Page 19 of A Stealthy Situation
“Dude, Devon is about to start a fire in the kitchen,” Holmes says, almost knocking me over. “He dumped a whole bag of potato chips, M&Ms, and toffee into a dish and covered it in whipped cream. No fucking clue why he’s putting it in the oven, but he’s drunk off his tits already.”
Motherfucker. Given I decided to stop at two drinks, I’m probably the most sober one here, which means it’s on me to put a stop to the house burning down. That would be a fast way to end the party before Harrison even got here.
So reluctantly, I leave where I’m hovering by the entrance and follow Holmes toward the kitchen. The music is thudding so hard the walls shake, and we have to push our way through sweaty bodies to find the commotion. Lots of drunk men cheering and egging on the dumbassery.
I approach the huddle of bodies, not loving the smell starting to build in here.
“Hey, what are we cooking?”
“Munchie cure,” Devon grunts.
“You sure? Because it smells like burning plastic.”
They all snicker like they have a joke I’m not in on. Knowing they’re drunk and stoned, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s the case.
I crane my neck to look into the oven, and even through the grubby front glass, I can tell it’s getting dark in there. I hate to say it, but I think Holmes was right.
“Question: is it the charcoal or the smokey flavor that gets rid of the munchies?”
I’m met by five blank faces.
With a sigh that’s as dramatic as me hanging out by the door for Harrison, I hook my foot into the oven handle and kick it open.
A cloud of smoke billows into the kitchen, followed by the sound of coughing. Someone hurries to close the door to the hallway before the alarm can go off.
I tug my shirt from where it’s tucked into my shorts and press it to my face while my brothers argue amongst themselves over whose fault it was. I’ve dealt with more than enough kitchen mishaps that this one barely fazes me. I just flick the knob off, grab a towel, and pull the charred mess out.
Then, because I really want to make sure they clear out of the kitchen before they do more damage, I drop the dish in the sink and turn the cold water on high.
Sizzling fills the air, steam roaring up around us, making the room smell nastier than before. A few people cheer, so I indulge them in a bow and am about to tell them all to get their asses out when I glance over and spot Harrison.
He’s in the doorway, red Solo cup in hand, gorgeous broad smile sitting clean on his face.
“You know, when you said you grew up on burned food, I didn’t realize you were the one cooking,” he says as he approaches.
“I wasn’t. And I wasn’t this time either.” I hold up the soggy dish. “Want some potato, choc smash?”
“Some what?”
“Had to give the stupid-ass idea a name as dumb as the things that they put in it. I love my brothers, but damn do they switch off at parties.”
“And you’re the mature, responsible one, right?”
I laugh because I don’t think I’ve ever been called that in my life. “I grew up in a house with six siblings making shit up as we went along. There’s nothing mature about me. I just know how to thrive in chaos.”
“That’s a good quality to have.”
“Sometimes. Other times, when everything is calm and normal, life feels way too boring.”
“Boring?”
“Yeah.” I dump the dish back in the sink and throw the towel over it. “Makes me restless. Down. I hate it.”
Technically, with the secrecy Em and I are going for, it would have made more sense to get an apartment together. We would have had our own space, wouldn’t have had to hide, and it would have been so much simpler than locking my bedroom door every time I leave my room.
But Em wanted to experience the San Diego State campus, and the thought of having an apartment to myself? Off campus where there were no people around?
How fucking depressing.
