I didn't exactly have any friends, certainly not any that would travel all the way to freaking Golden Glades to come visit me after my move. And since I hadn't ordered my groceries or take-out, my mind immediately went to my new neighbors. Worried they might, what? Be upset about the racket I made when I sat quietly in my own home, bothering no one.
I doubted big, scary biker dudes didn't pop over to ask to borrow a cup of milk.
Stomach wobbling, I made my way down the front hallway, suddenly thankful that the door didn't have any windows, so no one could see me approaching, planning to glance out the peephole before I decided if I was going to open or not.
"Open up, Harm. I drove almost a fucking hour to get here," Jones called through the door.
Surprised, I rushed to the door, pulled the locks—I may have added three to the existing one and deadbolt, you know, just in case of a lusty biker invasion—and opened the door.
Then there was my baby brother. Yes, I still had the right to call him that even as he towered nearly a foot over my five-four stature. He appeared taller than that still thanks to the foot and a half of a spiked mohawk made out of his jet-black hair. His somewhat lanky frame was clad in his signature black jeans, black band tee, and a couple of chains. Since turning twenty-two years before, he'd been spending a large chunk of his time—and his money—decorating his skin in various tattoos in a black, grey, and red pattern.
His overall look was so overwhelming that you actually looked past how good-looking he was underneath it all. With the aristocratic features of his father—my step-father—and our mother's cornflower blue eyes, he was classically handsome by any standard.
"Jones, really?" I asked, shaking my head as my gaze landed on his face.
"What?"
"Did you really need to pierce your lip too?" I asked, looking at the small hoop to the left side of his mouth. This was adding to his right eyebrow barbell and the gauges in his ears.
"Had to have something to go with this one," he said, curling his tongue and sticking it out, showing off a metal tongue ring. "The girls love this one."
"Ew, gross," I said, nose scrunching up.
"What's the matter? You're grumpier than usual. Which is saying something, because you're always moody as fuck," he teased, giving me a smirk as he moved in, letting me close the door at his back.
"That," I grumbled, following him into the kitchen, waving an arm out toward the side of the house where the bikers were situated.
"What?"
"The music," I grumbled, dropping down at the small round table to the side under the windows.
"It's not that bad," he said, shrugging.
"Yeah, to you. Who probably blew your eardrums out during your death metal phase in middle school."
"Why does it matter?" he asked, making himself a cup of coffee in my "A wise woman once said 'Fuck this shit' and lived happily ever after" mug.
"Because I have to be careful that the mic doesn't pick it up when I'm recording, or they will copyright strike my videos."
"Record it when the music is off," he said, shrugging.
"It is never off!" Okay, so my voice came out more shrill than I'd intended at that.
"Tell them to turn it down then."
"They're bikers, Jones."
"So what?"
"So, not the weekend warrior type of bikers. The 'I will shoot you for looking at me wrong' kind of bikers."
"Ah, I see. Well, you will figure it out," he said, shrugging.
Jones was that kind of guy. The "everything will shake out" kind. I don't think the man understood the concept of anxiety.
A big part of that might have been the massive trust he'd come into when he'd turned eighteen. He never had anything to worry about.
Me, being the lowly half-sister, the unwanted step-daughter, hadn't gotten anything.
Add that to my whole host of other things to worry about in life, and you could understand why I couldn't just shrug it off and go "eh, something will work out" about my only way of making a living.
"It has to, or I will have to find a new place."
"And go through that cluster-fuck again?" he asked, making my stomach wobble.
I didn't like being reminded about how my issues made it harder on everyone around me who wanted to help.
"I won't have any other choice."
"You know what? I think you've been out here alone for too long," Jones said, throwing back the rest of his coffee in two big gulps. "Let's do something about that."
"Jones... no," I said, shaking my head, feeling the anxiety already start to rise.
"Yes. Come on. Go take a hit, calm down, and meet me at the car."
I knew this debate.
We'd both been given more than our fair share of the stubborn gene when we were born, but Jones had it ten-fold to me. It was likely due to an indulgent father who convinced him "no" was just the beginning of negotiations.