BAD LAD

8. Katherine

I follow with enthusiasm. He seems to notice and the corner of his mouth curves into an amused smile while he’s revving the engine.

“And your old man in all this mess... he didn’t do anything?”

His abrupt question freezes me for a moment.

“I don’t even know who that is.”

I tried to speak matter-of-factly, as if this detail didn’t matter and, honestly, I’d love that to be the case.

Chris nods several times. Nothing is shocking for him here. His taking the fact that I was born of an unknown father as a simple detail relaxes me slightly.

“I don’t have the same father as Mel and Julie.”

My detail brings an unusual expression both cool and charming to his mouth.

“Two blondes with green eyes... and a redhead with translucent peepers. Yeah, it’s pretty obvious.”

“I could be like my mother,” I retort, studying him.

He tilts his head to the side and keeps his concentration on the traffic.

“This means that’s not the case.”

I refrain from commenting and am content to scrutinize him while he’s driving his superb Pontiac. His square jaw was devoured by stubble, which nails his bad boy look. His tattoos going back up to his ear are a series of dark-ink designs with black shading and those on his left bicep reveal a dragon’s leg, a male face, and a series of intricate and mesmerizing designs. Those on the inside of his left arm are the least accessible to me visually.

“You falling in love?” he raises an eyebrow over his sunglasses.

I emit a growl that strongly resembles a muffled chuckle.

“There’s no risk.”

A long slow smile spreads over his mouth. “It’s better for you.”

“You’re not my type.”

It’s childish of me, I’m aware, but the arrogance of this annoys me.

“Because you have a type?” he laughs.

“Yeah, you’re the opposite.”

His smile widens.

“Go ahead, amaze me.”

I refuse to take the bait and cross my arms over my chest before I practically stick my nose to the window.

“Come on... I’m curious. Wait, I’ll try to guess... the rapper type who listens to hip-hop, am I right?”

He laughs as if the idea itself was a joke. I sink into the comfortable seat, increasingly sulky.

“I would put my hand in the fire you’ve never even had a boyfriend!”

Hearing him burst out laughing making fun of me bristles me.

“Of course, yes!” I hiss through my teeth turning abruptly in his direction.

Chris takes off his glasses to stick one of the arms between his teeth and gives me a brief mocking glance.

“In kindergarten?” he suggests, at the edge of laughter.

“No! Two years ago, when I was still at school.”

I don’t know what obscure reason compelled me to admit that to him to close his big mouth... but he has done well in getting to me.

“A bet... probably.”

“Asshole!”

He bursts out laughing again.

“I was joking... don’t make a face,” he tries to coax me then tickle my ribs with one hand while the other holds the steering wheel.

I wave furiously then send him a finger. He sighs.

“You’re sulking?”

I keep my nose glued to my door window.

“Crazy-spear...? Hey, oh!”

“Stop calling me that, it’s boring. I have a name,” I growl.

“Katherine...”

He pronounces it in such a way that the red rises to my cheeks and I thank god he can’t see.

“Kate,” I immediately correct.

“Kathe... rine.”

“Kate! KATE! Hell, are you deaf or something?”

This guy’s damned laughter, which is massively charming, comes out of his throat yet again and I feel like a pressure cooker ready to explode.

“You’re so funny, especially when you’re pissed.”

“Distracting your sad existence delights me,” I throw back, sarcastic as I please.

“No. (He shakes his head.) My life is cool. I like it. Drink, f**k, laugh. The good three.”

I look up to the sky.

"Carpe diem."

He gives me a puzzled look:

"Carpe... what?"

Now, it’s me who’s surprised.

“Carpe diem. It means, basically, living day to day without worrying about tomorrow. You never learned that in school?”

Chris doesn’t seem to take offense at all. He just shrugs in a fatalistic gesture, then puts his glasses on his nose.

“I never even finished high school. Books, all that, it’s not my thing.”

I don’t answer, my mind wonders about the kind of childhood he had. He takes my silence for an invitation to explain further:

“I didn’t like school, you see? And what you need to know to survive in my environment... you can’t find in books or from teachers who want only one thing: the kids quietly falling into line. Well... I don’t care that much about their crap.”

