the toilet and stop short.
Moonlight filters in through a lace curtain, leaving pale blue speckles of light all around the room. Rose sits on the tile, bare legs splayed out in front of her. When did they get so long? I try to shake off the errant realization that Rose has grown up as my eyes trace over the curves of her figure. Instead, I focus on her face. Her head is leaning against the cabinets, black curls wild and untamed, cheekbones sharp and feminine, green eyes glassy.
When did she get home?
My thought disintegrates into worry when I notice her cheeks are streaked black with eyeliner from teardrops that are still falling. A green sequined dress that is way too short for her to be wearing is hiked up around her hips, an edge of lacy black underwear on display. The way those panties cling to her skin ... my gaze roves over them even as my brain tells me I should look anywhere else until I spot a flash of metal in her grip. All my attention comes to a dead halt when I realize she has a razor blade in her hands and the beaded line of red on her thigh.
All the air leaves the room.
My heart stops beating—blood ceases to flow and my legs go numb with shock for a split second.
No.
Not Rose. Soft, sweet, shy Rose.
I force myself to shuffle forward and kneel on the tile in front of her, in the space between her feet and the tub. I’m uncertain what to expect, nerves spiking as my eyes flit over her pale face. The slight thrum of her pulse in her neck tells me she’s here … but her eyes, they’re so far gone.
I glance down and swallow hard. There might only be a single red line on her body, but by her expression, I know her very soul is bleeding all over that bathroom floor. And somehow, that knowledge breaks me.
