Page 14

Chapter 13

Brunch with the Stinking Undie Stain

Jemma

T he Spice Girls were performing a reunion concert. But the entire stadium was deserted, except for me. They were all wearing devil horns and tails, and there were flames shooting up into the sky behind them, throwing an eerie orange glow over them. They began singing Two Become One while making the universal hand gesture for peen in vag. And when the song finished, they began it again. And again. And again ? —

I woke with a start. Sunlight streamed in through the crack in the curtain, and I rubbed my eyes at the brightness of it. The dulcet tones of Baby Spice still seemed to linger in the air.

I rolled over and groaned into my pillow. Because suddenly, the memory of that kiss returned, with startling clarity, to the front of my mind.

I’d kissed the Devil … well, the son of the Devil. And even though it had been for show … I hadn’t hated it.

He was just so … potent. There was something about him, something devilish, but also … desolate. I couldn’t quite figure him out … which was infuriatingly intriguing.

Because figuring him out was the best way to beat him at this game where my soul was the prize, of course. There was absolutely no other reason I would want to understand him. Not at all.

But … he did kiss like a filthy demon. One that, if two were, in fact, to become one, it would promise to be a night I would never forget.

My fingers slipped up my inner thigh of their own accord, and my clit pulsed in anticipation.

I wrenched my hand away with a frustrated growl.

“Stop it, you horny monster-lover!” I grouched, staggering out of bed and opening the curtains. “Check yourself before you wreck yourself in the eternal fires of Hell!”

I wrenched open the swollen old wood-framed window, sucking in fresh air in an attempt to calm myself down. Spring was certainly springing. Dawn was breaking earlier, and there was a hint of warmth in the air, which I inhaled greedily.

I grabbed my phone off the charger and padded down the hallway, heading for the laundry and Luci’s morning cage clean and breakfast. Glancing down, I noticed some messages from Ezra, from one in the morning. He was on night shift, so I hadn’t seen him properly for a couple of days.

Ezra: I’m working overtime tonight, so I won’t be home in the morning to remind you that it’s the third Friday of the month

Ezra: Which means brunch with the beastly brother

“Ugh!” I groaned, dropping my phone on the laundry counter and wrenching open the door to Luci’s cage. “Go roam the house while I clean,” I grouched. “I don’t have time for a play today. I’ve got to go be lectured by Joe while eating something wanky.”

Joe somehow managed to outdo himself each month—it was like a talent, finding these horrific hipster places to subject me to. They were always the type of café where breakfast consisted of poached egg (my most hated of the egg varieties) on a bed of charred kale with some miscellaneous fruit crusted in what looked and tasted, like spicy birdseed.

I just wanted gluten-free pancakes, drowning in maple syrup—imitation was okay, I wasn’t fussy—and topped with a scoop of ice cream as big as my head, with a smattering of strawberries to make it ‘healthy’. But did any of the places he took me ever serve anything even resembling a pancake, gluten-free or otherwise?

One had keto pancakes once … which were gluten-free … and tasted like semi-moist cardboard. Almost turned me off pancakes for life.

“This litter box of yours is probably more appetising than whatever Joe has planned for me today!” I called out to Luci, who was probably raiding the kitchen rubbish bin while I scooped her litter.

My phone vibrated again on the bench while I was refreshing Luci’s water and filling her food bowl. I washed my hands and picked it up.

Ezra: On break. You coming straight home after Joe-palooza?

Jem: Of course! I’ve planned a full afternoon of rocking on my bed, contemplating the failure that is my life

Jem: You know, the standard post-Joe-lecture routine

Jem: Why?

Ezra: We need to talk …

My stomach lurched. What did he want to talk to me about? A myriad of potential conversations circled my brain. Was he going to talk finances? Ask me to pull my weight? I didn’t pay the full half of my rent—I couldn’t afford to …

Or was it about Humphrey? Oh shit, was he going to tell me that things were moving fast with him … were they going to move in together? Was he abandoning me? Or did he want to move Humphrey into our apartment, and there was no room for me to stay? Was he kicking me out?

“It can’t be that … they’ve only been on one date!” I told myself firmly, but still, my fingers shook as I tapped out rambling questions, worries, and oversharing fears in a long text … then decided better of it and deleted the lot.

Jem: OK

I firmly set my phone down, forcing myself to focus on getting Luci’s cage cleaned and wrangling her back into it.

