Just Roll With It: a Just Us novel (22 page)

I am seriously going to duct tape his mouth shut.

At least we didn't end up in a holding cell the second time around. No, this time we are standing on the side of the road, in Canada, in February, with no coats on, because apparently they need to be searched as well, while we watch strangers tear our car apart. We were told to leave everything in the car, including wallets and purses. I can see them pull everything out of our bags, throwing our shit around when they're done looking. No common courtesy whatsoever.

"They're not going to find anything anyways," Lyle scoffs.

"Looks like they found something," Roman says and points.

We all turn our attention to the car to see the three Border Patrol men inspecting something with confused looks on their faces.

Oh, no. No, no, no. This cannot be happening
.

They press the button on the small object in question and jump at the start of it.

Okay, this is actually happening.

One of them tosses it to the other one in disgust, and then the second guy tosses it back as if it's a grenade about to go off. All three stand still for a moment, in surprise no doubt. At once, they all begin laughing. Hard. I watch in complete horror as they settle down and try to contain themselves.

"What is that?" Roman squints his eyes to try to get a better look.

"Not mine," Enzo, Marty and Lyle all say.

I start fidgeting, in part from the cold and part from embarrassment. "C'mon, these guys are so unprofessional. I mean, it's not that funny," I think aloud, waving my hand toward the scene.

"If that's what I think it is, then yeah, it is kind of funny." Marty looks at me and shrugs one shoulder.

I give her my best eat shit and die look in return. I was comforting the girl not ten minutes ago, and now she's turned on me.
Traitor
.

The three men come walking up to us with my gadget, which they politely placed in a plastic bag.

"Which one of you does this item belong to?"
Really? How is who the thing belongs to relevant?

"It's mine," I try saying with as much dignity as possible.

"Well, ma'am, I'm sorry, but any item of which is purposely made to replicate or imitate any other item, is required to be inspected. While doing so, I think we broke it. We apologize." The man did a pretty good job of talking with a straight face. What he really wanted to say was "We broke the doodad you use on your hoohaw when we played an unintended, yet violent, game of hot potato with it" but I don't think they're legally allowed to say that in so many words.

He hands me the plastic bag currently holding my metallic pink clit vibrator that doubles as a functioning pen. It's called the "Dear John" and it's actually very useful and incredibly discreet, as in it looks like a pen until you press the button. Well, it was discreet, until three Border Patrol men got ahold of it, anyway.

We dropped Marty off at her house and now we're on our way back to Canada. Again. At the rate we're going we'll get to the show by the headlining band, which is who we're going to see, but we'll barely make it. I would've liked to have been early. It's an anxiety thing. Enzo knows it too. My knee has been shaking, and I've been tapping my fingers repeatedly. Enzo places his hand on my knee and gives me a look, silently telling me, "It'll be fine."

"So, do you really use your thing?"

"Lyle!" I shout and then groan into my hands.

"What? I'm just asking." He shrugs his shoulders.

"Leave it alone, man," Roman tells him.

"Yeah, I really don't need to know what she does behind closed doors in her room," Enzo says, and then makes a motion like he's shivering.

"Oh, please, like how I don't know what you do in that room of yours? You guys don't even want to know what I've walked in on."

"I am never gonna live that down, am I?" he complains.

"You wouldn't let me, either, if the tables were turned."

"Wait, what are we talking about? Please don't tell me my girlfriend walked in on you yanking on your cock."

Enzo snorts. "It's not like I asked her to walk into my room."

"It's not like you locked your door," I remind him while I give him a dirty look.

"All right, guys, it's been a long drive, and we're all a little testy, but can we please act like grown—"

"Ouch! He pinched me!" I screech.

"You two, stop it right now or I'm going to pull this car over!"

"It's getting too hot in here," Lyle whines out of the corner of his mouth.

Roman glances at him and states, "It's February."

"February ain't got shit on four people breathing for five hours in a tiny ass car. I'm rolling the window down."

"No! Don't roll the window down it's—"
Insert sound of breaking glass here "
—broke." Roman lowers his head, shakes it, and sighs loudly.

You have got to be kidding me. I'll say one thing, never again will I ever think to myself, "At least it can't get much worse" because trust me, it can.

An hour later, and we finally arrive at our destination. I've been in the back seat, huddled up against Enzo to stay warm, for long enough. I peer up at Lyle in the passenger seat while we find a spot to park and I revel in him shivering his ass off. He's getting the brunt of the cold wind, seeing as how he's the one right next to the broken window.

At least he isn't whining about being too hot anymore. Cup half full.

Sometimes you just need to punch a fucker in the face. I had spotted this guy from across the venue staring at Bug a couple of different times.
I get it, dude, she's hot, but she's also mine.
It doesn't matter how good a girl looks if she's with another man. You just don't. At least, that's the code I've always kept. Whatever. I'm not even sure what a preppy, straight-laced, jock-cock is doing at punk show in the first place. Hey, if the guy wants to be a creepy fucker then let ‘em, but c'mon, he's acting straight up unreal. Bee is enjoying herself, dancing around with us not noticing, but the prick continues to eye her … and me.

Finally, after Rigbee walked away with Enzo at one point, he got the balls to approach me—kind of. He walked by like he was going to slide past me, then shouldered me at the last second. Fucking hard, too. Now, he has the audacity to stop and turn toward me with sarcasm and a fake apologetic look on his face. Like, sorry it was an accident, but not really.

