Heathens & Hand Grenades (Book 1 of the Heathens Duet)

Chapter 12- Callie

Everyone seems on edge after Rave's outburst. Or maybe that's just me, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I've upset them obviously. I don't know what to do. If this was him, I'd know. My muscles tense in preparation like that'll make a difference. Pretty Boy's words wash over me like nothing. Empty promises I've heard a thousand times. I'm safe. 'I'm sorry'. 'You just make me so frustrated'. Different words that all mean the same thing. It's always the same cycle of trying to reel me back before the pain.

My skin itches with the need to flee. "I'll clean it up. If you can just point me to a dustpan and broom," I say to the room. "Probably need a mop too," I mutter. With him, the evidence of his outburst would just trigger another one. Damage control is just a survival technique.

With a pointed look to God and a sigh, Pretty Boy stands up. "Sit Bambi. Eat."

I hesitate. The need to clean up the broken glass and sticky foam is clawing at me and every moment it remains feels like a ticking clock for a striking fist or hand shaped bruise.

"Now Bambi," he commands in my ear. Warmth encompasses my back as he stands there, waiting for my compliance.

I dart a glance at Cupid and God, gaging their reactions. God seems like the apparent leader and upsetting him seems like it's worse than Rave somehow. I doubt he'd yell and that'd be worse. Cupid is watching the action like a sporting event, his eyes bouncing between the players, ready for the slightest hint of action.

God looks at nothing, lost in his thoughts as his eyes crinkle and his brows furrow.

My legs act before my conscious thought does and I find myself sitting. There isn't a graceful way to eat tacos; if there is, I've never seen or heard of it. Coupled with the intense hunger and mortification, I find myself inhaling the food in front of me. I'm not expecting the explosion of flavor that hits my tongue. Four men living alone? I'm just grateful for fully cooked and not in a microwave. Juicy ground beef blended with a perfect mix of spices, potatoes, and I'm pretty sure bell peppers, are topped with a splash of lime, chopped onions, and cilantro. I haven't eaten this good since Rachel was living at home.

The moan groan hybrid that escapes me causes Pretty Boy to resume his seat with a nod of approval. Cupid has already demolished half of his plate and smiles up at me with a grin that could melt even the coldest hearts.

"He's the best cook in the house. If it'd been my turn, we be eating frozen waffles, no sides."

Good to know that my expectations for culinary prowess were right on the money with him, makes him feel more like a real boy. Not a boy. Man. No boy looks like that, an Adonis made flesh. There was no way he looks as hot as he does and can cook. That's not to say God is ugly. In fact, he's right up there with Pretty Boy. A jagged scar covers his throat like an infinity scarf, the skin a map of ridges and dips that paint a picture of violence across his throat. Knowing it'd be rude to ask, I refrain. The pain is plain enough for anyone to see, no need for me to dig the knife even further.