Shine - Lauren Myracle [36]
“I wish you hadn’t,” I said softly.
“You and me both. You know who else had strong opinions about it?”
“Patrick,” I said.
“Yeah. I tried to keep it from him, but he found out, and once he did, I was done for. You’re ruining your life. You’re smarter than this. Harp, harp, harp. Nag, nag, nag.”
“Good for him,” I said.
“I know,” Beef said. “I owe him my life. He’s . . .” His throat clogged up, and he looked away for a long moment.
When he turned back, he said, “I’ll tell you one thing, Cat. I ever catch you using, I’ll kill you.” His stare burned into me. “If someone offers you a line? You walk the fuck away.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I said.
“I ain’t playing. You start tweaking, and next thing you know, people’ll be dancing on your grave. Hell, you start tweaking, I’ll put you in your grave.”
“Don’t worry, Beef. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m just sayin’.”
“And I’m just saying, too.” The moment stretched out. “So, back to that night.”
He groaned.
“You were with Patrick,” I said. “Who else was with you? Christian? Tommy?”
Beef didn’t answer, so Dupree replied for him. Guess he’d been paying attention after all.
“Tommy and your brother both,” Dupree said in his lazy drawl. He hopped the counter and loped over to our table. “And don’t forget yours truly. We had all our party people with us that night, didn’t we, Beef-man?”
Dupree ticked off names on his fingers. “Me, Tommy, Beef, and your brother. We had a shortage of ladies, unfortunately. Just Bailee-Ann.”
Well, of course, Bailee-Ann. She was Beef’s girlfriend.
“Where were y’all?” I asked.
“Chillaxing at the Frostee Top,” Dupree said. The Frostee Top belonged to Bailee-Ann’s parents. Until they went out of business, they sold chocolate dipped cones and milkshakes and stuff. But the Frostee Top went under when the economy went bad, and now it was an empty building with a giant plaster ice-cream cone on the roof. Bailee-Ann and those guys used it as a place to party.
“Oh, and Bailee-Ann’s little brother,” Dupree said with a stoner’s delight in remembering a hazy detail. “Yeah. Robert. He was there, too.”
“Robert?” I said. Robert was eleven, scrawny and hyper because of fetal alcohol syndrome. At least that’s what Aunt Tildy said. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was a kid. Why would Robert be hanging out with Beef and Dupree and the others?
“He’s a trip, man,” Dupree said, chuckling. He reeked of pot. I couldn’t tell if he was stoned right then or if it was eau de weed left over from the previous night.
“Why is he a trip?” I said.
“Oh, I dunno,” Dupree said. He tilted his chair on its back legs. “He brings it back, you know? Youth. Childhood.” His gazed dreamily at a spot behind me. “Not a care in the world.”
Uh-huh, whatever. “But Patrick. He joined up with y’all eventually. Was that at the Frostee Top?”
“Nah, we didn’t see Patrick till later. We ran out of libations, so Tommy suggested a beer run.”
To the Come ’n’ Go, that would have meant. Patrick wouldn’t sell beer to Mario Mario and his college buddies, but he’d sell it to Tommy and the others. It was the small town code of honor: There were outsiders, like the college boy townies, and there were insiders, like the redneck posse. And the redneck posse had accepted him into their ranks, after all.
“I was against it,” Beef said. Anger simmered below his words.
“How come?” I asked.
“’Cause he’s a big ol’ party pooper,” Dupree said.
“Shut up,” Beef growled.
“Party pooper,” Dupree sang under his breath.
Beef shoved the table, driving it into Dupree’s chest and tipping over his chair. “Shut the fuck up. What about that don’t you understand?”
“Ow,” Dupree said from the floor. His chair lay on its side. He rubbed his butt and said, “Uncool, bro.”
My stomach twisted. “God, Beef.”
“Don’t you start,” he warned. “I’m sick of everybody riding me. I’m sick of people thinking I’m the jerk just because I’m not a fucking puppet, all right?” He gave Dupree, who was