Smut: A Standalone Romantic Comedy Page 11

  His forehead crumples in confusion. “What?”

  “Never mind,” I say, picking up my beer. “I’ll pay for the drinks. You just go say hello to the blondes before they lose interest. I’ll catch you later.”

  “Works for me.” He finishes his drink and gets up. “Thanks, bro. See ya.”

  I signal over the waitress to get the check and she’s halfway to my table before I realize her shift must have ended and there’s a new girl on duty.

  The Nair girl.

  Bollocks.

  “Blake,” she says coldly, stopping by the table, one hand on her hip, a tray of beer in the other. “Didn’t expect to see your face around here again.” She glances at the top of my head. “How’s your hair?”

  “You’re lucky I don’t keep conditioner in my hair for very long. One minute and it’s rinsed.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says, though I see the flash of anger and disappointment at her revenge not working.

  I decide to push it. “In fact,” I tell her with a grin, tugging at a strand. “I think it’s shinier and thicker than ever.”

  I know I’m playing with fire here but I just can’t help it.

  “Do you even remember my name?” she asks, her tone pure ice.

  “Do we have to go down this path?” I tell her, shooting her another smile that I know makes my dimples pop, one of the things she kept commenting on when I took her out. Because, no, I don’t remember her name. Susan comes to mind but I think that’s because she’s the character in The Heart Thief.

  She takes a few steps until her petite frame is right beside mine and brings the tray of beer dangerously close to my head. “Tell me my name or this beer is going all over you.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” I say to her in a hush.

  She raises her brows to say she would.

  Cindy? Sandra? Cersei? I wish she was wearing a nametag.

  “Stella?” I offer, wincing because I know it’s wrong.

  “Stella is the name of the other waitress you fucked over here,” she seethes. The tray wiggles. I shut my eyes. “It’s Magdalene.”

  You think I would have remembered that. “Like the biblical hooker?”

  Her eyes narrow. The tray tilts. The pint glasses slant toward me.

  Crash!

  Beer goes everywhere, over my head, over my shoulders, my lap, my legs.

  I’m legit sitting in a beer shower.

  “Oh my god, I am so sorry,” she cries out in a string of lies.

  She pretends to fuss over me while I sit there, soaked from head to toe, the beer pints rolling on the table. She’s lucky none of them broke and I’m lucky one didn’t knock me on the head. The last thing I need right now is a concussion, though with everyone on the patio, plus onlookers, staring at me, losing consciousness would be preferable.

  “Oh dear, I’m so clumsy,” she adds, bringing her washcloth to my crotch and patting it there —hard. It’s like she’s playing Whack-A-Mole with my dick.

  “Jesus,” I hiss, trying to protect my balls. “Do you want me to report you for manhandling the customer?”

  “I’ll get Stella, the manager, to clean this up,” she says smartly before turning and storming into the pub.

  Stella too? Fuck me. I get up, absolutely dripping pale ale and porter, and yell after her, “Luckily beer is good for my hair too!”

  I throw a few twenties on the table and get out of there before something worse happens.

  “Dude!” Heath yells at me, laughing, as I pass by him and the blondes. “It’s Karma, dude.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I growl at him as the blondes giggle and quickly head home to shower.

  After the bar antics, I play it safe for the rest of the weekend. Last I texted Amanda she was still down for our meeting on Sunday night, so Sunday morning when my dad says he needs someone to watch Kevin while he and Angelica go to a friend’s for lunch, I volunteer.

  When I pull up to the house, I’m not surprised to see Kevin sitting glumly on the front stoop, plastic sword in hand that he’s whacking against the steps. With his glasses and cape sprawled around him, he looks like a nerdy and bored warrior waiting between battles.

