Page 77 of Malaise
“It’s fine.”
“Don’t worry about it.” They speak in unison.
The corner of the room feels that bit more inviting all of a sudden. I melt against the wall as Tanya opens the fridge door and gestures to the beverages stacked on one of the lower shelves.
“What’s your pick?”
“Juice is great, thanks.”
Tanya thumbs in my direction while she lifts an eyebrow at Carver. “She realises it’s like midnight on a Saturday, right?”
“What?” I tease in return. “It’s odd that I want juice to drink, but perfectly normal that you’re at home painting your nails alone?”
She grins, and a feeling that we’ve just cemented a lifelong friendship makes me smile too.
“She’s definitely my favourite, Brett.”
I look across to find him watching me with a slight smile. “Yeah. She ain’t so bad.”
Tanya retrieves a two-litre bottle of juice from the fridge with stiff fingers and shuts the door, then collects a clean glass from the cupboard and lays it all out on the counter without damaging her nails. I walk across and lean over the side opposite to her as she pours the drink, resting my elbows on the laminate surface.
“Have we got company?” The question resonates off every surface of the room, the voice deep and husky, just as I remember.
I stand ramrod straight, any misconstrued ideas that this mightn’t have gone so badly after all long gone.
“Dad.” Tanya places the juice bottle down on the counter before her shaking hand sends the contents everywhere. “You scared the shit outta me.”
“Meg.” Carver beckons me to his side, and I waste no time in obeying.
His father is one intimidating son of a bitch. If I thought first impressions of Carver were rough, then this guy is something else entirely. He stands a whole head shorter than Carver, but what he lacks in height he well makes up for in stature. The man has a stocky, muscular body that has been clearly honed out of need rather than want. Tattoos adorn his arms and neck, just like his son, but he also sports a few more in prominent spots over his face. Where Carver has a small letter R at the edge of his eye, his father has a full swastika on his temple, rough and probably done in someone’s back room rather than a legit parlour. Lettering is etched into his bald scalp, but I daren’t look long enough to read it. His white T-shirt pulls tight over his barrel chest, and the man looks like an extra straight out of Romper Stomper with his stonewash jeans and loose suspenders at his sides. Even his fucking socks have swastikas. What the hell? Isn’t this shit dead?
“You brought a girl home, son, and you didn’t think to introduce the lovely lass to your old man?”
“We were heading through to see you after I poured her drink,” Tanya answers for Carver.
I twist my head to glance up at him and soon see why. His eyes are narrow slits, his nostrils flaring, and his neck corded with subdued rage.
No love lost here, then.
“This where you been the last week then?” Carver’s father asks. “Hiding her away from your old man in case she prefers the real thing?”
I feel Carver’s chest twitch beside my shoulder, his arm tight around me as though the slightest lapse in concentration could mean I’m whisked away by the devil himself. “Where’s Deb?”
“Out with the other fucking tarts.” He lifts one side of his top lip in a sneer at the thought. “Probably be home later, half off her tits and stinking like some other cunt.”
Is this man for real? Whoever the fuck Deb is, the way he talks about her has me reconsidering my safety around the jerk. I edge into Carver’s hold as he bristles with pent-up energy. I almost want him to lose control and take the bastard down. Who the hell talks about a woman—relative or not—like that?
“Well, if you won’t introduce us,” his father barks, “I might as well.” He moves his stone-cold stare from Carver and swings it my way, the lines around his eyes softening as he does. “Jon Carver.” A thick hand is thrust my way. “Nice to meet you, love.”
I accept—what other choice do I have—and shake his warm hand. A calloused thumb rubs my wrist before Jon lets go and steps across to where Tanya returns the juice to the fridge. “Grab us another while you’re in there, love.”
“Here.” She passes him a dark bottle of beer with a smile. It’s forced, it’s obligatory, but it’s a smile nonetheless.
Jon either doesn’t mind or doesn’t care. I suspect both explanations fit the cocky bastard. He heads back through to the lounge, swagger in his stride, toes pointed out, and shoulders set firm.
I release the breath I didn’t realise I’d held as Tanya slides the glass of juice across the counter for me. “Sorry about him, sweets,” she whispers. “You’ll get used to it.”
“Whoa,” is all I can muster as I stand there wide-eyed and in shock.
Guess Carver wasn’t so wrong when he said my family aren’t that bad, all things considered. At least my dad doesn’t alienate half of society through his choice of tattoos alone.
Carver’s arm snakes around my shoulders, pulling my back flush against his front. I sag into his hold as he places a gentle kiss to my temple and murmurs, “Welcome home.”