I didn’t have time or space to be worrying about whatever serious thing Ezra needed to talk to me about. I needed all my wits about me to navigate whatever Joe was going to throw at me over his brunch of toasted vegan rat dung, or whatever he thought constituted a meal.

“Shit!” I cursed as Luci scrambled away again. “I promise, if you just be a good girl today and get back in your cage, I’ll let you play all afternoon! I’ll … I’ll organise a ferrety playdate for tomorrow with Jonah! Just please don’t make me late for Joe!” I pleaded, grabbing her tail so she couldn’t scuttle away and reaching under with the other hand, scooping her (and about twelve dust bunnies and a sock I’d lost six months ago) out from under the TV cabinet.

With Luci safely locked away in her cage, I hurriedly rinsed myself under the shower, ignoring the fact that my hair was a riotous mess after the hospital escapades yesterday. I had no time for makeup, swiping a tube of pink lip gloss from the bathroom drawer as I rushed to my room and struggled into something that Joe wouldn’t disapprove of too much—a plain-coloured dress. It might have been neon orange, but at least it didn’t have toucans all over it.

Scraping my hair into a messy bun and securing it with a fluffy scrunchie, I slipped my feet into my least ratty pair of sneakers, snagged my car keys, blew a kiss through the laundry door to Luci, and was out the door.

* * *

The Artful Bite was every bit as wanky as I’d expected. Old shipping pallets were repurposed as tables, with upturned milk crates to perch on. My backside already smarted just from looking at them.

Noise bounced off the concrete floors and exposed brick walls. Most of the noise being the clatter of cutlery, which kept falling through the gaps in the pallets.

My eyes traversed the abstract art on the walls, and the swirling, bold colours sent my nerves jangling.

“Jemma!”

I blinked, and my anxiety spiked for another reason. Joe beckoned me over to a table in the corner, his laptop balanced on the pallet table. He barely looked up from the screen.

Wonderful. Dismissive Joe was my favourite.

I wound my way through the tables, wrinkling my nose at the variety of overtly healthy, artistic-looking meals that I just knew were going to taste like boiled garbage.

“Sit,” Joe commanded, tapping away at his keyboard.

“Morning, big brother,” I muttered, plonking onto the supremely uncomfortable stool, whisking out my lip gloss and swiping some over my lips. It gave me something to do while he answered emails, or transferred giant sums of money, or whatever it was he did in his banking job.

I’d worked out long ago that making me wait while he worked was just another hidden barb that career should take precedence over family. I tried to let it roll off me.

It wasn’t working so well today, not with the unnamed worries about whatever it was Ezra wanted to ‘talk’ to me about rattling around inside my brain.

I picked up the menu, discounting meal after meal. ‘Oven baked egg with a smoked trout and charred corn salad’ … they lost me at smoked trout … ‘breakfast couscous with muddled berries and charred coconut’ … muddled berries—what exactly did they have to be confused about? … ‘baked French toast with almond sprinkle and blueberry maple sauce’ … that actually sounded half decent … until I looked closer, and it didn’t come in a gluten-free option.

I sighed. Joe continued to tap away.

“Can I get you a coffee to start?” a server asked. She was wearing baggy jeans, Doc Marten boots, and a tiny, cropped, jade-coloured cardigan.

“Cute outfit!” I commented, meeting her eyes with a smile. She returned my gaze, her eyes widening for a second before she schooled her expression into something neutral.

What was that all about?

“Uh, thanks,” she mumbled, studiously avoiding looking at me. “Do you … can I get you a drink?”

I hitched my smile up higher, even as my nerves buzzed under my skin. “I’ll have a latte, please.”

“Green Goddess, Kayla,” Joe interjected, still not looking away from his screen. “And I’ll have the spiced cauliflower egg white omelette.”

The girl tapped away at the tablet in her hand. “And for you?” she asked, not so much as glancing up at me.

Oh shit! Did I have something on my face? Was she too afraid to look at me in case she got stuck staring in horror? I’d barely blinked at myself in the mirror. Had a giant zit come up overnight that I hadn’t noticed?

“I …” I wriggled my face as surreptitiously as I could manage, trying to feel for the tell-tale sensation of a big, juicy pimple. Nothing. “I’ve got a sweet tooth, but I’m gluten intolerant, so … what can you suggest?”

