N9ne: The Tale of Kevin Clearwater (King, #9)(57)

She raises her eyebrows and picks a short denim skirt from the bed. “Did you ever think that maybe he wants to protect you and do nice things for you because you’re you? Isn’t that enough of a reason?”

No, it’s not, but I wish it could be.

I glance into the small mirror on the wall beside the bed and catch a glimpse of my reflection. The bags under my eyes. My colorless cheeks. My tousled, long brown hair that I never liked, but Jared insisted would look more professional than my short platinum asymmetrical bob I was sporting when I met him. “No, that thought never occurred to me. But have you seen me lately?” I gnash my teeth and pull in my chin.

Dre laughs and stands behind me, talking to my reflection. “We can fix you up in no time. My Nan loved a good makeover, and lucky for you, she passed me that gene on in spades.” She walks over to the big suitcase she brought and pulls out several pairs of shoes, lining them up against the wall. She leans back, resting her chin on her hand as she looks them over.

I look to my reflection once more and an idea forms. I spin around. “Hey, Dre?”

She looks up from the shoes, “Hmmm?”

I pull the hair tie from my hair and let it fall around my shoulders. I tousle it with my fingers, shaking it loose. “How good are you with hair?”





Chapter Twenty





NINE





Pike texts me that Dre wanted to take Lenny to one of the old homes she’s restoring to get her advice on the value.

I’m not happy they left, but at least, Pike is with them.

I’m drained after court today, but with no reason to head back to the RV just yet, I find myself at my brother’s house.

“I just need to give Tico proof that Lenny isn’t part of this,” I tell him.

“Okay, but what kind of proof? Her name is on all of the paperwork, right?”

I wrack my brain. “There’s got to be something.”

“Take a look at Jared’s computer again. Maybe, you missed something,” Preppy says, walking into the living room.

“Maybe,” I say, knowing that I didn’t. I’ve looked at the fucking thing ten times. There’s nothing pointing to the money and nothing exonerating Lenny. I can’t just sit around and wait for something to happen or not happen. I’m growing impatient with waiting. With not knowing.

“Can you believe that Canada’s Prime Minister is named Justin?” Preppy shouts from the living room.

“Why the sudden interest in Canadian politics, brother?” I respond, emerging from the kitchen with two beers. I hand one to Preppy.

“I’m trying to move some shit in from the good ‘ole north. Figured I should know a little about the fucker trying to put the smackdown on my delivery.”

“Although I’m pretty sure the Prime Minister himself isn’t trying to involve himself in your business personally, I’ll bite. What kind of shit are we talking ‘bout here?” I ask, leaning my elbows across the back of the couch. “First I’ve heard of it.”

Preppy’s smile widens. His voice turns soft. He’s downright awestruck as he speaks. “The finest, purest, grade A maple syrup ever made.”

“Syrup? You’re smuggling in syrup?” I’m not stunned. Preppy’s always up to weird shit. I mean, the man has a framed restraining order from Dr. Dre hanging above the dining room table for some reason no one has yet to explain to me.

“My Preppy-cakes deserve the very best, little bro.” He stands, jumps over the back of the couch and wraps an arm around my shoulders. He holds his hand up to the ceiling like it’s a canvas and he's about to paint me a magical picture. “This syrup isn’t just any syrup. It’s made by Mounties riding ginormous moose bareback in the deep woods of British Columbia. It’s very similar to how the good ‘ole American moon-shiners did things back in the day. And when I get it, I’m going to pour it all over Doc and—”

“Got it,” I cut him off, pushing his arm off of me and slapping at his hand before he can finish making whatever gesture I’m sure I don’t want to see.

Preppy shrugs and turns his attention back to the TV. “I mean really? Justin? What kind of name is Justin? Sounds like a tween actor.” He’s now holding a bowl of Cookie Crisp cereal under his chin, speaking between bites.

I glance up at the screen. Justin Trudeau is waving to a crowd from the back of a car in some parade. “Nah,” I say. “He looks more like a former boy-bander, you know, the one who dropped out of the group first, tried other things. A little real-estate, a little meth, a little house arrest. Eventually, he decides to clean up his act. After some extensive dental work, a shit-ton of Botox, and enough penicillin to cure a small plague, and BAM! He’s back, singing about sweaty, dirty love again while dancing like a cheerleader at a half-time show. Although, now he’s singing to a much older, much smaller crowd, of course. But there is still plenty of panty-throwing honeys to be had. He needs a little blue pill these days to get the job done, but he still manages to slay a fuck-lot of nostalgic choker-wearing bitches, their doc Martins all wrapped around his shoulders like it’s nineteen motherfuckin’ ninety-nine.”

I’m still thinking about other similarities to the Canadian Prime Minister and members of 90’s boy-bands, when I look up to Preppy, whose jaw is on the floor. Milk dribbles down the side of his chin. I think he’s going to say something about us being brothers and the way we both always manage to say the oddest of shit, but he doesn't. There’s a cry from the other room. Then another. He scrunches his nose.