Page 8 of A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty

“If you wanted me to deal with the chick, you could’ve just said so,” I hedge.

“No, no, it’s . . . never mind.”

Fuck. Is he regretting last night? “Listen, I know it doesn’t happen that much, but if you’re not cool with it anymore, we can stop.”

He looks up at me with an odd expression. “I—what?”

“Is that why you’re drinking yourself to death on a Friday morning?”

He looks down at his beer. “Oh! No, it’s . . . nothing about that. We’re cool.”

“Then what the fuck is wrong?”

His head tilts back, and he sighs. “It’s been eight years to the day since I last spoke to . . . my family. Since they dropped me off at that place.”

“Oh.” So it’s going to be that kind of day. “Right, yeah. Sorry, man.”

With a shrug, he takes a long sip of his beer. “It’s fine.”

I slump into the bar stool opposite him. “We could do something today. Go see a movie? Or there’s that new go-cart place we saw a few weeks ago. I could embarrass your ass on the track to distract you.”

Key smiles but avoids looking at me. “Thanks, but I think I’m just going to go back to bed. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

His eyes meet mine for a second, then he takes his beer and slips down the hall. After a few quiet moments, I hear the door shut, and I let out a breath. I hate his shitty family. Bunch of holy rollers who won’t talk to him anymore because of the music he loves and plays. But they’re his family. Even though 99 percent of the time it doesn’t bother him, the one percent it does is rough.

I tap my fingers on the counter. Maybe I’ll get him something to take his mind off it anyway. Distraction is my specialty, but considering he’s still in a bad mood after last night . . . This might call for some big guns.

I grab the keys off the end of the counter along with my wallet, then head out the door.

* * *

“Rise and sunshine, mother fucker.”

Key’s eyes snap open and widen as he looks up at me.

“Joel, what the fuck are you doing?”

I grin, finding my balance as my feet sink into his mattress, then fire the paintball gun at his belly.

“Fuck!” he cries, hand clutching at his paint-covered stomach. Rolling over, he sees the other gun locked and loaded and ready for him. He grabs it and looks up at me. “Oh, you’re dead!”

I run from the room, nearly eating shit as I topple off the bed. Paint splattering off the door frame as I run through it, and I cackle loudly. One ear trained on Key’s mad scramble out of bed, complete with a string of curses, I duck into the kitchen and hide behind the counter.

“Where are you, asshole?” he whispers, and I hold my breath as he approaches. His bare feet pad across the tile floor, and when I think he’s on the other side of the counter, I pop up, shooting him between the shoulders before taking off down the hallway.

“Joel!”

I feel a sharp pain on my ass, so I dive over the couch in a last-ditch effort to take shelter. But Key comes from the other side of the living room, pelting me in the chest, then the thigh as I scramble to get away—blindly firing my gun at him.

“Do you yield?” he yells.

“Never!” I cry, rolling under the coffee table and army crawling out the other side.

He chases me back to the kitchen, and I open the fridge door to narrowly avoid being shot again. I’m breathing hard and sweating, my heart hammering in my chest. Then it’s quiet—the only sound coming from the fridge motor and that constantly chirping bird, Gary. Slowly, I close the door, but Key’s gone.

“Where did you go?” I mumble under my breath.

There’s a squeak in the floorboards, and I turn just in time to feel the sharp smack of a paint ball hitting me dead in the chest. The gun falls from my hands with a clatter, and I reach up to rub away the sting.

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