  I grew up in a small house in the woods on the Saanich Peninsula. It was up on a small crest, didn’t get a lot of sun, though you could kind of see the ocean through the giant cedars if you squinted hard enough. It was an upscale neighborhood though, with lots of whitewashed mansions and groomed acreages, many waterfront with their own docks. Our house was this tiny little ugly dot, like a tick amongst everything fresh and healthy, but even though my mother was glad to get out of there when she took me to England, I was heartbroken. I didn’t want to leave my dad and I loved that small, dark place with the mossy roof and the rain collection barrel where I’d watch bugs drown.

  The minute my dad met Angelica though, he sold the house. Now they live in one of those sprawling houses my mother had envied and my dad is living the charmed life.

  But I also know that not everything is as it seems. With Crawford’s Books losing money, they’re a single income family. They may have this giant house with the brick driveway and fruit trees in the garden, but Angelica has no choice but to work around the clock to keep it.

  “Hey bud,” I tell Kevin as I lock the car and stroll over. “Where are the rents?”

  He shrugs lazily. He doesn’t look at me. “I don’t know. Getting ready.”

  “Feeling pissed off they didn’t invite you?”

  “No,” he grumbles, then stabs the sword between bricks. “I hate the Chaunceys.”

  “That’s a strong word,” I tell him, sitting beside him. I practically have to shove him over to make room.

  “Yeah well they’re a bunch of turdburgulars,” he says.

  I can’t help but smile. It reminds me of the insults Amanda lets loose every now and then.

  “Turdburgulars are the worst,” I tell him.

  I totally get it though. In the time I’ve been here, I’ve met the Chaunceys on a few occasions and they’re straight out of the Lord and Lady Douchebag sketch from SNL. The funny thing is, I lived in England all my life and I know just the kind of people they’re trying to be. Sometimes when I look at Amanda I wonder if she was brought up by people like this, ones who think they own the land because they were part of the British stock who arrived here at the turn of the century. What they need to be told is that Canadian history is so short and minute compared to the centuries we have going on overseas. If you have an important bloodline in England it’s because you can trace your family back to the bloody Dark Ages and beyond. Here it’s if someone’s lived in the same house for a few decades.

  “Ah, you’re here,” my dad says as he and Angelica open the door, stepping out behind us. “Thought I would have heard your car from a mile away.”

  “I still don’t know what you were thinking letting him buy that thing from Uncle Mike,” Angelica says derisively, flicking her long dark ponytail over her shoulder. Angelica looks like a lesser version of Kate Beckinsdale and she’s still out of his league. Come to think of it, so was my mom. There must be something to the Crawford charm.

  I let her comment about the car slide. So does my dad. His face goes red briefly but he keeps his mouth shut. “We’ll see you in a few hours,” he says tersely and the two of them slip past us, heading for their Lexus. I wonder if my dad knows how silly it is to be driving a car like that while on the verge of bankruptcy. With how crabby he is lately, I’m assuming he does.

  They’ve just driven out of sight, disappearing behind a row of budding maple trees, when Kevin quietly announces, “They’re getting divorced.”

  It takes me a moment to process this. “What?”

  He looks up at me and nods, mouth set in a firm line like he’s determined not to cry. “It’s true.”

  “What? Kevin, what are you talking about? They aren’t getting divorced.” Though the moment I say it, I know I’m wrong.

  �
��Yes they are,” Kevin says, stabbing the ground again for emphasis. “They fight all the time and when they aren’t fighting, they don’t talk to each other.”

  “That’s just marriage, buddy.”

  “No,” he says sharply. “It’s not. I keep hearing them talking about ‘when do we tell Kevin?’ and ‘wait until school is over’ and ‘you’re an asshole, Paul.’”

  “But—”

  “And then I found letters from lawyers. Two different ones. I googled them. They’re divorce lawyers!”

  Bloody hell, this kid is resourceful.

  I shake my head. “Oh, Kevin. I’m sure there’s some explanation.”

  “There is no explanation!” he yells at me, getting to his feet. “You’re just like them! You don’t tell me the truth, all you do is bullshit.”

  I get to my feet. “Watch your language, Kev.”

