Camden, the neighbor’s boy, sits next to me, slurping his milk from the bowl of cereal in his cupped hand. He spends most Saturday mornings at our house. It’s like he just found us one day and never left.
You’re probably wondering why his parents let him hang out with a bunch of delusional motherfuckers like us, right? His dad, Jerad Rivera, he’s a big-time criminal lawyer who has a half-his-age mail-order bride for a wife. I’ve seen that bleached-out blonde naked before too, and guaranteed, her other “side-piece” I’m sure she has is a plastic surgeon. Nothing looks natural on her. Even her ass. Still doesn’t mean I wouldn’t fuck her given the chance, because I would, but still. Fake as fuck.
Camden’s mom died when he was seven, and this new mommy treats him like a slave, so he says. At our house, he doesn’t do anything but play video games and get corrupted. Perfect for a ten-year-old. Oh, whoops, he’s eleven now.
“Hey, Tiller.” He stares at me, bumping my elbow with his. “Where’d the chick go?”
I reach for my lighter on the counter, but not my pack of cigarettes. Instead, I flip the lighter around in my palm. “What chick?”
He looks over his shoulder, eyeing the people around us, most of which I don’t know. “There was some girl puking in the sink and asking if she could have another shot of whiskey.”
I look over at the sink, then Camden, unsure if I’m disgusted or just annoyed someone puked in the sink again. “No idea. Probably outside to puke in the pool.”
He raises an eyebrow. His face still has that childlike innocence about him. Though you can tell he’s starting the process of puberty, he’s still very much a child. “Didn’t you just drain it a few days ago?”
“Precisely. Motherfuckers have no respect for the drought.”
Shifting on the stool, I slouch, trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt. I’m uncomfortable. My body aches, my ass burns, and my head’s pounding to the beat of Eminem blaring in the background. It’s the second round of After Dark tonight, and I’m being watched like a hawk. They’ll probably handcuff me to my bike and make me go tonight. It’s in the streets of Los Angeles, near the Staples Center, and though I enjoy the street-style events, it’s the mere idea of doing something out of obligation rather than free will that has me thinking of ways to get out of it.
I bet if I broke my arm or foot, they’d let me out of it. I suppose that wouldn’t be too horrible? Broken bones get you pain pills. I craved getting injured so I could get a shot of Demerol and the hydrocodone that came with it.
Ricky is always the one to say, “Careful,” in his fatherlike tone he’d have from time to time. “You’re gonna get hooked, boy.”
Unbeknownst to him, I’ve been addicted to that shit since I was a kid. Or maybe he does and doesn’t want to say anything.
Beside me, Shade sits at the kitchen bar with his phone in hand, shirtless. I haven’t told you too much about Shade, but he’s an Olympic gold medalist, and I can honestly say, he’s earned the title. Sure, I think he’s a sellout, but he’s fucking earned what he’s been given. If anyone has ever had a God-given natural ability when it comes to slinging freestyle tricks, it’s that dude.
I can’t do what he does, and it fucking pisses me off because he doesn’t even have to try. Little shit.
Like me, he’s covered from head to toe in ink. Everyone’s curious about the tattoos on the Sawyer brothers. We all have them. Body art is addictive, and I crave the pain that comes with them. It’s my life splattered in stories across every inch of my body. Some are hidden, places no one sees, while others are gnarly and reflect things I despise. They’re snapshots, reminders of acts despicable and heroic, and some just plain stupid.
I have the word “hate” tattooed on the inside of my lip, and most would come to the conclusion I have a lot of hate inside of me. Or stupidity. There’s really no explanation. I can’t hide the truth, nor do I want to.
There’s a woman in the house, one I barely recognize. She’s in the kitchen beside Roan, doing the dishes. While it’s normal for me to see people I don’t know in the house, this one’s dressed in a maid’s uniform. My dick twitches as the thought of her bent over the counter while I fuck her. It’s been a few nights since I’ve gotten any, so naturally, my mind goes there. I’m twenty-three. My mind always goes there.
