“Shit!” Leo winced, the hit pulling him out of his trance as he rubs the back of his head. “What the hell was that for?”
“The table isn’t set,” Lorenzo says. “What are we, animals?”
Leo stands up, dramatically rolling his eyes, and Lorenzo swings the spatula again, barely grazing his shoulder with it as he jumps out of the way. “Okay, okay, I’m doing it! Geez...”
“You’re not too old for me to take over my knee, Pretty Boy,” Lorenzo said, pointing the spatula. “You weren’t raised in a fucking barn.”
“No, but I was raised on a farm,” Leo says, grabbing some plates from a cabinet.
“It’s an orange grove,” Lorenzo says, “not a farm.”
Orange grove.
I glance at my orange juice again, bringing it to my lips for a sip. This is all starting to feel very TV-sitcom, like Lassie is about to run in and tell us Timmy fell down the well.
Lorenzo tosses the spatula in the sink and brings platters of food over as Leo sets the table. I look at the empty plate in front of where I’m sitting and go to leave when Lorenzo slides into the chair beside me, gripping my thigh, forcing my ass back into the seat.
“Help yourself, Seven,” Lorenzo calls over to the guy, still leaning against the counter. “You know how it goes.”
“I appreciate it, boss,” Seven says, “but the wife made omelets this morning, so I couldn’t eat another bite even if I wanted to.”
“I figured,” Lorenzo says. “The woman feeds you morning, noon, and night.”
“And packs me snacks in between,” Seven says, and I think he’s joking until he pulls a protein bar from one coat pocket and a little Ziplock bag of carrots from the other. Wow.
“You’re married?” I ask.
“Twenty-five years next month,” he says with a smile. Married longer than I’ve been alive. “She was my high school sweetheart. Married her right after graduation.”
“Regrets that shit every day,” Lorenzo says as he dishes out food onto plates.
“I’ve never once regretted it,” Seven says, “not even when she rides my ass about the company I keep.”
Lorenzo finds that funny, while I’m too busy doing math in my head. That means Seven is about forty-three years old… same age as Kassian.
I glance at Lorenzo, suddenly curious. “How old are you?”
Leo laughs at my question. “He’s older than sin.”
Lorenzo shoots him a look as he says, “Pretty much forever sixteen.”
“He’s pushing thirty-seven,” Seven chimes in.
Thirty-seven.
I look at Leo. “And you’re twenty-one?”
He nods. “Yep.”
Sixteen year age difference. Lorenzo mentioned he started taking care of his brother when he was around two, which would’ve made Lorenzo—
“I was eighteen,” Lorenzo says, and my eyes widen, wondering if I was doing the math out loud, but he just cuts his eyes at me with a slight smile, like he’d read my damn mind. “I know the look.”
“What look?”
“The trying to riddle shit out look,” he says, grabbing the plate in front of me, shoving it closer. “Eat your breakfast, Scarlet. I’m not opposed to taking you over my knee, either.”
“I’d like to see you try,” I mutter, grabbing a fork and stabbing the pancake on my plate. Before I even have to ask, Lorenzo picks up a thing of syrup and passes it to me, like he read my mind yet again. Weird.
I eat in silence. It’s good. Really good.
He didn’t burn any of it.
I always burned everything when I tried to cook.
Melody starts chattering, talking Leo’s ear off, while Seven remains in spot, waiting for whatever.
A phone rings eventually, coming from the corner. Seven pulls one out of his pocket, holding it up. “It’s yours, boss.”
“Who is it?”
“Blocked number.”
“I don’t talk to cowards,” Lorenzo says, pushing his chair back and standing up. He puts his hand on my shoulder as I set my fork down, my plate empty. “Sun’s up, which means the trucks will be here soon. You coming, Scarlet?”
I have no idea what that means, which means I don’t know how to answer, but Lorenzo doesn’t wait for a response, so I’m taking that as a rhetorical question.
“Clear the table when you’re finished, Pretty Boy,” Lorenzo calls back as he walks out. “Don’t forget to do the dishes.”
Leo rolls his eyes. “I really need to get my own place.”
Seven walks by the table and says, “Don’t let your brother hear that. He’ll catch a case of empty nest syndrome.”
“On the bright side,” Leo says, “he could put as many holes in the couch as he wanted, not having to worry about me being around.”
“That’s not a bright side, kid,” Seven says, laughing. “Without you around, keeping him straight, there’s no telling what he might do. Besides, you’re his saving grace. That’ll never change. No matter where you go, that man is a part of you, just like you’ll always be a part of him. That’s how it goes.”
Seven walks out, and I get up from the chair, following him as Leo mumbles something about cutting the cord.
I smile softly, shaking my head as I make my way upstairs. Lorenzo is in his bedroom, his clothes already changed, sitting on the end of the bed to put on his boots. He glances up as I stall in the doorway and says, “That what you’re wearing today?”
I look down at myself.
“To each their own and all that,” he continues, “but you might freeze your nipples off.”
“My problem, remember? I’m temporarily clothes-less as well as homeless.”
He looks me over before getting up and waltzing past, stopping at the top of the stairs. “Firecracker! Come here!”
It takes Melody maybe thirty seconds to appear on the stairs. “Yes?”
“Most of your shit is here, right?” he asks. “I mean, you pretty much live in my damn house...”
“Right,” she agrees, looking nervous. “Is that a problem?”
“It’s actually looking like a solution,” he says. “You got an outfit Scarlet can borrow?”
I can see the relief on her face as she smiles, trudging up to the second floor. “Of course.”
“There you go,” Lorenzo says. “Problem solved.”
Temporarily, I think. I can only survive borrowing off of others for so long before I have to get my own stuff.
I follow Melody down the hallway, to another bedroom on the opposite end. It’s a complete and utter mess, piles of clothes strewn everywhere, all of it hers. I can hardly tell a guy even sleeps in there. Melody wades through it all, chattering away, talking color schemes and fabric choices and body types, sizing me up. She rattles off a whole slew of questions that I have no idea how to answer, making this ‘putting on clothes’ endeavor feel more like an interview process.
I mean, yeah, don’t get me wrong here—I’m not a t-shirt and jeans gal by any means. I love pretty clothes and putting on makeup, and if I had to list my greatest talents, there’s a good chance ‘walking in high heels’ would be up there. But at the moment, brand names are the least of my priorities.
“Something comfortable,” I say. “Warm, preferably.”
“Comfortable and warm,” she mumbles, scouring through the closet and dresser for what feels like forever before picking out an outfit. “Ha!”
Black fleece-lined leggings and a red slouchy sweater. Nice. I take it from her. “Thanks.”
“Oh, wait!” she says. “You can’t go barefoot!”
I scowl at my bare feet just as she steers toward a terribly familiar pair of red heels. “Oh, Jesus, no. Anything but those. I’ve had a rough enough week, I don’t need to invite that negativity into my life.”
Melody laughs, like that’s funny, but I’m serious. Every time I wore those shoes, I ended up running. And that wouldn’t be a problem, but like I’ve said, I only ever run when being chased by somebody, and that’s not any fun.