  “Blake! Fuck! You!” he half-yells, half-sobs, and then starts running around the house, the cape flying behind him. I stand where I am, completely gobsmacked. I’d never heard him swear like that before but I guess this is as good of a reason as any.

  My dad and Angelica, getting a divorce. No wonder my dad has been so grouchy, why I’ve been watching Kevin and working at the store more and more. They’ve got a divorce in the works and my stepbrother will be caught in the middle, again, since he already had to go through a divorce when he was younger.

  I can only hope that whatever agreement they have that my dad doesn’t get completely screwed over. Angelica isn’t the warmest, or nicest, person but she has to know that she’s holding all the cards and my father has practically nothing.

  I sigh, knowing I have to find Kevin even though he probably just wants to be alone. I walk around the house, hands in my pockets, feeling terrible that everything my dad wanted will once more be taken away.

  I find Kevin sitting with his back against a blossoming cherry tree, playing a game on his iPad mini.

  “Are you winning?” I ask him gently, trying to see over his shoulder.

  He twists away, trying to not let me see. After a few beats he says, “It’s not about winning in this game. There are no winners.”

  “Are there losers?”

  “Yes. You can die.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a very fair game.” I pause. “Actually it sounds a bit like life, doesn’t it?”

  When he doesn’t answer I crouch down beside him. “Look, I know you don’t want to talk about it and that’s fine, but when you do want to talk about it, I’m here for you, okay?” I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze. “Okay?”

  Finally he nods.

  “Tell you what, we’ll do whatever you want to do for the rest of the day.”

  He glances at me shyly before shoving his glasses up his nose. “For real?”

  I hesitate, not sure what I’m getting myself into. “For real. I could dress up and we could wage a battle. You know I was thinking of you the other week and I bought some fun props for us to use. Elf ears, witch makeup, a new sword.”

  “Really?” Now he’s excited.

  “Just for you buddy,” I tell him. “I was saving it for when my school quiets down but we can use them now.”

  He nods, chewing that over. Then he says, “No, we can save that. You know what I want to do today? Visit Fluffy.”

  I groan. “Kevin,” I whine.

  “Please,” he says and then adds sternly. “You promised. Anything.”

  “Okay, fine,” I say getting to my feet and hauling him up to his. “I’ll take you to see Fluffy. But you are not to take him out of the cage, you got it?”

  “It’s a terrarium,” he corrects me.

  “Whatever. It’s Satan’s playground is what it is.”

  He smiles gleefully and then takes off running toward the car, arms raised, waving his sword like he’s about to battle an enemy. I can’t help but feel the same way.

  Luckily everything goes well and Kevin was just content to tap on the glass and feed Fluffy crickets, which I was forced to watch with him as he gave the gruesome scene some National Geographic worthy commentary.

  When I got back to the house, Kevin was in a lot lighter mood, even though he started pouting when I had to leave.

  “Please, stay for dinner,” he whines as we stand in the hall.

  Angelica pokes her head around the corner. “You’re welcome to stay Blake.” And if my eyes aren’t failing me her expression is practically pleading. I guess she sees how much her son needs a friend right now.

  I sigh, unable to say no. “Okay,” I say and he shrieks with joy. “Let me just make a phone call first.”

  Even though I’m glad Kevin’s happy I know Amanda isn’t going to be. I dial her number—it doesn’t feel right to text her this—and head outside to talk.

  “Hey,” she says, sounding surprised and I can’t help but smile briefly at hearing her voice. I wipe it off my face right away.

  “Hey, listen,” I say and then I hear her groan over the phone. “What?”

  “I know what you’re going to say,” she says flatly.

  “Pretty sure you don’t. I have to cancel tonight. I’m so sorry but—”

  “Yup, I knew it.”

  I feel a twinge of frustration. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I knew you were going to cancel. Let me guess, hot date?”

  “Hot date?” I repeat.

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  I press my palm into my forehead. “Why are you saying all these confusing things?”

  “Rio saw you on Wharf Street a few days ago, hitting on some blondes with your friend.”

