Page 7 of Crow

She laughs. The sound goes straight to my dick again. My jeans are what I would call artistically tight. I have them tucked down into my heavy boots. I focus on bacon and cheese, dipping the last of the crust in buffalo sauce, so that my dick doesn’t inflate further and tent my pants.

“I’m an artist. I haven’t starved yet.”

“Seriously? You paint?” she asks excitedly.

“I tattoo.” Her lips part like she wants to say something, but can’t quite get there. “You should tell your parents you don’t want to go to med school. Life is too short to waste it doing something you hate.”

Excuse me, what? Did you really just stick your foot in it? Who are you to be giving advice, Mr. Has His Life Together. FUCKING NOT.

Her brows crash together. It looks like she wants to say something, but she just bites down on her lower lip, leaving a red indent that I want to match perfectly with my teeth.

She’s probably never been kissed, but we could teach her. She’d like it.

“I wouldn’t be doing med school if some part of me didn’t want to be. Hair can just be a hobby.” She circles the toe of her boot on the hardwood floor, digging it in. Her head snaps up and she surveys the bar. “It’s busy tonight, though and someone called in sick. I’m sorry, I should go.”

I should just let her go, but for some reason, I find myself standing there with a plate of pickles, unable to control my mouth. “Fight for yourself. No one else is going to do it.”

Her eyes travel down to the pickle spear I’m not going to eat. She takes the plate from my hand and sets it down on her tray. I watch in rapt fascination as she picks up the pickle and bites down on it. She doesn’t say anything, but she does nod at me before she turns.

Like she’ll consider it.

Like maybe she didn’t entirely hate this interaction.

Like maybe if I come in here again sometime, she’d be okay with it if I tried to talk to her.

As per usual, Raven has the last word.

Get real, asshole. It’s just me and you for life. Two sad, sorry, single beings sharing one body in a fucked up brotherhood. Enjoy being alone, dick breath. As long as you’re the dominant, it’s our sad and sorry fate.

Chapter 3

Tarynn

Sunday morning breakfasts are early and brutal, but I would never think of complaining. I worked until last call, which was two in the morning, and then did clean up. I didn’t get out of the diner until three and didn’t get home until half an hour after that. I was so exhausted that I’d fallen into bed and pretty much gone right to sleep, but it was already four by then and now it’s seven.

My alarm went off and I dragged my bleary eyed self to the breakfast table.

My mom looks as chipper as ever. She’s relentless in her passion in life and that’s to support my dad in everything and anything he does. I’m not sure if she used to have hobbies or dreams of her own, but as long as I’ve been alive, she’s been a ghost in her own life. I didn’t realize that until I was older, of course, but now that I’ve noticed, I can’t unsee the many ways she doesn’t seem to have a single ambition of her own. She’s passionate about the church, my dad’s soup kitchens, his mission trips, the church retreats. From Christmas concerts and care packages in the winter, to summer picnics, she’s a year round five star church wife.

I can’t say that she’s ever supported me the way she does my dad. She was never involved in the school or my sports events, book and science fairs, or any of my school fundraising efforts. They came to school plays and major events, like other parents did, but it always felt more about being seen than actually seeing me.

My mom might have her failings, but she’s not a bad mom. She’s just… I don’t know. Out of touch, I guess. She lives in her own fantasy world, and it was hard to relate to her when I was a kid, but when I became a teenager? Forget it. I got used to solving my own problems and keeping just about all my real thoughts private.

Like clockwork, my dad appears, already showered, short brown hair styled, sporting a clean shave. He alternates between three suits—gray, black, and brown. Today, it’s gray. He’s used the same aftershave all his life. Something that comes in a milk white bottle and smells like strong cloves.

After so little sleep, I find it extra stomach churning.

The breakfast table is sparse, as usual. Fresh squeezed orange juice sits frothy and fragrant in a vintage glass pitcher with little orange slices painted around the rim. There’s a hardboiled egg for each of us, one piece of flax toast, a banana, and a small bowl of plain oatmeal.

My dad doesn’t believe in excess in anything, especially not food. He thinks a minister has to be disciplined in all areas of his life. My mom believes what my dad believes.

We eat in silence, which isn’t unusual. My dad chews his food thoroughly, always eats like it’s a gourmet meal, and never fails to thank my mom for her thoughtful preparation, in which she thanks him for his hard work in putting nutritious food on the table. It’s the same thing every darned meal.

After we’re finished eating, I know that my dad will head straight out the door. He’s always the first at the church and the last to leave. He’ll don his shoes that he saves just for Sunday. He polishes them, without fail, every Friday evening. He’ll gather up his Bible, kiss my mom goodbye, get into his silver sedan andback carefully down the driveway. All the way to the church, he will drive exactly the speed limit.

I swear that my dad hasn’t broken a single law in his life, ever.

Sunday school starts at nine-thirty, but my mom will want to be there as early as possible. She doesn’t drive, so it will be up to me to take her in the old blue station wagon that my parents have designated for my use. It’s not mine. It’s registered under my dad’s name, like just about everything else I own.

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