Page 17 of Painted Scars
Harper catches my shoulder and squeezes— her version of a hug. “You’re safe here. No one’s getting inside. Not with what I’m packing.” She removes the Smith & Wesson from her ankle holster.
Harper’s a wee bit obsessed with weapons. Guns, knives, kubatons, and personal alarms. She doesn’t leave the house without carrying a weapon and a keychain on her body. Her favorite is the purple one in the shape of a cat’s face, because of her cat obsession.
I tense at her polymer frame.
Harper’s grip on me tightens. “I’ll kill for you, cupcake. That’s as sentimental as I get.”
That’s Harper-speak for “I love you.” In that moment, I feel protected and truly safe, and it settles my discomfort. Something warm and fuzzy springs up in its place.
“You’re my ride-or-die bitch.” I repeat our mantra.
“That’s right.” Harper strokes the gun along my spine. “Your RODAB.” Our nickname for each other, which is the shortened version of ride-or-die-bitch.
The kettle boiling brings me back to the present.
“You’re not shocked or creeped out? Someone wasinour house!” I grab a mug from the cupboard and thump it down on the charcoal stone counter, my pulse skipping a beat. “How long have they been watching us?”
“I haven’t finished my caffeine yet,” Harper grumbles, rubbing her nose ring. “Come back to me when I’m functioning.”
Seriously?
I square my shoulders and stare at her, annoyed that she doesn’t take this as seriously as I do. I wait for more. A reaction. Anything. Nothing comes. This is Harper. Unflappable, emotionally constipated, and cold as ice. We all have scars. Hers just happen to be layered in reinforced emotional steel, forged from a childhood spent dodging fists and walking on eggshells.
Just as I’m about to mutter something, she lifts her gaze and meets mine. “I’m handling it. My way.” Clipped and brutally honest.
Translation: she’s already fantasizing about impaling our mystery intruder with one of her novelty knives.
I exhale and reach for the tea tin. “Fine. Be calm. One of us has to be hysterical. And don’t bloody my carpet when you impale him!”
I don’t like the menacing grin she flashes with lips the color of bleeding roses. “That I can’t promise, cupcake.”
If she’s going to be the weapon-wielding stoic, then I need to reclaim my sunshine. And some normalcy, when my life is all but normal after last night’s rescue and this morning’s discovery. I turn to the tea tin, deciding to be my own caffeine-fueled emotional support dog.
It’s times like this I wish I shared a house with Charlie. Her quiet strength is why I turn to her for advice when Harper’s way is to threaten to eviscerate someone.
I pluck the lid off the black tin and fish out a lone tea bag. Sirens scream in my head. I’m out of Earl Grey. In this household, that equates to capital punishment.
I crush the bag in my palm. “Um. Bestie. Don’t get too grumpy, okay?”
“What did you do?” She removes her switchblade and spins it.
Harper doesn’t function in the morning without two coffees and a tea, and I really don’t want her to stab someone at work with a glass pipette.
“I might have forgotten to order the tea,” I let her down gently. “I’ve been distracted by my blog article. I’m sorry. You can have mine, and I’ll have a…” Herbal tea. No. Out of the question. One does not enter Mordor without caffeine in their blood.
“You have it.” Harper waves me off, checking her chipped black nails. “Call it an I-love-you favor, and you can give me a manicure tonight.”
I skip over and throw my arms over her, planting dramatic kisses on her cheeks before she shoves me off.
I fill my mug with water and the last tea bag.My precious.
While it steeps, I say, “Wait. You don’t do manicures.”
She uses her blade to scrape off her nail polish with the same precision that she peels apples. “No. But they make you happy, and that warms my dark heart.”
I slap a hand over my heart. “I’m telling Charlie you love me.”
Harper snorts her coffee.
