Page 4 of Dirty Roulette

Chapter four

Ryder

“Keep it cool, man,” Jared says as he steps out. There’s no way to be chill. I’m walking with a sweltering fever, and its pure rage over my sister’s na?ve tendencies.

I slam the passenger door and raise my chin to Jared.

“Let’s go wish this fatass a happy birthday.

” With sweaty palms at my sides, we both head down the sidewalk.

I burst through the front door like one of those lunatics from stupid talk shows about to manhandle the cameraman and toss him to the crowd.

“I’m gonna get some beer,” Jared says, disappearing through the shelves filled with snacks and candies.

“Can I help you?” Fatso asks and raids my nostrils with his dumpster fire odor. Sweat drips down his face and saturates his armpits. Someone must have waterboarded him in a grease trap because his hair swims in oil.

“Yeah, I’m looking for my sister.” I pull out my phone to show a video of Charlie and Payton with a bottle of vodka in their hands.

“Oh, them.” He raises an eyebrow. A grin exposes his yellow teeth, with the rot caked between the gaps.

“When?”

“About an hour ago. They got some cigarettes and left.”

“You know that’s some bull.” An adrenaline-fueled pulse pounds in my ears.

“It is what it is, man.” He shrugs, and I’m met with the decay bleeding out of his mouth. He’s being way too casual while I’m trying to hold in my anger. I’m about to unleash a nuclear warhead and blow his teeth right out of his mouth.

“You know damn well why they were in here.”

“And I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” The lie rolls off his tongue, and he doesn’t even flinch.

I lunge over the counter. Both of my hands curl around the collar of his shirt as I drag the creep across the counter, knocking over boxes of lighters and chargers that scatter to the floor.

“You sick fuck! Stop lying to me! Tell me the truth. Why was my sister here?”

“Get your hands off me! I’ll call the cops!” His eyes lock onto mine.

“How about I call them and tell them about the underage girls who flash you for booze? Let’s see how that conversation goes!”

“Chill man, I don’t think you can take on a four hundred pound man!

” Jared yanks on my shoulder and pulls me off him.

I step back with a hand raked in my hair.

I’m on the verge of grabbing one of the candy racks and pitching it through the door to get my point across.

I’m not playing around. If I need to, his face will eat concrete.

“I’m three-ten, jackass.”

“I just want a case of beer.” Jared places the cheapest twenty-four pack on the counter before turning back to me.“Go grab some Hennessy. We’ll catch up with the girls at the party – this guy’s not worth it.”

I straighten my jersey and head to the back of the store, blinded by the instinctual habit of opening the fridge and pulling out the liter bottle of my guilty pleasure.

I walk back up to the register and not even two seconds pass before Fatso snaps, “You better show me some ID.” He straightens his shirt and rolls his shoulders.

Jared reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet.

“You too.” He snarls and points a finger.

I roll my bottom lip under my front teeth.

“Here.” I hand it over, and hell rages through my veins. He squints and stares real carefully at it.

“Sebastian Ryder Henderson. Are you sure this is you?” He wedges the card in between his fingers and sniffs it. “It smells fake.”

“I’m twenty-one.”

“Well, it’s thirty. Now pay up, buttercup.” He smiles again.

Jared pulls out the accumulation of dollar bills, tossing the money on the counter. The dude is richer than a stripper.

Fatso opens the register and smooths out the crisp edges of each bill with his tiny man hands before mumbling, “I shouldn’t have to tell you why your sister and her slutty friend were in here. It looks like you already know... They’re playing one of your stupid sorority' games.”

“At some point, you’d think you’d have some decency to tell them to stop,” I say.

“Every year, there’s a handful of sorority girls parading in here right before the fall semester starts. They choose to flash me to get tipsy. It looks like your sister is the one showing off her tits this year.”

The coolers hum in the silence.

“Let’s go.” Jared slides the beer off the counter while I snatch the bottle of liquor, and the door dings behind us.

“Why do you always pick out the nasty shit?” I ask Jared, staring at his twenty-four pack.

“It’s for beer pong and I told you to stay cool.” Our feet crunch under the gravel while we walk back to the car.

“It’s my sister.” I open the passenger door and slide in. I don’t waste a second before yanking the coppery-gold covering off the Hennessy and taking a shot. It’s creamy, with a hint of vanilla. Its smooth fire runs down my throat. It’ll numb the demon inside me for the time being.

“Charlie doesn’t need her hand held. You’re her brother, not her dad.”

I scoff and wedge the bottle between my thighs as I buckle. He places the case of beer on the backseat.

“Sometimes I wish she wasn’t born.” I take another shot and twist the cap back on.

“Is that you talking, or the boiled pennies you’re drinking?”

“It’s better than your diluted piss-water.”

“Be careful what you wish for, dude.”

“Tell that to her.” I laugh and pull out a joint stowed in my pocket. “She wished Dad would leave, and look who isn’t around.” I find a lighter in his cup holder and ignite it.

“It’s not your job to replace him.” Jared's dark eyes soften, and I can see the concern in them.

“I know.” I lean against the headrest, taking in a long drag before letting it out with a heavy sigh.

The windows roll down as we pull out of the parking lot and head to the freeway.

We say nothing as cars whoosh past us, and the tires thud against the bumps and cracks.

All I do is stare at the white lines and the dullness of the streetlights.

Sweet Emotion plays on the stereo. God is messing with my head as all I can think about is my Dad.

He would blast Aerosmith, smoking his cigarettes and drumming his hands on the steering wheel.

We haven’t spoken two words since he packed and left.

The pictures of him online are enough to spare me any guilt about what I’d like to say.

Ms. Homewrecker, with a lip injection addiction and big tits, can dig his grave and bury him for all I care.