He laughs. “Disgust? That’s a little strong—”
“No. Trust me, it’s real y not strong enough. If you’l excuse me, I have actual constructive things to do—”
“What in al of your altruistic training authorizes you to differentiate between hopeless and salvageable?” he asks, ignoring my attempt to dismiss him. Something about his choice of words and his deadly calm tone makes me look up as he towers over me.
I stand slowly. He’s at least eight inches tal er and we’re not two feet apart in the smal space, but this boy doesn’t scare me. I see right through his arrogant indignation, so accustomed to getting what he wants that denial is incomprehensible. In al honesty there might be something worthwhile in there, but it doesn’t matter because he’l never acknowledge its existence. I’m calm, because now I know why I felt such a wave of melancholy when I met him.
“Like you said—you don’t want saving, Reid. That makes any effort pointless, assuming I planned to bother trying—which I do not.” My voice is as composed as his, but my anger has fal en away while his stil radiates from him like heat waves off of pavement.
“Mr. Alexander, your car is here,” Roberta says from the doorway.
“Thanks,” he says without turning.
I squat down and dip into the thinset again, smear another glob on the wal and begin to smooth it out. Hyper-aware of the fact that he’s stil next to me, I refuse to acknowledge him further. He can stand there until his legs col apse for al I care.
“So you only rescue those who fit into your preordained notions of worth? Doesn’t seem like much of a victory.
Seems discriminatory and hypocritical, in fact.” He turns and walks out, the front door slamming a moment later.
So ends day three. Holy Moses, this is going to be tougher than I thought.
I didn’t mean to let it get to this point, I honestly didn’t.
Like driving in freeway traffic, Reid just brings out the devil in me.
Tomorrow, we’l prime the baseboards, doors, and bathroom cabinets. I’d like to finish tiling the master bath, but it’s foolish to perform tasks that require a steady hand when angry. The tile needs to be perfectly level, not a crooked mess. I take a deep breath, and then another. I have an hour or two until Dad gets here—plenty of time to push Reid from my mind and get a good start on this shower.
Except for a nagging insinuation, one I’m not even sure he’s aware of having made. I cal ed him a hopeless case, and he cal ed me a hypocrite for writing him off as someone not worth saving—right after tel ing me he doesn’t need saving.
I don’t like having to modify my position once I’ve chosen one, but that doesn’t make me incapable of doing so. So I can’t help wondering—was he merely set on winning a verbal battle, or did Reid Alexander just tel me he wants to be rescued from himself?
Chapter 7
REID
You disgust me. This is such an unprecedented statement that I have no idea what to do with it. If she was anyone else, I’d reject it as prejudice because I’m young, famous, rich, entitled—I’ve heard it al , or thought I had. The only other reason for unreasonable animosity is the random girl who doesn’t turn out to be the love of my life after a hot one-nighter—and is somehow surprised by this. Please.
Could Dori be resentful that I haven’t made an effort to get into her unfashionable shorts? I thought I had her pegged as the sort who wants nothing short of respect, though she can take a fair amount of mockery and come back curiously unperturbed. She may be the most patient person I’ve ever encountered, besides George. No matter what I do, including showing up an hour late with a massive hangover, she tolerates it. Maybe that’s her weird way of showing attraction. Maybe there’s a girl under those ginormous t-shirts who just wants attention like the rest of them.
Or maybe I’d add a sexual harassment charge to the drunk driving conviction.
Three weeks and two days to go. I’ve worked on movie sets that were way more grueling, endured costars who were ridiculously unprofessional and survived directors whose tyrannical outbursts would send Dori running for cover. Three and a half weeks and I’l be back to my life.
***
John is about to chew through my last nerve. He and some other guys want to go out tonight. There are no unlame parties, so they’ve decided to bounce through a few clubs.
And since we’re al underage, they want me along because I can usual y get us al in anywhere, plus VIP treatment.
Most nights, no problem. Happy to oblige. Tonight, I’m dead—and I already had a couple of seven and sevens to cool down after that exchange with Dorcas. The last thing I need is noise, people and paparazzi. I just want to stay home and flip through the channels until I fal asleep, so I can get up again tomorrow and take a hired car to a pathetic unfinished house that I’m helping to build and landscape… God, what an out-of-character inclination.
John is having none of it. “Come on, man, just a couple of hours. Why not?” He’s like a whiny toddler. A self-absorbed, ful -grown, 19-year-old toddler.
“Because I’m exhausted and sunburned and have to get up at the crack of ass again tomorrow, not that you give a shit.”
“It’s summer!”
“So?”
“Time to go out and party, not hibernate!”
“John, we live in Los Angeles. It’s never time to hibernate. Whatever. I’m dead. We’l go out Friday.”
“Fine,” he says, dejected. “If me and the guys are bored to death by then, it’s on you.”