“Cut the shit. What did you do? Park it in someone else’s driveway? Leave it on one of the side streets?” With the short window of time he had, Jase couldn’t have done much more and still make it back to the house…unless he took it to the end of the street and left the keys in the ignition with the engine running.
Car thefts aren’t exactly high around here, but some brain-dead teenager might find it funny to hop in my baby, take it for a joy ride, and trash it. I witnessed the aftermath of things like that on campus. The mere thought of someone taking a knife to my seats has me wanting to drive my knee up into his manhood.
Still, he keeps up that perfect mask of innocence. “Why on earth would I want to do that?”
“You mean apart from the fact that you’re a dick?”
“Ali!”
I bristle at the voice behind me, only now realizing wearen’talone.
My dad sits at the kitchen table, out of view from my current position.
But Jase knew he was there. That much is evident by his widening smile as I’m berated, firstly, for my “unladylike language.” And leave it to Dad to only twist the knife deeper. “What would Jase gain by touching your car?”
I’m not above throwing the asshole under the bus, but my dad doesn’t give me the chance.
“Yoursisterborrowed your car.” He says this slowly, punctuating the point that I, indeed, am acting like an irrational bitch.
Which is precisely what Jase wanted.
And that’s not an assumption, given that he stage whispers, “Ooooh, did I forget to mention that?” when Dad excuses himself to answer a call. “Yeah, Vanessa told me to tell you sheneeded to take your car for some work thing. She’ll be back in about a half hour.”
I’m glaring visual daggers into every inch of his face, even after Dad returns, but I don’t bother arguing it any further. As much of a dick as Jase may be, my problem right now is with my sister, and God forbid anybody criticize her in front of our father.
Since I’m trapped here for the next thirty minutes and Blythe isn’t home, I take advantage of the one silver lining to this scenario and pull out the box of microwavable bacon from the fridge. Pretty much anything I eat that has a scent to it, the Stepmonster bitches about the smell making her sick, usually resulting in me no longer being allowed to cook it. The love between me and bacon couldn’t be killed that easily since Dad also eats it, but I’m still only permitted to have it when Blythe isn’t here to smell the results. Between my early-morning avoidance schedule and the Stepmonster being home every day this past week, I haven’t had the opportunity to cookanythingfor breakfast.
I don’t care what anyone says. As questionable as most microwavable foods may be, bacon in this form is absolutely delicious, especially when burned to a crisp. Yes, it makes the smell stronger, but I kinda-sorta-maybe have a case of the fuck-its right now. If the house still reeks of bacon by the time Blythe comes home, I won’t be here for the fallout.
Sadly, that doesn’t spare me from the current conversation underway as my dad asks, “You planning on visiting your old man while you’re on the east coast?”
Jase simply shrugs. “Probably not. He made it clear years ago that he didn’t want my mom or me to see him like that. I doubt his opinion changed.”
“How long does he have left?”
“Fourteen months, and then probation.”
I’m all too happy to keep myself distracted with preparing my food, because if I even begin participating in this conversation, things won’t go well. Especially for me. The last thing I need is another notch on the “Ali’s crazier than a bag full of cats” post.
Seeing as how I’ve done everything possible to avoid being near Jase, let alone look at him, I haven’t given myself the chance to know what the tattoos on his arm depict. With him invading my space, however, it’s pretty much impossible not to notice at least a few of the designs.
The Count of Monte Cristois my favorite book, so it’s easy to recognize the quote.
Inked in calligraphy on the inside of his forearm reads, “Do your worst, for I will do mine.”
Despite their context in the novel, those are about the least comforting words I could see right about now. Well, that and the chess piece tattoo accompanied by the Napoleon quote from 2002 adaptation declaring, “We are all either kings or pawns.”
I obviously know that the book has been internationally famous for hundreds of years, but I feel an irrational sense of anger, as if Jase stole it directly from me.
It had beenmyfavorite long before we ever met. He has no right poaching it, let alone inking it to his skin.
Thankfully, the other pieces of artwork aren’t as daunting, showing imagery fromAlice In WonderlandtoThe Dresden Filesto the works of Edgar Allan Poe. It’s all inspired by literature, which I would normally appreciate. Unfortunately, everything is designed in a very particular—and very gothic—style. There isn’t any color incorporated into the tattoos, only further adding to the haunting imagery.
I move around Jase, glimpsing the only design to cover his body apart from his right arm. It’s positioned above his heart, appearing to be a compass rose with a section of an old map behind it. The last thing I want is get caught staring too long,especially given his lack of clothing, so I can’t make out the remaining details as I step to the side to let Jase walk past.
When I find my bacon is just shy of being burnt black, I pull it out of the microwave and slide the strips onto a plate. Jase has the gall to try snatching one, but I slap his hand away.
He takes this as a dare, and his outstretched hand is promptly rewarded with my fork stabbing the flesh just below his thumb. It’s not hard enough to break the skin, but he still snatches his hand back like I suddenly transformed into a werewolf.
