Loser || WlW

Six

"It'll be easy. I'll distract him. You search the room." Brittany swerves onto a side street, failing to check her mirrors. Someone honks. She gives him the bird and gasses it. I almost laugh. It must be nice, not having to worry about speeding tickets that would put your family on the street.

"Don't you think Trevor is going to wonder why I'm there with you?" I ask, gripping the leather armrest as she takes another turn too wide.

"Let me deal with Trevor." Brittany checks her lipstick in her rearview mirror at a red light. "Are you nervous or something?" She pops her lips and tosses the lipstick into the glove compartment.

"For Trevor to find me snooping through his room?" I laugh once. "Yeah, I am. Besides, you don't even know if we'll find anything."

"Don't back out on me now." She flips a blonde curl over her shoulder.

"Easy for you to say" I sink deeper into the seat. "Trevor doesn't slam you into lockers."

My phone dings, cutting my attention from Brittany's awful driving.

It's Grace.

You still owe me the story about the giant wound on your head. Coffee tonight? I'll buy.

I sigh.

"You're not even listening to me." Brittany's voice cuts through my focus.

I flip the phone shut. "I'm sorry. What's up?"

Brittany raises an eyebrow. "Someone's crushing. Who is it?" She pops her gum.

"I'm not crushing," I argue.

The car skids to a stop as she slams on her brakes and the horn at the same time. I catch myself on the dashboard and fall back into my seat as the car settles. She follows the guy who cut her off with her middle finger.

I buckle my seatbelt.

"If someone offered to buy you coffee, would you think it was because you're broke and they know it or because they're flirting?" My cheeks go hot before she looks at me.

She slides her glasses down and searches my face. "Has he seen your car?"

"No." I don't correct her assumption that I'm straight.

"What about your house?"

"No."

She pushes her sunglasses back up and continues driving. "He's flirting."

I appreciate her honesty. It's tiring, pretending I have money when everyone knows I don't.

She pulls up to the house with a long wrought iron gate. There's a large brass 'H' on the front and a dial to phone inside and let them know when you've arrived. She messages Trevor we're here and the gate slides open.

"Go time." She tilts her head down, new determination in her eyes.

Trevor meets us by the garage in a white muscle shirt. He holds his bare arms out to hug Brittany but stops when he sees me. "What the hell, Britt?"

She whispers something in his ear, motioning to me.

"Come on in." He nods for us to follow him.

I wonder what she told him. He wouldn't believe her if she said we're friends. And, even though it feels like I'm a child when I'm with her, I'm too old to be tagging along.

I'm close behind Brittany, using her as a guard against anything foreign, which... Let's be real, my house can fit in his garage so everything feels foreign.

Trevor leads us past a dozen cars, all of them shiny, all of them worth enough to pay for me to go to college. We make our way down the hall, through the kitchen, past the three women in uniform who are cleaning, and out to the backyard.

His room is a separate guest house by the pool. I try not to look awestruck as we pass his mother and her personal trainer who are doing yoga on the lawn. Or the hedges that have been trimmed into different animals. Instead, I glance at Brittany who seems bored by the whole experience.

Trevor unlocks the door and does an 'after you' motion with his arm. His room has its own kitchen, dining area, and living room with a bedroom upstairs. He leads us to the bedroom and plops into a bean bag chair in the corner.

"So, what's up Britt?" He rests his hands on his knees, flexing his biceps. I can't help but wonder if he's doing it on purpose.

"I was actually wondering if I could talk to you privately." She raises an eyebrow and he nods.

"Sure thing." He points at me. "Don't touch my shit, weirdo."

I smile, salute him, and wait until their footsteps fade to dig through the papers on his desk. A sigh escapes my lips as I move to the binders in the bookshelf but they're full of homework from classes he paid to get passing scores in. Frustration builds in my chest. This would be so much easier if I knew what I was looking for. I don't know how long Brittany can stall for before he figures out what's going on.

As a last-ditch effort, I lie on the ground and move the navy blue comforter to see under his bed. My heart skips a beat when my eyes adjust to the darkness and find a safe tucked against the wall. There's a keypad on the front, and I begin to dial in 1234 when a dull pounding begins to climb the stairs.

My heart is in my throat. I scan the room for a hint of what the combination might be and try his birth year. No luck. It's not his zip code either. With sweaty palms, I try Claire's birthday but the lock doesn't budge. Doubt is creeping in. What if the safe has an alarm that goes off if I make too many attempts? I take a deep breath. One more try and I'll stop. I type in his jersey number. The lock on the safe clicks.

"Dumbass," I mutter and pull on the handle.

But as I open the safe, my stomach drops. There's nothing. Just an old newspaper. I pull it out and scan the headlines for something when the footsteps get louder. "Shit, shit, shit." I pull my phone out, snap pictures of the newspaper but the images come out blurry. I groan and shove the newspaper back into the safe and slide it under the bed. It's the best I can do with a flip phone.

I hop to my feet, my head spins and I miss my pocket and send the phone crashing to the floor. "Fuck!" I whisper and scramble to pick up the pieces. I'm practically running from the room, pushing the battery into my phone when I remember I need to act natural. I take a deep breath.

Casual.

"Hey, Brittany?" I call as I push the nearest door open.

Trevor has his back to me; his pants are down around his ankles. Brittany's legs are wrapped around his waist, as Trevor holds her against the wall, his pasty ass flexing as he thrusts into her. Brittany glances over his shoulder, uninterested.

"Shit! Sorry, sorry!" I slam the door and run from the miniature mansion, past Mrs. Hemmett, and straight to Brittany's car. My hands are still shaking as I sink into the passenger seat. I'll never be able to get the image of Trevor's albino butt out of my head.

It's not long before Brittany makes her way back to the car and throws her purse in the back. Her hair is tousled. She opens the glovebox and reapplies lipstick in the mirror. "Did you get anything?" she asks, turning the car on.

"One of us sure did." I cross my arms over my chest.

She rolls her eyes and does a three-point turn in the driveway. "What's up your ass?"

"That's your sister's boyfriend," I say, motioning toward the house. "We don't even know if she's dead and you're fucking her boyfriend."

Brittany's knuckles go white around the steering wheel. "Did you find anything or not?" Silence hangs in the air.

My eyes go wide. I've never heard Brittany yell before.

"Just an old newspaper in a safe. I took pictures but..." I pull the pieces of my phone from my pocket.

"Can you fix it?" she asks.

I shrug. "Probably."

She pulls onto the street too fast. Her tires screech against the pavement. "I hope so," she says. "Trevor's not as good in bed as you'd think."