Something touches me in his way of telling me.

He glances at me and then repeats several times in a row, suddenly uncomfortable.

“What? I said something weird?”

“Not really. I even tend to agree with you.”

A real smile appears on his lips and he nods.

“Here we are!” he sings.

His apartment is huge and has all the latest high tech gadgets. From the TV to the game console... or should I say consoles. When our eyes meet, he smiles, guessing the silent question that itches me.

“It falls of things... a truck.”

“It’s amazing the growing number of clumsy drivers,” I reply.

His grin widens and his grey eyes sparkled.

“You’ve no idea.”

I swallow a laugh and remain where I stand, not even daring to move. I’m in what looks like a huge dining room whose furniture is invaded by an indescribable disorder.

“I understand your invitation better... my sister and housework, not one of her hidden talents.”

He laughs again.

“Yeah, sure: her talents lie elsewhere,” he approves.

I sigh.

“Spare me the details. Well... where do I sleep?”

“In my bed.”

I turn white then a genuine laugh shakes him from head to toe.

“f**k! You should see your face! You’re too much, I swear!”

I throw him a murderous look and purse my lips. He wipes the corner of his eyes, bursting out laughing every two seconds, intermittently, until his insane laughter finally disappears for good.

“I’m never in my bed, little virgin. Most of the time, when I sleep here, I crash on the sofa because I’m too drunk to find my room without a damn GPS. Your new digs are next to Mel.”

Great. The rooms are next to each other. I’ll have to sleep with the disgusting sounds of their c****s.

“By the way, where’s Mel?” I ask.

Chris shrugs then goes up to a door which he pushes with a foot. The interior is a real mess with piles of dirty and clean laundry—or just dirty laundry—and stacks of CDs in packaging. I look at the walls where naked women are pinned without an order of preference in suggestive poses, and American cars of the 1960s.

“What a lovely, cosy cocoon...” I mumble.

“Your sister could return in five minutes or five days, then don’t think too much and live as you see fit.”

I nod, not the least bit surprised.

“There are rules?” I inquire while moving some black jeans with the tip of my Converse to at least see the colour of the floor.

He turns to me, frowning, having just dropped my boxes on the unmade bed that appears not to have been straightened for ages.

“What do you mean rules?”

“Curfew, that sort of thing.”

Chris shakes his head at me, meaning that he has nothing like this.

“Drugs, alcohol, s*x?” I insist on saying—there must be some ban observed to avoid any problems with him.

But no, he continues to look at me, both amused and puzzled.

I raise my arms in the air, exasperated:

“Damn! I can even arrange an orgy without this bothering you?!”

“If you invite me, I don’t see where’s the problem.”

I open my mouth, ready to hurl him all the curse words in my repertoire when I noticed the joyful glow illuminating his grey eyes and change my mind: he’s still laughing at me.

“I think I can largely trust you to know what’s good or not for yourself. I’m not your father or your brother. You’re a big girl who has played her cards so far without landing in a reform school... so, I’ve got to invent damn rules so you can breathe easy?”

I blush immediately. It sounds like a compliment in his mouth, not an insult... super destabilizing.

“All right,” I mumble. “I guess I can pay reasonable rent if I take care of the housework and food?”

I try not to let through too much hope in my tone, and his silence makes me confront his eyes once more. He still has that stupid smile of the guy who could explode just listening to me rattle off nonsense—or rather what he considers to be nonsense.

“I think that’ll do the trick, deal.”

“You’re a nice guy, you just hide it so well!” I try with humour.

His smile fades in a second.

“f**k, no. Certainly, don’t imagine that. It’s just that...”

“... that...?”

“That...” he repeats mechanically, without knowing clearly how he wants to finish his sentence, for all his impassioned remarks. “The point is, you can clean this s**t, as agreed, yeah.”

And he suddenly flees from the room as if Father Stephen had, to him also, suggested going to the confession box.