“Who is that chick?”
“The maid. She’s been our maid for like two years,” Shade tells me. “How do you not remember? You took her virginity a week after she was hired.”
Not surprising. I’m labeled as the “cherry picker” among my friends, if you can call these leeches friends. They’re only here because we have this house and an endless supply of drugs and alcohol. “I thought Scarlet was the maid.”
“No, she’s Willa’s assistant.” It’s also not surprising I never remember what Scarlet does around here, other than tease me with her wild mess of blonde curls. “And she’s my girlfriend,” Shade points out, knowing what I’m thinking.
“She’ll get bored with you soon.”
“The fuck she will.” Shade glares, bringing his cup of coffee to his lips, watching me with a marked warning. “Don’t touch her.”
Scarlet, unaware of who’s in the room, slams her phone on the counter and glares at Shade. “Dude, you have to commit to sexting once you start. You can’t just quit right after I send you a picture of my asshole.” Her eyes narrow on his. “Seriously, come on. I feel like there’s a picture of my ass on Instagram right now.”
Wanting to see that picture for myself, I attempt to take Shade’s phone from him, laughing.
He slaps my hand away. “Mind ya biness.”
I wave my hand at him and pour myself a bowl of cereal. “Her pussy’s been stretched out. I’m no longer interested.”
Scarlet sneers at me. “Everything that comes out of your mouth makes me want to hit you in the sac.”
Shade and Scarlet leave, probably to investigate the asshole picture, or whatever, I don’t really care.
Camden grins at me. “Why would she show him her asshole?”
I certainly never said Camden hanging out here was a good idea. “Go ask her. I bet she’ll tell you.”
Look at the poor kid. He’s tempted.
I nudge his shoulder. “Where’s your mom at today?”
“Stepmom,” he clarifies. “And she’s probably shopping. I don’t know. I hate her.”
It’s true. He has no love for her. Probably because she’s what, like ten years older than him? Might as well be his stepsister at that age difference.
He hops down from the stool, probably off to find Scarlet, or play video games.
The maid, remember her? She moves from the kitchen to the living room that opens up to the outdoor kitchen and bar. Hopefully to clean up the puke outside on the pool deck. Most Saturday mornings are spent doing that around here.
This leaves me in a room with Roan, who leans into the counter, setting a plate of bacon on the counter in front of us. He cooks when he’s home. And if he’s not cooking, Ricky does. We may have maids, but we’ve never hired anyone to cook for us.
I haven’t said much about my older brother, but I don’t like Roan. Sure, he’s my brother, but I barely tolerate his presence in my life. Or maybe it’s him who barely tolerates me? Probably the latter, but I’m not going to delve into why that is. You’ll find out someday. . . or never.
Okay, I’ll tell you. I fucked Roan’s girl. Not like I meant to. It just happened. Which, one could argue, said a lot about my level of likability among my brothers.
One could also argue, she wasn’t his girl at the time. They weren’t even dating. Was it my fault she turned to me when he fucked up?
Don’t answer that.
I take a piece of bacon after I finish a bowl of Captain Crunch. “When did you get back?”
He chews his own piece, a cup of coffee in his other. “Last night.”
I nod, and that’s about the extent of our conversation. It’s not like we sit and talk about our lives, and certainly not Ophelia, his so-called girlfriend whose virginity I apparently took. I’d like to point out, before you judge me, for one, I didn’t know she was a virgin when I fucked her. Ophelia has been hanging around here since she was a kid. She’s actually the daughter of the head of our security, Carl. That led to a lot of nights where she hung out with us, and her and Roan had a thing. He’s like five years older than her and kind of kept her waiting until she was old enough. Fucked up, huh? Or not. Maybe that was the gentlemen thing to do. I’m not a gentleman so don’t go listening to me.
Anyway, shortly after her eighteenth birthday, she got drunk at one of our parties. I. . . probably was drunk too, and we were in the hot tub together. Next thing I knew she was on my lap, kissing me, and it went from there.
