Page 4 of Brash for It
Her lips part, shock giving way to irritation.“Why not?”
“Because we’re done.”I state firmly.Final.I tap ash onto the floor knowing I’m an ass because someone else has to clean this up.“You got what you came for.So did I.”
“That’s really how you see it?”Her voice tightens.“Just bodies and cum?”
“It was never going to be brains.”
She flinches.I don’t apologize.I don’t dress it up.Truth is a blade; you put it dull-side up and you’ve wasted everybody’s time.She peers past me toward the outside like she might stay anyway, or go back to the party try for another brother.Maybe she thinks it will make me jealous.Won’t work.
“You’re cold,” she states.
“Accurate.”
Her eyes search my face.“What happened to you?”
I drag again.Smoke scratches my throat, settles my pulse.“Not your concern.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Wasn’t trying to give you one.”
She takes a step toward me, stubborn.“You think you’re safer like this, don’t you?You think if you don’t care, you can’t be hurt.”
I huff a laugh.“You giving me therapy, sweetheart?”
“I’m giving you honesty,” she fires back.There’s a tremor there, though, the kind people get when they’re in over their heads but refuse to back down.“Some of us don’t want to be just a story you tell your friends.”
“Brothers,” I correct.“And don’t worry, sweetheart, I don’t tell them anything.”
“That supposed to make me feel better?”
“It’s not supposed to make you feel anything.”I glance at the clock nailed above the door.The minute hand stutters and jumps forward, always a split-second behind the world.“You’re burning daylight.”
“It’s ten at night.”
“You’re still burning time.”
She folds her arms.“You ever think about what your mother would say?”
I go still.The Zippo’s weight is a stone in my palm, cool and hard with the teeth marks I put in it during a long night once.She doesn’t know where the landmines are.She just stepped on one.
“She’d say,” I answer slowly, “that if a woman can’t take a hint, she should learn to take the door.”I flip the Zippo shut.The click is crisp.“Take the door.And don’t look back.”
Her throat bobs.She looks at the open frame, then back at me like she wants to drag it out, pick at it, build a house from splinters.She just can’t let it go.Not happening.We’re not building something together.In fact, I’ve got a talent for demolition.
She tries one more angle.“You wear that patch.Means brotherhood.Means loyalty.Don’t you want that with someone else?A person who’s not,” she gestures to the room again, “this?A quick fuck and gone.”
“You don’t know what the patch means,” I remark sternly.“You know what it looks like.That’s different.”
“Explain it.”
I smirk, bitch is just not getting it.“No.”
Her bravado cracks.The mask slides and underneath is a girl who wanted to be seen and wasn’t.I don’t like the way that feels pressing against my ribs so I crush it fast.
“Look,” I explain, voice honed to a clean edge, “you had your fun.You want sweet words, go find a man who buys candles and calls you baby and pretends he means it.I don’t pretend.I don’t say anything I don’t mean.I don’t want your number.I don’t want your coffee.I don’t want your name.I don’t want you sitting on my bed like we’re about to talk about our favorite colors.”
She swallows.“Mine’s green.”
