Badly Behaved

“Go to my house,” I say, focused on the road ahead.

No one speaks the entire drive there, not even when Arsen pulls up to the curb in front of the walkway leading to my front door.

I unbuckle, grabbing my purse from the floorboard, and push the door open, stepping out onto the sidewalk.

I turn back, my eyes moving along the three, all staring right at me, and I raise my brows.

“Well...” I draw out. “Are you coming?”

There’s a slight pause, a slow beat of silence, and then all at once, they’re at my side.

We head inside my house.

“Game two, boy!” Beretta claps, high-fiving himself and bumps a shoulder into Arsen, who laughs beside him.

Shaking my head, I set my glass of water in the sink and grab my blanket off the couch, joining Ransom on the balcony.

He holds a vape pen to his lips, and this time, when he blindly passes it my way, I accept.

As I inhale, his eyes slide my way, but only for a second.

We stand there, looking out at the night for a few minutes, nothing but the ocean in front of us.

I spin, leaning my back against the glass and look at him.

“Don’t.” His forewarning is quiet and ignored.

His command could mean anything. It could be his way of telling me not to ask questions about what happened tonight, or it could be related to the last time he was here. It’s probably his way for covering both, but we finally have a minute, so I take it.

“You had no reason to help me out with my car, but you did.”

He frowns, looking straight ahead. “I said don’t.”

“And I don’t care. I would have thanked you sooner had you been around, but you guys were never down the road when I tried, and apparently, school is low on your guys’ list.”

He scoffs, looking away. “Like B said, our lungs had to heal. Claim jobs make for a lot of smoke, and we couldn’t exactly light it and leave it.” His blue eyes find mine. “We had to make sure it was nothing but the frame when it was done.”

I stare a moment. “The cop had said it looked like it was gutted.”

He nods, a bit of a bite in his tone as he shares, “Sold the system to a guy in Irvine. Sold the gym bag in the trunk to a chick in Fountain Valley.” His gaze tightens the slightest bit, as if he’s looking for a reaction.

As if I’ll be upset over the Saint Laurent my mother spent a small fortune on when she insisted my workouts go from three days a week to five.

Keep it tight and he’ll still come home at night—laws of a loveless marriage.

“Well” —I look out at the water behind me, then back to him— “I hope you got a fraction of its worth.”

“I did,” he quickly confirms.

A small smile pulls at my lips and I shake my head, glancing inside the house at the other two.

Beretta tilts and turns his whole body as he plays the game, and Arsen sits beside him, calmly pressing buttons, chuckling at B, as Ransom called him.

“How’d you guys meet?” I wonder.

“Like most kids. At school.”

“Did you go to Harbor Day?”

He scoffs, and we briefly glance toward each other. “No, Jameson, we didn’t go to a private school. We went to Lincoln.”

Right. “Were you in the same class?”

“Nope!” Beretta hops to his feet, gleefully interrupting.

Arsen stands too, following Beretta out to the balcony.

“Arsen, here, was getting his ass beat by a couple eighth-grade assholes,” he shares, his hand on Arsen’s shoulder. “Being the brave dude I am, I jumped in.” He smiles. “Started getting my ass beat, too.”

A low laugh leaves me, and I cut a quick look to Ransom, who grins at his friend.

“And there came Ransom, the motherfucking savior. He whooped all their asses, and then he turned and punched us both for getting ourselves into the situation.”

The four of us laugh.

“We walked home from detention together that day, and every day after that.”

“Friends at first punch. Nice.”

“How about you?” Beretta pulls a cigarette from his pocket, closing the balcony doors so the smoke doesn’t float inside. “How’d you end up with the trust fund kids? Is there like some sort of secret club you all automatically know how to join, submit your bank statements and all that?”

“Maybe.” My eyes widen mockingly. “But if so, I couldn’t tell you, could I?” I joke, and he grins, the stem of his Marlboro stuck between his full lips.

“No, I’ve known Cali and Jules, Scott and some of the others, since I was little.” I look over the house, at the remodel I didn’t even know my mom had done while we were gone and the complete layout change that had to cost a small fortune. “I was born here. My dad bought this house for my mom, and when she remarried, she kept us in it. We left at the end of sixth grade, but they kept the property, just in case, and, well...” I look away, remembering my mom telling me why we were leaving all of our furniture behind, not that any of it’s here anymore. “Here I am.”