After we had sex, which, I might add didn’t happen on my bed. It happened in the hallway and then ended in my room on the floor. I was smoking near the window afterward, and she threw her hands over her face and said, “Oh my God, Tiller Sawyer took my virginity.”
I should probably note here that there wasn’t a lot of excitement in her tone. It was more like disappointment.
You don’t know how many times I’ve heard that exact phrase. You’d think by now it’d hurt my ego because they never seem very happy about that, but it’s not because they didn’t have a good time. I assure you they did. It’s because they know it’s not going anywhere from there. Rarely do I fuck a girl twice.
Twisting my cell phone around in my hand, I notice a text from Ledger that must have come through sometime this morning.
Ledger: She left me. Can I stay at your place for a few nights?
And by a few nights, he means months. That’s how long it took the last time he fucked up when we were in LA for the X-Games, and he fucked that chick from Fox Sports two weeks before he married this other chick. If you ask me, and again, no one will, he shouldn’t have gotten married.
Me: Whatever.
“What’s wrong with you two?” a girl asks as she gestures to Roan and me. I’d like to add, I don’t know who this chick is. Again, not unusual in this house.
I look up but don’t say anything, spinning my cell phone around on the granite countertop. It hits the plate of bacon, then stops with a thud.
“Tiller knows why,” Roan grinds out, giving me that “I hate your fucking guts” stare he uses so often.
“Actually, I don’t,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. “Please elaborate.”
“You fucked my girl.”
Here we go again. I can see his time in Europe hasn’t made him forget, has it? “You need to stop this bullshit. Your girl chose me to pop her cherry. Big fuckin’ deal.”
“She was drunk. She didn’t choose you. You’re not special. You were just there,” he huffs, looking about as furious as I am, maybe even more so.
“Which is more than I can say for you.” I pause, tapping my chin. “What was that chick’s name? You remember, the one you fucked and the reason why O got drunk that night with me?”
“Oh spare me the fucking bullshit excuses as to what could possibly make it okay for you to fuck my girl. You led her upstairs when she passed out to your room. Who does that?”
“A decent human being?” I blink, feigning innocence. Not an easy task for me. “And she wasn’t passed out, yet. Her eyes were still open.”
“She needed someone to take care of her that night and you took advantage of her.”
I slide off the kitchen stool, the energy coursing through me too much to remain seated. “Oh fuck off. I’m so tired of this shit.”
“You didn’t even like her!” Roan pushes me, and I push back. What the fuck did liking her have to do with anything? I fucked her. No liking involved. Although I beg to differ, I do actually like Ophelia. She’s sweet, in the kind of kid sister way, which if we’re honest about it, makes me taking her virginity feel like a creep, but whatever.
“She wanted it.” My taunting smile makes an appearance. “Her pussy was tight.”
Ricky jumps between us, as if on cue. “All right. That’s enough. Knock it off.”
“Let them fight,” Shade groans, returning to the kitchen. “Maybe then they’ll stop bringing this up every time they see each other.”
“I’d fuck her again, too,” I add, glaring at Roan, who looks like he wants to cheese grate my head right about now. Welcome to brotherhood of the clinically insane. It’s just like love, but for assholes.
Every muscle in my body braces for a brawl. You know, I understand it. Why he’s being this way. Roan’s pain is real. I fucked his girl. And worse than that, took her virginity. Virginity he wanted. Virginity I took carelessly, without regard to her feelings and then told her to get the fuck out. In truth, she knew what she was doing when she asked me to take her to my room.
With Ricky between us, Roan growls out a breath and storms out. I smile and return to the kitchen with a pack of smokes in the other.
Camden returns, too, a game controller in hand. “There’s a chick with a kid at the door looking for you.”
That’s not something you want to hear when you’re twenty-three, is it?
I reach for my sweatshirt on the counter beside me. “Who is it?” I stand there, staring at him, my heart pounding in my ears, searching for an answer.