  “Did Rio also mention I had a heap of beer spilled on me?” Granted, I wasn’t the one hitting on them, or even talking to them, so I don’t know what the hell Rio is talking about but since Amanda is already jumping to conclusions, I have no need to correct her.

  “She said something about that too,” she says.

  “And why do you care anyway?”

  “Me?” she asks snidely. “I just don’t want my grade to suffer because you can’t keep it in your pants.”

  Oh that fucking does it. “Fine,” I tell her. “I do have a hot date. Two blondes. Sorry I can’t meet up with you but I think a threesome takes precedent over homework.”

  “Oh fuck off,” she says.

  “You’re the third person to tell me that this whole weekend. It must be good luck.”

  She hangs up.

  I stare at the phone for a while, the triumph over pissing her off slowly slipping away. I really should have told her the truth, but I just couldn’t help myself. Let her think what she wants of me, what does it matter in the end? I’m no stranger to judgement and what she thinks of me should be my last concern. There are bigger things to worry about here.

  I take in a deep breath and head inside the house.

  7

  Amanda

  “Seriously, fuck everyone,” Rio says, swiping my phone from me. “You need to make my contact name ‘Daddy Issues’.”

  We’re in a tapas bar downtown, one of my favorite places to go since the food and wine are phenomenal and it’s located down this narrow brick alley that makes you think you’re in some quaint European city, but unfortunately neither of us are in the best mood. Rio has just finished telling me about the thirty-five year old single dad she’s seeing, illustrating the time his ex-wife and child came home early and caught them both buck-ass naked in bed. Me, well, I’ve been listening to her but mainly stewing over the asshole maneuver that Blake pulled tonight.

  I think what pisses me off more is not that I’m missing out on a night of finishing up the project but that I was actually looking forward to Blake’s company. It pains me to admit it but for the last two weeks, I’ve started enjoying our time together, both of us working toward a common goal. It’s like for once I’m with someone who understands the drive to write and the deep-seated perfectionist need to make it the best that it can be.

  But then he
blew off our meeting to go bang some chicks and so now I’m at the bar, drinking rioja like it’s going out of style.

  Rio hands my phone back to me and I check that she indeed changed her contact name to “Daddy Issues.” “Anyway,” she says, popping an olive in her mouth, “I’m not sure how much longer this will last.”

  “It’s only been a week,” I remind her quietly.

  “Feels like a lifetime,” she says, giving me a sidelong glance. “Hey, you better start smiling or keep drinking or I’m not going to sit with you anymore.”

  I roll my eyes and take a gulp of my wine. “I pick the wine.”

  She twists in her seat to face me, studying my expression. “I’m surprised you’re this upset.”

  “I’m not upset,” I reply testily. “I’m angry.”

  “That’s called being upset, Amanda. And really, the question is, why are you angry? You knew he was like this. I mean, he’s been your nemesis until recently.”

  “I think I liked him better when he was my nemesis,” I say into my wine. Hating Blake was a lot more fun in some ways. At least I didn’t feel hurt when he slighted me, just annoyed.

  “People never change,” she says, reaching for the sliced chorizo. She offers it to me but I shake my head. She goes on. “I mean, not really. It’s not like I actually saw him hitting on them, it was mainly his friend, whom I’ve already nicknamed Johnny Utah.”

  I glance up at her sharply. “What are you talking about?”

  “The other day,” she explains between chews. “It was Blake’s Point Break friend that was hitting on them. He made the googly eyes and head nod and pelvis thrusts before he went and sat with them while Blake stayed behind and got a beer bath.”

  I try to form words. “Are you serious? Why did you tell me it was Blake?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know, what’s the difference? The point was, he’s pissed off a lot of waitresses at that bar. I was by the window, inside when it happened and I heard quite the mouthful from some of the girls. They were actually clapping.”

  I rub my lips together, trying to think. The copious amount of wine is finally hitting me and thinking is getting harder. “He told me he was going out with them.”