Carter Ortese is Trouble - completed (The Boys #1)

Chapter 9: Carter

Desmond's lighter is at the end of its life, barely sputtering out a flame big enough to ignite the end of his fat blunt. He sucks in a few puffs, and trails of smoke billow around us before disappearing into thin air. A blissful smile crosses his face as he stares at the lit end of his joint.

The alleyway behind the restaurant is quiet, and for the next few minutes, our tables will be too. Des got stuck with a twelve top, and I had two families. Per usual, we placed our orders one after another, so we were able to sneak away for a break once we got their meals and drink orders settled.

The alley is nothing special. There's two upside down wooden crates for employees to take their breaks and one mysterious, locked gate. I've worked here for over a year, and I still have no idea where the black wrought iron bars lead.

Des sucks in a sharp breath and holds the smoke in, passing the blunt to me—or he tries to. I shake my head, smirking. This is a game we play, where he pretends to have no idea I'm as lame as I am, and I pretend he's not doing something illegal while we're supposed to be working.

He shrugs and takes another drag. "So how was it?"

"Honestly, pretty stupid." His eyes widen in surprise. I continue, "There was no real point to it all, you know? The characters had no depth, and while I'm all for zombie gore—"

"I was talking about the girl, dude. How was the girl?"

How was she? Surprising. Emma practically cheered when the zombies devoured the flesh off the father's face, and I think that says a lot about her overall feelings she has toward her own parents. I try not the judge. I'd be upset too if my mom had zero trust in me.

"She's cool."

"She's cool?" Des grunts. "No way. I've heard about this chick more times than I can count—"

"Which isn't very high."

"No, no. I'm very high, thank you. And you can't cop out on the details now. Spill." Des shakes the end of his lit joint at me, as if that's going to change my mind.

"Nothing happened."

"Bullshit."

"I'm telling you. I took her to dinner—"

"Didn't she drive?"

I lean against the cold brick wall, eyes narrowing. "Fine. She took me to dinner, which I paid for."

"Good man."

"And then she paid for the movie, even though she didn't have to, and chose Dead Shore over the sappy romance. But I think The Silver Envelopes would have had a better plot."

"Dude, I don't give a shit about the movie. What about the girl?"

"She drove me home. We talked." I shrug. "That's it."

"That's it," Des repeats. He spits out a glob of sticky saliva onto the pavement. It oozes through the grooves and settles at the bottom of the ciga-rut, the sandy break in the pavement where everyone stubs out their cigarettes in between shifts. "That's boring."

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Something with flare, anything more than that. Maybe a glimpse of side boob?"