"Sorry, bro. So are you, like, one of those people? The Emo kind? Does that get the chicks hot and bothered for you or something?"

There's that damn word again "
bro
". You know what kind of men use the word "
bro
"? I do. I know the kind of men who use the word "
bro
" and this jerk-off is definitely of the kind.

"Dude, don't ask me if I'm Emo, man. I didn't, randomly but purposely, shoulder shove you and then go on to ask if you were a dipshit, faux-intellectual, pompous ass, pinky prick."

He swings at me. That just happened. Stuffy little uptight prep boy took a swing at me. I duck, of course. He didn't ever have a chance. Years of paintball, dodging and swerving, has me conditioned for a fight.

I come back up with a rage I can physically feel coursing through my blood stream. Every muscle twitches with urge and anticipation.
Reel it in, Rome.
Rigbee would probably be pissed if she had to bail you out of jail in a foreign country.

"Go ahead, come at me. Punch me," he spews at me, spit flies out of his mouth alongside of his words. He takes a step forward with his hands out to his sides, face all up in my face, like the cliché drunk rich guy in every goddamn movie.

"I would, man, but I'm trying to impress my girl tonight, and I don't want the smell of douchebag on my hands when I'm doing it."

He puts his hands on his hips, hangs his head, and lets out a laugh lined with depraved sarcasm.

Raising his eyes to glare at me, he coughs, "Emo bitch."

Sometimes you just need to punch a fucker in the face. So, I land the last punch, on my first try.  

"I saw him holding your hand," Lyle walks up behind me on the venue floor and shouts to me over the piercing loud filler music they're using between bands.

We got here just in time to see the second opening band, so now most of us, including Roman, are taking the time in-between sets to use the bathroom.

"And?" I ask to the cause of Lyles random observation.

"He doesn't. At least, I have never seen him hold a girl's hand. Ever. Not even Amy's. And I've known him a long ass time, through each girl he's ever had."

"Really?" I raise my eyebrows in surprise. "Why?" I ask him, knowing I look like my ears perk up like a dogs.

"Honestly, I don't know. I've never felt the need to ask him. I figured it was something he didn't do, but now, here you are."

"Huh. I'll have to ask him about the odd fact." He's officially piqued my curiosity; if that was his intention, then well played, Lyle, well played.

I catch Roman's figure standing next to me out of the corner of my eye. Leaning in, he places a kiss to the side of my neck and then grabs my hand, intertwining our fingers one torturous touch at a time. I didn't even see him walk up, it's as if he materialized beside me at a molecular level. Him being so close to me, I am feeling some other things at a molecular level.

"Here, take Rigbee to go get a shirt." He hurriedly hands Lyle a wad of cash. When the money is being exchanged, Roman's hands catch my attention. They are bloody as hell, the knuckles on his right hand are broken open. He jerks his hand away fast, shoving them in his pockets, and I know he's trying to hide it from me. Doesn't matter, though, because good ol’ Lyle won't let the bloody knuckles go, either.

"Dude, what the fuck happened!"

"Oh, my god, are you okay? What did you do to your hand?" I yell at him, my voice hoarse already from talking over the music.

He shifts his weight and doesn't look at me when he says, "It's fine. Leave it alone."

"It's so not fine. Tell me what happened, now." I stomp my foot and point to the ground like I'm scolding a misbehaved child.

He runs both hands through his hair and grumbles, "I kind of don't want to tell you."

I stand there, an unwavering glare spotlighting my face. Seriously, what happened to "Mr. Honest to a fault" and "I'm going to always be myself", huh?

"Fine!" he relents and throws his hands up in frustration. "I punched some fucker in the face. Are you happy now? Are you glad you know?"

"Yes," I nod my head and say with a straight face.

"You're not pissed?" He cocks his head to the side, looking confused and unsure.

"Pissed my boyfriend is a badass? Nope, not in the least," I answer, unconcerned and shrugging my shoulders.

I turn around and snatch the cash still in Lyle’s hand before he realizes it even happened, and I make my way to the merch table.

"Don't you even want to know why?" Roman yells back at me through the distance I've already put between us.

I turn my head halfway, glancing back at him. I cup a hand around my mouth and shout back, "No," and continue my trek to get my t-shirt I was promised.

"Hasn't tonight been one giant shit show after another?"

I turn around from my place in line to a very hammered Enzo.

"It's been all right since we got here. I'm having fun, are you?" I ask.

"Oh, yeah. Sooo much fun," he slurs at me, then lifts his beer into a cheers.

"Are you okay, what are you trying to do?" I ask, concerned, because he doesn't seem himself.

"Drown my sorrows, of course. Hey, isn't that a name of a song the band sings? No? It should be. But for real, I think it is."

He starts to sway, and it's not to the music. I officially think he's had enough. I go to grab his beer from him, but he swipes it away at the last second, my hand catches nothing but empty air.

He hugs it to his chest and yelps, "Mine." Like those annoying seagulls in
Finding Nemo
.

"I know, but you've had plenty already. I think it's time for some water."

"What is it you said to me, Bee? I don't need you to save me. Yeah, I think that was it. I'm single, and I'm a ming-ga-ling-ga-ling, so back off and save your saving for someone who ss-ssh-sh-shit, what was I saying? Don't even matter." He shrugs and takes a sip.