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

Chapter 13 - Callie

Those whiskey eyes catch me staring, but they don't admonish, just observe. He must be used to it by now with such an arresting scar in a hard to hide place, but still I rush along my perusal. I have some manners, long drilled in me by a traditional southern mother more afraid of what people would think than what was right. Strong, flat brows make any way he looks more intense and his nose looks to have been broken at least once, but still mostly straight. His mouth is nestled within his closely cropped beard, the same dark brunette as his hair, with a spattering of auburn throughout. His hair echoes Pretty Boy's, long on top and trimmed on the sides. The difference lies in the execution. Where Pretty Boy's looks fresh out of the salon, God appears to have had a professional cut at some point while he maintains it himself. Rough around the edges, just like the man himself.

         Kind of rude of the universe to make me the balance here, but I accept my place. It's not as if the revelation that I'm not some great beauty comes as a surprise. I own a mirror, probably overdue on a cleaning, but despite the streaks I can still see my reflection. Brown hair in need of a cut and definition, brown eyes that over half of the world have, skin that could be a golden tan, but instead just broadcasts to the world that I don't leave my house nearly enough for the sun to have helped me along. Average across the board. Nothing more, nothing less.

         "I can cook a bit, if you need me to. I'd offer to clean, but the place is pretty spotless." Already, Pretty Boy erases the evidence of Rave's outburst. The glass has been swept up and I watch as he meticulously scrubs at the wall and floor. Through it all, Cupid and God relax and eat occasionally throwing a glance my way while carrying on a silent one of their own.

         "God and Rave can both cook and tend to enjoy it. But you're free to take up me and Pretty Boy's rotations. He tends to stick to the major food groups and cook food that's edible cardboard. Think meat and vegetables seasoned with just salt and pepper." He sneaks a glance over at Pretty Boy who I'm pretty sure is listening to every word without looking our way.

"We're convinced he doesn't have taste buds," Cupid answers in between sips of his almost gone beer. "You can sleep in my room tonight and I'll take the couch. I just have to clean it up a bit."

         Pretty Boy and God share a look as God snorts into his fist.

         "Oh, fuck you guys. Your room is so sterile I could eat off every surface," he points at Pretty Boy as though the thought of so much cleaning physically pained him, "and yours," his voice takes on a respectfully playful tone as he turns to God. "Yours is so bare bones, there isn't anything to mess up. A man has to have stuff."

         "A man knows that stuff is just that. Stuff. All the things that truly matter are locked up here," God points to his head as he stands. With a quick glance at my muddy appearance, "There's a bathroom down the hall. Third door on the right. Cupid's clothes should be the closest fit. See you in the morning Calista."

         Cupid huffs like a petulant child at God's retreating back. "I'll grab some clothes for you"