Page 69 of Worse Than Wicked
I duck outside again, my head spinning. Where did she learn to talk like that? Or move like that? It’s disconcerting, but then, maybe all kids talk like that. I was only a couple years older than her when Dad brought home two girls from our class and showed us how to fuck them. Thinking about Olive doing that shit in only two more years makes me think maybe her sexy dancing and language aren’t so premature. It’s not like I know anything about kids.
I sit on the front steps again. It’s the exact place I was sitting when Olive came bopping up the driveway the first time with her skinny ankles showing and her uncombed hair. She sat here and drank a beer with me, and that was a year and a half ago, so I guess she’s always been pretty mature for her age. But I haven’t noticed anyone giving Harper and Royal shit about how she talks or acts like she’s already a teenager. I’m sure Crystal and Devlin wouldn’t allow any of that shit around here, but Harper said she made a promise to Blue and she wasn’t going to break it, so they took Olive to New York with them.
Maverick pulls up in his sick, restored El Camino, interrupting my bitter thoughts. Colt said I didn’t know anything about cars, but that’s just because I didn’t spontaneously ejaculate at the sight of his shitty old truck. I can appreciate an old car when it’s actually cool, like Maverick’s.
I climb onto the passenger side of the bench seat.
“You have little sisters, right?” I ask when Maverick starts to back down the drive.
He stomps the brake. “Yeah, and they’re way too fucking good for you, so if you’re going to even speak of them, you better get the fuck out of my car before I make your throat smile from ear to ear.”
“Whoa, I’m not saying shit,” I say, holding up both hands. “I just wondered how old kids are when they start twerking and talking about sex stuff.”
“Eighteen, unless they want to get sent to a convent,” Maverick says. “But my family’s a little traditional. The girls aren’t gang-bangers like us. Our dad’s protective.”
“Yeah, same,” I say, then realize a second too late that I spoke about Dad like he’s still here.
Suddenly, my throat hurts so bad I can hardly swallow.
“You got the pearls?” I rasp, sliding him an envelope.
Maverick leans back and digs around in the pocket of his jeans. I watch him, remembering how Colt always did that, taking his time to drag out his lighter, loving the way I watched him. That crease in his jeans at the hips that made me want to fucking kill the guy.
“Twenty dances with the devil,” Maverick says, handing me a baggie of little blue pearls. “Or the Pearl Lady, if that’s what you call her.”
Twenty. It looks like barely anything. I count them discretely so as not to offend him.
“You counting?” he asks, shaking his head.
“No,” I say, shoving the baggie in my pocket. “I know you wouldn’t short me.”
“I’d do the same thing,” he says. “It’s all good.”
I tell him where to go, and a few minutes later, he pulls up.
“You want to take a couple?” I ask, pulling out the baggie again.
“Nah,” he says. “I got to get back to the shop.”
He has his seat tipped back and his wrist resting lazily on top of the wheel, tattoos swirling over his light brown skin from the backs of his fingers to the sleeve of his black tee stretched around his muscular bicep. He reminds me of Colt, all tatted uplike that. His skin is smooth, though, not all fucked up from burn scars, and he’s got all ten fingers.
“You sure about that?” I ask, wetting my lips.
He just shakes his head, a little smirk playing on his lips. “You and me and Alice? That sounds like a dangerous threesome.”
“I thought you were a big bad gangster,” I taunt. “Since when do you run from danger?”
“Since it started looking like you, pretty boy.”
“So it was all talk all along,” I say. “Pussy.”
He shrugs. “Someone finally made an honest man of me. Should’ve climbed the ladder while you had the chance.”
I climb out of the car and slam the door as hard as I can. I stomp up the steps and into the house. Mabel’s house. She should have made an honest man out of me. She’s my girlfriend, and I love her. But where the fuck is she when I need her?
Off with Baron, that’s where.
Seeley Boots meows at me like a demand, so I go and fill his bowl. He crouches over it and starts eating. I try to pet him, but he gives me a dirty look and growls, so I back off. Even the fucking cat hates me.