Camden shrugs, flopping on the couch beside some drunk dude who’s been snoring most of the morning.
Coming around the corner and into the foyer, the massive double doors leading into the house are wide open, and Amberly stands, wearing a sunflower yellow dress, her deep purple hair braided and hanging over her left shoulder.
I glance, though, briefly at the child.
Why is she here?
I drop my hood back; my dark eyes find motionless seas of green. My heart pounds, drowning out nonsense I can’t make sense of anyway. Nervousness crawls at my skin and I want to slam the door in her face. Sure, she knows where I live, and she’s spent her fair share of time here, but she stays clear of this place, always afraid of what it means. She knows what goes on here. “What are you doing here?”
Her face frowns, her disappointment in me greater than her unconditional love she seems to have. Or did. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Pale pink lips push out barely spoken words.
I want her mouth crying my name. I want my cock in her mouth and my cum dripping from her lips. I know, bad, but this is what she fucking does to me. It’s insane and one-tracked.
I hear her words, know what they’re asking, but still, I ask, “Tell you what?” It’s not like Amberly has ever been my girlfriend. In fact, she’s never even gone on a date with me. Not that I’ve ever gone on a date with anyone, nor have I asked, but she’d be the closest to that if I had.
The child holding her hand lets go, finds interest in a lizard on the porch and crouches down.
“Ava,” Amberly whispers, attempting to keep her voice at a volume the girl can’t hear. “Did you sleep with her to hurt me?”
Yes. No. I don’t remember.
“Wait, which sister are we talking about? Which one’s Ava? The one with the stick up her ass, or the one with the dick up her ass?”
Amberly blinks, slowly. Tears form, pool, and release all in the same breath it takes for her to realize I’m purposely being an asshole. I didn’t mean to make her cry, and ordinarily, it takes a hell of a lot more than that to make her cry. “Are you serious right now?”
I lean into the door, crossing my arms over my chest. Her face is delicate, fine cheekbones and sea green eyes that constantly destroy me. A wave of nausea hits me, making me swallow hard. “What is it that you want from me? Is that why you kept calling? Because I fucked your sister?”
Disbelief clouds her eyes and takes the color from her cheeks. “How could you have kept this from me? How could you keep her from me?” She shifts her eyes to the child in a discrete gesture.
“Her?”
“She’s yours.”
I laugh, my eyes lingering on her purple hair that inhabits my dreams and smothers my heart. “Slow your roll.” If I’m being honest, I knew about the kid. Not entirely, but I had an assumption after seeing Ava at the store about a year ago and the girl was with her.
Take a look at the girl. Do you see her, kneeled down petting the lizard that’s strangely still? Don’t tell her, but it’s because he’s dead. Shade stepped on him yesterday, and we didn’t move it because Scarlet was convinced he’d grow a new body like they do tails. Fucker’s dead. He ain’t coming back from that shit.
Look at the girl though. Do you see the eyes, the dark hair. . . the faint dusting of freckles? She’s my kid. Something inside my chest stirs as I watch her. I’m unfamiliar with the emotion. I wouldn’t say I feel anything toward her, or do I?
Amberly’s hands fly to her hips, her face stern and contoured in anger. “I don’t see the humor in it, Tiller.”
“Well then, I don’t know what you want me to say.” I lean, crossing my arms over my chest. “You wouldn’t give it up.” Her eyes are clear, distraught, unseeing what she’s been doing to me over the years. “So I went for the next best thing.” Dropping my shaking hand, I motion to the kid I refuse to look at again. I don’t want that feeling in my chest to return. And then I wait for her to say something, anything.
“What is it that you want from me?”
“You have a daughter. Don’t you want to know her?”
I don’t have an answer. Well, I have one. I’m just not going to give it to her. “Just because you have daddy issues don’t push your shit on me.”
Look at her face. She doesn’t get it. Or does she? Was that a shit move?
Don’t answer. I know what you’re going to say.