Page 6 of Property of Grifter
I groan.“Nana, please don’t say ‘hoo-hah’ before I’ve had my caffeine fix.”
“What?”she asks innocently.“Your granddaddy loved me just as I was.The man kneeled down daily and worshipped me with his tongue.He couldn’t get enough.”
“La-la-la-la!I can’t hear you.”
She giggles but keeps going—as I knew she would.“He praised my seventies porn bush, swearing it was the sexiest thing he ever saw.”
“You’re so bad.Seriously Nana.It’s too early for this conversation, and also—gross.Can we not revisit Granddaddy’s cunnilingus fetish?”
She cackles, the sound raspy and full of pure mischief.Her short white hair sticks up like she just got struck by lightning.Her pink slippers don’t match her robe.Her face is all fine lines and bright blue eyes—a feature that I love I inherited from her—that still sparkle with trouble.
“How long have you been up?”I ask, collapsing onto the couch.
“Since five, same as every day.Some of us don’t sleep till noon, missy.”
“It’s Saturday,” I remind her.“No kids are at the community center.There’s no paint-and-sip class this week either because of the Fall Festival starting downtown on Wednesday.Therefore, there’s no reason for me to move before sunrise.”
“You work too hard and got nothing to show for it,” she grumbles before leaning forward to continue talking to me.You’d think she was getting ready to divulge state secrets.“I’m telling you, Georgie, sweetheart, you need to get out of Dreary.Find yourself a real city.One with art museums and galleries.Somewhere that’ll pay you for your pretty pictures instead of letting you spray paint over old brick through the town.”
“Nana, I love it here.And I love living with you.”
The sharp angles and wrinkles on her face soften as she reaches over to pat my arm.“I love having you here too, Georgie.But you deserve better.”
I smile at her, despite the heaviness I feel in my chest.“My life is good, Nana.I promise.Please stop worrying.”
A small part of me can admit that I’m lying to her—at least partially.I mean, sure, I do love living here with her.This house is home to my best memories.They live permanently in the walls of this old place.Each nook and cranny is special.This is my home.I love the creaky wooden floors, the faded wallpaper, and the ancient kitchen cabinets that my grandfather built himself.That’s barely scratching the surface of why this place is dear to me.I even love Dreary.I do love art museums, and I’d love to offer my stuff in a gallery, but Dreary is my home, too.I don’t really want to move.I’ve built the community center into something I’m proud of.The people here appreciate it.They love my murals too, and how the kids contribute.
What they don’t do, however, is buy my work.I can’t deny that I wish I could sell my work.That way I could do more than just pay monthly bills.I’m fine with how things are, but still, I’d like to help Nana cover her prescriptions, maybe even take her to a casino someday.The woman has a serious bingo addiction.I take her once a week to play and she always plays four cards at once.It costs her a mint each time.Lucky for her, she always wins.I know in my heart that she’d lose her mind at the slot machines.I want to film her playing them, because I know it’d be spectacular to watch.
I shake those dreams out of my head.It’s time to concentrate on the here and now.“What do you want for breakfast, Nana?”
“Whatever you’re making, sweet pea,” she murmurs.Chuck Woolery has already taken her attention yet again.
I head for the kitchen, pour two coffees, and root through the freezer for the container of sausage patties.The eggs come out of the fridge next, and I set everything on the island—an old oak thing my grandfather made with his own hands.The top’s scratched, the stools wobble, and there’s a pot rack overhead that clinks every time someone breathes near it.
I grab two skillets, set them on the stove, and start cooking—sausage in one, eggs in the other.The smell of sizzling meat fills the kitchen, making the place come alive.
While the food does its thing, I open the fridge to hunt down my creamer—pumpkin pie spice in honor of the season.It’s fall, and I refuse to be shamed for being a basic bitch.Our fridge is packed tighter than a clown car—leftover casseroles, mason jars, and approximately three mystery Tupperware containers I’m scared to open at this point.
“I seriously need to clean this thing out,” I grumble, trying to move things around.“Where is it?Dang it, I use the creamer every single day.How in the heck does it keep getting shoved into freaking Timbuktu?”
I spot the orange cap in the back corner and practically have to crawl inside to reach it.I’m half bent over, one foot off the floor, when a deep voice behind me speaks out.
“I don’t know, baby, but I sure like the view of you climbing into your fridge like that.Think you could do it again for me so I can take pictures?It’d give me a visual when my hand wraps around my dick later.”
I shriek—an ear-piercing horror movie scream—as I whip around so fast that I nearly wipe out on the linoleum.Standing in front of me, all cocky grin and muscles, wrapped in a faded gray tee, leather vest and blue jeans, is the last man I want to see.
Griff.
“Why are you in my kitchen?!”I growl.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes sparkling with mischief.“You invited me yesterday.Remember?”
I blink.“I did not.”
“My bad.I thought you did.”
My mouth falls open.What do I say to that?