The girl turned my menu to face her, glancing up and down the breakfast options. “Uh … the coconut yoghurt with lemon-honey drizzle, roast nuts, and macerated berries?”

I sighed. “Is that the only option?”

The girl shrugged, her eyes back on her tablet. “If you want to steer clear of savoury, that is. We have a roast pumpkin rosti with?—”

“She’ll have the yoghurt,” Joe interrupted. I glared at him, but he was still engrossed in the bloody stock market or whatever.

I opened my mouth to argue, but the girl had already scurried away.

“I hate coconut yoghurt, it tastes like?—”

“It tastes like coconut. No one hates coconut.”

“I do,” I muttered mutinously, folding my arms over my chest.

“Well, these are the things you have to deal with when you insist on eating such a restrictive diet. Now, I’ve?—”

“I ‘insist’, do I?” I fumed. My face flamed, and I longed to jump to my feet, to climb across the ridiculous pallet and punch my self-righteous brother right in the nose. “Yes, I suppose I do insist on eating a diet that doesn’t make my insides try to murder me!”

Joe finally looked at me, his eyes derisive. “When was the last time you even tried to eat gluten? People grow out of these things all the time. And keep your voice down. The whole café does not need to be privy to your digestive complaints.”

I rolled my eyes, huffing out an exaggerated breath. “Brunch is off to its usual, delightful start.”

“Take a look around you, Jemma,” Joe said as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “Have a look at how busy this place is.”

“Why?”

He sighed. “Just do it.”

I swallowed back a grumble and let my eyes rove around the place. Yes, most of the tables were full. It was a mix of hipster types and people in business attire. A lot of them were working on laptops or their phones. Or sitting together having meetings.

My eyes caught the art again, and my stomach lurched. Shit. I realised now why the sub-par technique, the themes, styles and colours that were so obviously derivative of other, more popular artists seemed all too familiar to me.

“Is this a … an art gallery?” I asked faintly, turning back to Joe.

He nodded, a tight smile on his lips. “Well, yes, and no. It’s primarily a café. A very successful café. The location, the aesthetic, the food offering, has all been curated carefully to cater not only to the businesses surrounding, but to draw clientele from further afield who are looking for a specific experience.”

Our drinks arrived, the girl’s hand shaking enough as she placed mine down that a little spilt out of the mug and onto the saucer.

“Sorry!” she mumbled.

“That’s fine,” I replied, unable to even glance in her direction. The faster she left, the better. That bubble of nerves I’d felt when she took our orders earlier solidified into recognition. I only hadn’t realised who she was immediately because … well, I was seeing her from a different angle this time … and clothed. And seven years older.

But clearly, she had immediately recognised me. And if she was here, and the art on the walls was, in fact, what I suspected …

I wiped my clammy palms on my dress, shivering in my cardigan. How could Joe have thought this would be a good idea?

Oh, because he’d never bothered to ask the details of why my final year at university was horrific and why I never completed my degree.

“The owner of this place is also the artist. He realised that selling his art was not going to pay his bills, so he took out a loan, hired a chef, and he and his girlfriend created this place. A business that is financially successful, and doubles as a gallery space for his art.”

I took a ridiculous gulp of my coffee, searing my tastebuds. Through sheer act of will, I managed to swallow the scalding liquid. It burned all the way down, making my already queasy stomach feel even more hot and uncomfortable.

“That’s good for him,” I managed, my voice a strangled rasp. Partly because of the damage I’d just done to my throat but mostly because I had a very, very bad feeling about where this was going.

“He was smart, Jemma. He recognised that his passion wasn’t enough to sustain him, so he found a compromise.”

“Yep!” I said, popping the P.

Joe leaned across the table, his eyes icy. “Are you ever going to take life seriously?”

“I do, Joe!” I adjusted my glasses—a nervous habit that I’d managed to wean myself off in all situations except ones involving my brother. “But I think that my idea of serious is different to?—”

“Joe?”

The words died in my throat. That voice was far too familiar. It was also a voice that I’d hoped never to have to hear again.

I stared firmly at the stupid, wanky pallet tabletop, pressing my lips together so tightly that tears started to prickle at my eyes. Nope. That wasn’t the reason for my stinging eyes. Oh God, I was going to cry … and in front of …

“You’re Chad?” Joe got to his feet, extending a hand. A pale, lanky arm came into my field of vision, taking Joe’s hand in the limpest handshake known to man.

