Page 99 of No Romeo
He leaned over the bed, kissing me. “Want me to fuck you again?”
“God, no.” I rolled away and pulled my underwear on. “Give me a couple of hours.”
“Then do you want to go with me to get a margarita maker from Bullseye?” Byget, he meant steal… a margarita mixer…
“Do I want to know?”
“There’s a Trunk-or-Treat at that Pentecostal church Corpse Boy goes to on Monday.” He grabbed my shorts and shirt, throwing both onto the crumpled sheets.
“And, you’re gifting him a margarita mixer to apologize for making him practically shit on our porch?” I shimmied into my shorts.
“No. We’re going to raffle it off at the church. Figured why wait for next week’s game to start.”
Of course. Why not raffle stolen goods in the parking lot of the Lord’s house? “Fuck it. We’ve been stealing from the offering plates for years. We’re already going to hell.” I tugged on my shirt. “But how exactly are you going to steal a margarita mixer?”
He swept a finger over the footboard. “Let’s not get caught up on the sumicks of it.”
I stared at him for a solid three seconds, taking in the serious look on his face and his busted nose. “The what?”
“The sumicks. Details whatever—shopping. Stealing. It’s all sumicks.”
“Semantics?” I shoved my feet into my Converse and followed him to the door. “Are you really trying to say semantics?”
“Sure. Whatever.”
“Even for you, that was bad.”
“Even for you, that was bad,” he mocked me, a smile pulling at his lips as we went downstairs to the living room.
Wolf and Zepp passed a joint back and forth, a cloud of marijuana smoke drifting through the air.
My gaze swung from Hendrix’s bruised nose to Zepp’s smug grin. “Heard you two fucking all afternoon.” That grin deepened when he blew a stream of smoke through his lips. “What did you say about Monroe, Hendrix? She sounds like a hyena when she gets off.” Gross. Zepp was like my brother. “Lola sure as hell wasn’t howling.”
Wolf snorted a laugh just before Hendrix swung at Zepp, and Zepp flinched.
“That’s right, jailbait,” Hendrix said. “You might punch me when I’m drunk, but you know I’ll chase you with a knife just like I did that time you farted in my face.”
Hendrix might rant and joke, but I’d been with him last night. I knew how much Zepp’s punching him had hurt his feelings.
“Look,” Zepp passed the joint back to Wolf, “I’m sorry I punched you and made you look like a little bitch with that busted nose.”
Oh, that was it. I stormed over to Zepp, and he spared me a brief glance.
“What are you and your short ass about to do?” He and Wolf cackled before I punched Zepp. Right in the dick. He grabbed his crotch and rolled onto his side on the couch.
“How’s that for fucking short? Hurt him again, and you better sleep with one eye open.”
“Oh, shit, Voldemort!” Wolf choked on his weed. “You dick-punched him.”
“Ding-dong, your dick is dead. Which old dick? The jailbait dick?” Hendrix cackled on the way to the kitchen. He came back with a bag of frozen pizza rolls and chucked them at his brother, who was still wheezing. Then he glanced at Wolf. “Let me borrow your truck, man.”
Wolf’s dark brows pulled together. “Hell to the fuck no!”
“Why the hell not?”
He took a puff of weed, and he held the smoke in his lungs, fighting a cough until his cheeks went red. A large cloud rolled out of his mouth on a loud exhale. “Because you’re a human amoeba.”
That seemed to cheer up Zepp. At least he laughed.
