All Things Pretty
Page 12

It’s easier to ignore him after I pick up Travis. I pull alongside the curb right in front of where he’s standing and lean over to open the passenger side door. “Sorry I’m a couple of minutes late,” I tell him as he gets in.
“Whatever,” he says, jerking his baseball cap lower over his eyes. Even without his telltale tick, I can see that he’s agitated. I’m never late. I make a point not to be. He is very sensitive to any disruptions in his schedule that are perpetrated by others.
“Did you take your meds today?”
Travis turns to look at me with eyes the exact shade of mine. “I always take my meds. Stop asking me shit like that!”
I don’t think anything of his defensiveness. He’s always like this after school. It stresses him out to try and be normal, as he calls it. The symptoms of his Asperger’s seem to have worsened since Lance has been requiring more of my nights. Unfortunately, I’m stuck, which means Travis is, too. At least for a while longer.
A subject change is in order. “Guess what I’m making for dinner tonight?”
Travis turns to look out the window, shrugging his thin shoulders in a silent reply.
“It’s one of your top four favorites.”
“Doesn’t matter. I won’t be there,” he tells me sullenly.
“Why? Where will you be?”
“I’m going to Trip’s.”
Alarm bells sound in the back of my mind. “Why is it that every night that I don’t have plans with Lance, you make some with Trip?”
He shrugs again. “He called and asked me to come over to game.”
Trip is one of Lance’s friends. At first, I was so happy that Travis was being willingly social that I didn’t think to question it, but as time has passed, I’ve begun to think that Trip’s influence is not a good thing. Then I found out that Trip is a felon. Just what Travis needs in his life.
Not.
Maybe I should’ve nipped it in the bud sooner, because now Travis maintains that Trip is a true friend and I’m afraid to push too hard to get Trip out of his life. Travis cracked once before and we nearly lost everything in the aftermath. And we didn’t have all that much left to lose.
I swallow a sigh. One more in my long, long list of regrets.
“Travis, if he–”
“Don’t start with me, Tommi,” he snaps flatly, still not looking at me, not meeting my eyes. A habit I know is exacerbated when he’s feeling guilty.
“I worry about you, Travis.” I keep my voice as calm as I can.
“Worry about yourself. You’ve got enough problems for both of us.”
Which is true. What Travis doesn’t understand is that it’s us against the world. A harsh world that doesn’t give a damn and refuses to give us an inch of leeway. He knows the facts, but I don’t think he has a very good grasp on the consequences. I don’t try to change that because the last thing he needs is a heavy burden to carry around, especially one that he can’t do anything about. No, this load is mine to haul and it’s best that way. What’s done is done. My only choice is to go forward smarter.
So I am.
I’m planning my every step, my every word, my every breath. And my plan will work. It has to.
I make a left onto our street. For the first time since my brother got in the car, I look into my rearview mirror. I see Sig following behind. Not too close. Not too far either. Despite the way I abhor being spied upon, I find a strange comfort in his presence, even though he’s only trailing behind me in a separate vehicle. And the comfort that I draw from him is arguably the most concerning thing of all.
CHAPTER TWELVE- SIG
I park discreetly across the street from Tommi’s house. I don’t want to bother her, but I have to keep Tonin happy for the moment, too. Plus, I’m still curious as to what she’s up to.
I stare at the white, clapboard house, probably all of eight hundred to a thousand square feet, max. It looks shoddy and rundown, like most of the houses in the area. The driveway is cracked, but there are no weeds. I can see light brown stuff in the gaping crevices, though, which makes me think they’ve been on the receiving end of some weed killer in recent days.
If I hadn’t moved in a block and a half away, I would never have pictured her in a place like this. This is, without a doubt, the very definition of a questionable neighborhood. It shocks the shit out of me that her car, which looks ridiculous sitting outside, doesn’t get trashed or jacked. Of course, it’s likely that a lot of the element that lives nearby knows who she is. And who the car belongs to.
I think back to what I read in her very short file. Tommi Lawrence. No middle initial. Twenty-four years old. Graduated high school six years ago with shitty grades. Didn’t get a driver’s license until she was nineteen. No college, no jobs, no priors. Father’s in the wind, mother’s drawing disability checks. One brother, one sister. Not much else. Oh, and she’s screwing a dickhole drug dealer. There’s that.
Just the thought of her with Tonin turns my blood cold. She seems so much better than him, than the life of a dealer’s whore. I’m still not convinced that’s the whole story, though. Not only is she lying to him, she’s hiding something, something more than her distaste of him. At least what I think is her distaste of him. That or my ego’s getting in the way.
My stomach starts growling around six. It doesn’t help that something that smells like Italian food is wafting through my open window. I’m about to call Tonin to ask how long he wants me to watch her when I see a young boy come out the front door. It’s the same kid she picked up at the high school today. Looks more like a shady character tonight. He’s got on dark jeans and a black hoodie, hood pulled down over his head all the way to the bill of his hat. His chin is tucked and his eyes stay focused on the ground at his feet. Weird boy.
I watch him until he takes a left at the stop sign and disappears out of my line of sight. When I look back to Tommi’s house, I see her coming down the uneven sidewalk carrying a covered plate. She changed and is now wearing slinky tan pants and a striped top with spaghetti straps. Her feet are bare, something I wouldn’t advise in this area of town.
She comes around to the driver’s side and leans against the door, her unique scent filling up the cabin of my truck. She stretches one slim arm in front of me, teasing my nose with the plate of food. I inhale, my mouth watering reflexively. She grins, but it’s a tired grin. “Go home. I’m in for the night.” I say nothing as she walks off, my eyes glued to her perfectly rounded ass. I’m distractedly wondering about the absence of a panty line when she calls back over her shoulder. “I hope you like lasagna.”