“A trucker who brought me from Vegas through to LA bought me dinner.”
I didn’t like the sound of that.
Cheyenne elbowed me in the ribs. “Nice woman. Strong as an ox, and wouldn’t put up with bullshit from anyone?—”
“Language.”
“You can say fuck and I can’t say bullshit? What kind of bullshit is that?” She opened the fridge door. “But LA was a while ago. Took a bit of time for me to find someone heading down I5 who was willing to give me a ride.”
I said a prayer of thanks to the woman who’d done just that. I hated the idea of my sister hitching on the side of the road. “The cops didn’t pick you up?” I tried to elbow her aside. “Grilled cheese? Tuna cheesy melts?”
Arthur had really liked those.
Arthur! Shit! Clearly, he’d gone back to his room since the barking had ceased. How the hell was I going to introduce him to my sister? Or her to him? We just got started. Is this going to wreck everything? Will he freak out? Will she? My sister could have no doubts that I was bisexual, after hearing that last blowout fight with my parents, but knowing was different from seeing.
Oblivious to my moment of panic, Cheyenne was still checking out the fridge. “I love your tuna cheesy melts, but I’m hungry now.”
“Tuna sandwich?”
“Mayo but no olives?”
“That works.”
She grabbed the bread and the mayo from the fridge while I grabbed a tin of tuna from the cupboard. I snagged a bowl while she opened the tuna. She was about to drain the tin when I stopped her.
“What?”
“Ebony really loves?—”
Crap.
Cheyenne arched an eyebrow in a way only she could really pull off.
“It’s not what you think.”
“You don’t know what I think. I know you’re bi. So I’m assuming Ebony is—” She glanced around. “—where, precisely?”
“Drain the tuna and let’s get this done.”
She put her hand on her hip. “You’ve got company.”
“Tuna.” I snagged the tin and, with a heavy heart, drained the juice. I didn’t have time to sort out four saucers anyway and only giving some to Eb wouldn’t be fair.
I dumped the tuna into a bowl, added several heaps of mayo, some pepper and celery salt, and stirred. “Do you want butter on your bread? I use it so infrequently that I keep it in the fridge.”
“This is fine.” She opened a random cupboard, located a plate, and put it on the counter. She had two slices of bread ready for the mix and I dumped a pile of it on the slices. Her preference was always more mayo than tuna.
“Milk?”
“Do you have Coke?”
I arched an eyebrow.
She glared back. “You know I never get to drink it at home. Well, they’re not controlling me now, and I want a fucking Coke.”
“Seriously, Cheyenne, you don’t have to swear all the time.”
“Why not?”