Levels of rage that I hadn’t felt since everything had gone down years ago suddenly crashed over me. It would be so easy to just dart my hand out, grab his arm and snap that spindly little wrist of his. Make it hard for him to paint those hideous, copycat artworks of his.

I clenched my fists under the table and looked away.

“The one and only!” Chad said, and I could hear the self-absorbed smirk in his voice. “Kayla said you wanted to talk business?”

“Yes, I was hoping you might tell Jemma and me about your business model.” Joe took a seat, gesturing for Chad to join us.

I couldn’t even slouch down in my chair … because I didn’t have a chair, just a shitty, uncomfortable milk crate. Of all the awful, awkward brunches I’d endured with Joe, this was the absolute worst.

“Jemma? You’re kidding! Jemma Bliss?”

He was the worst actor in the world. He’d known it was me the second Kayla, his little side piece turned ‘love of his life’, had scuttled to whatever slime bucket he’d been lurking in to report that I was here.

“The one and only!” I wondered if he caught the mockery in my tone. I steeled myself and finally raised my eyes to meet his.

“God, it’s been … what six?—”

“Seven years, Chad,” I interrupted, picking up my coffee and taking a much more tentative sip while I gathered my frayed nerves. Thankfully it had cooled to a drinkable temperature. “We … well, you graduated seven years ago.”

His smile went from smarmy to tight, and two spots of pink appeared on his lean face. Good. At least he had the decency to feel a bit shitty about what he did to me.

“You two know each other?” Joe asked, looking delighted as he took a sip from the straw of his green juice.

“We … were in a lot of the same classes at uni, back in the day.” Chad sat, the milk crate making a creaking sound as he settled himself on it.

“Jem had a rough trot with a professor in her final year,” Joe said, closing the lid of his laptop. “It sapped her confidence, and she couldn’t find the resilience to face going back to retake his class the following year.”

Chad’s eyes darted to mine, but I was fighting the hot ache in my throat. ‘ She couldn’t find the resilience’ … that was what my brother thought of me … and I couldn’t even blame him, because I’d never been able to bring myself to tell him the truth about what had really happened. That it was less a case of not wanting to and more that I was never welcome back in that professor’s class … a class that was compulsory in order to graduate.

“I think I know which professor you’re talking about.” Chad rested an elbow on the table, all conversational, his tone empathetic. My vision blurred with the swirl of conflicting emotions. Mostly rage. “He was a real hard arse. I don’t think I could have coped with having to repeat his class. And once he’d decided you weren’t worthy of his time … it was all over for you. I don’t blame Jemma for cutting her losses.”

The absolute stinking undie stain! Furious, hurt, betrayed words zoomed up from my chest, but they all lodged in my throat, causing a blockage that made my eyes water. I tried to take a sip of coffee to calm myself, but my hands were shaking so much that I was more likely to spill it all over myself instead, so I put the cup back with a clatter.

Don’t make a scene , I told myself. Just get through this festering shit pile that is brunch, and you can vent about it to Ezra later.

Except he had something he wanted to ‘talk’ about later …

I vaguely heard Joe and Chad talking like old friends about how ‘amazing’ and ‘innovative’ and ‘groundbreaking’ Chad’s café-gallery was. If I wasn’t about to have a menty-b, I would have fake vomited into my latte.

As it stood, it would probably turn into real vomit. This place was a stock standard hipster café that served shitty coffee, food that no doubt sounded better than it tasted (and it sounded horrendous) and had Chad’s mediocre, plagiarised art plastered all over the walls. Chad was incapable of groundbreaking. He was incapable of anything remotely approaching an original idea.

I’d found that out the hard way.

“Jemma could learn a lot from your model, I think.” Joe was practically fawning over the lying, thieving, cheating poo-smear. “She still hasn’t accepted that her … art … isn’t quite …”

I stopped listening, focusing on the half-drunk latte art floating on top of my coffee. I think it had been a love heart. It looked completely mangled now. How fitting.

Heat surged behind me. Joe and Chad both looked up from their conversation about me, their faces twin expressions of shock.

A hand found my shoulder, big fingers gripping me gently. A kiss was pressed to the top of my head.

“Morning, Mouse.”