Flock (The Ravenhood)

Laundry.

For the past fifteen minutes, that’s what Sean and I have been sorting. And not just Sean’s laundry, but Tyler and Dominic’s as well.

“Is there a reason we’re washing your roommate’s clothes too?”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s their laundry, that’s why.”

“You do shit for your friends, right?”

“Yeah, like picking up the dinner check once in a while or painting their nails. I don’t spray and wash their thongs.”

“This is better.”

“How so?”

“Because who likes doing laundry?”

I do. I like doing laundry, because of Sean. He makes menial tasks a hell of a lot more fun, especially when he runs his crotch along mine where I sit perched atop a washer, leaving me wanton, wondering if it was purposeful before his lips lift.

Bastard.

He plays mind games with me all the time, which keeps me on my toes. A lot of the time it’s wordplay, most of the time sexual suggestion I would miss if I wasn’t paying attention. But I don’t miss it, because Sean edges me, constantly, sometimes to the point of tears, until I’m begging.

He’s a bit of a sadist, and I love it.

Every part of the last week has felt like the honeymoon phase of our relationship, or whatever this is. I haven’t spent much time thinking about it because he’s given me no reason to worry. Though he’s shit at phone conversations, rarely ever keeping his phone on him, leaving my texts unanswered for hours, we spend most of our now time together.

He loads coins into the slots as I glance around the rundown room full of battered machines. “You do have a laundry room at home, right?”

“Your point?”

“Just saying, you guys probably would save money, in the long run, buying used machines off the web or something.”

He locks his strong arms around me and leans in, running his nose along mine. His sunglasses rest on the crown of his head, a heather grey T-shirt stretches along his muscular chest as he crowds me. Fingering the waistband of his jeans, I inhale his sunshine scent deep, lost in the feel of him and almost forgetting about our conversation. Indecent as it may be, I lock my legs around him, my shorts riding high up my thighs.

He looks down between us, running his knuckles along the flesh of my inner thigh. “I love your long legs and this place right…” he grips my hair and gently tugs, exposing my neck before placing a soft kiss at the hollow of my throat, “here.”

“Hmmm, what else?”

“I’ll give you the CliffsNotes.”

He kisses the skin just below my ear and then lifts my hand, pulling my wrist to his lips. He runs a finger along the top of my tank, just above my cleavage and traces it slowly before cupping my face, running his thumb along my cheek.

“This face of yours,” he murmurs, planting soft kisses on my forehead, my eyelids, tracing the faint freckles on my nose before settling on my lips. His gentle kiss draws me in before he deepens it, capturing my moan as I melt into his hold. He doesn’t give a damn about the perception of others. He’s constantly touching me in public and private—no holds barred, no shits given. He claims me daily and holds little back now as he possesses my mouth fully, while I sink into him. I’ve never known affection like this, not ever.

He’s made every man preceding him a liar and shamed them within just weeks of his attention, his affection.

This is why I love doing laundry—or anything—with Sean.

With him, I’m in a constant state of arousal and intrigue. The man is oddly fascinating, and I’m never sure what’s going to come out of his mouth next.

“I don’t save money.”

Case in point.

“Why is that?” I pull away.

He does little more than lift a brow in reply.

“Ahh, let me guess, there’s no other time than the present. You’re a man who lives without a single thought of the future.”

“I’m pressing that in more ways than one,” he murmurs into my neck.

I draw my brows, and before I can question him, he speaks again. “I’d much rather give it away than save it.”

“Why? Is money imaginary too?”

He pulls back, grinning at me. “Now you’re getting it.”

I cup the back of his neck, running my fingers through spiky swirls of blond. “Is there any law you abide by?”

“My own.”

“A lawless man with no future. And you say I’m dangerous.”

“You have no idea how much,” he says, hauling me off the machine. “Come on. I want a cigarette.”

We sit in his car, facing the shopping center, our view between watching the traffic of the laundromat and the Mexican restaurant next to it. Inside, a woman stands in a corner on the other side of the glass, rolling out fresh tortillas. Smiling, she kneads the dough before flattening it out and tossing it on a burner next to her worktop. I get a little lost just watching her as Sean flicks his Zippo, his one cigarette turning into two and then three before he excuses himself from the car to tend to the laundry. I offer to go with him, but he tells me to sit tight. I do, lost in the monotony of watching the older woman make tortillas. Her job is just as repetitive as mine is at the plant. But where I steadily watch the clock until the proverbial whistle blows, her serene smile hasn’t budged, even when she’s not talking to her coworkers or the patrons that constantly greet her. She’s content, happy, and seems completely at ease with her task. I envy her, wishing I had the same peace at my job. Sean rejoins me and—without a word—lights another cigarette, the sharp slap of his Zippo the only sound in the car.

“This woman has been making tortillas the whole time.”

“She does it all day and all night.”

“That’s crazy.”

“It’s what she does. There are a ton of people out there with jobs just like it.”

“I know, I work one.”

“Yeah,” he exhales a cloud of smoke, “but she doesn’t begrudge her work.”

“Got me there. She hasn’t stopped smiling.”

We sit for endless minutes, just watching her. “I can’t imagine why she’s so happy.”

“It’s a decision,” he says easily.

“A decision.” I consider his statement and see he’s watching her just as intently. “Do you know her?”

“Her name is Selma. She brings her van into the shop sometimes.”

“Does she pay with imaginary money?” I joke.

“You could say that. We don’t charge her. The clothes are ready.”

“I’ll help.”

He opens his car door and jerks his head. “Sit tight.”

“Sean, I’ve been watching this woman make tortillas for like two hours.”

“So, keep watching,” he shuts his door.

I slump in my seat, annoyed with his orders but nonetheless stay put. In minutes I’m lost in thought, mulling a little over our earlier exchange in the laundromat.

“You’re a man who lives without a single thought of the future.”

“I’m pressing that in more ways than one.”

Dominic. It’s the only conclusion I can draw. He’s been a total prick since I showed up at his house. He’s going to be a problem, I can tell, just by his hostile stare and blatant disposition. I decide to ask Sean about it later while I watch Selma finish turning a fresh batch of tortillas with her fingers over the flame. When she’s done, she scoops a fair amount of them up and places them in a bag before gathering the few bills in her tip jar. She makes her way toward the cash register on the other side of her counter, carefully counting each dollar before exchanging it for what I assume are the bigger bills on the far side of the drawer. My jaw drops when I see her scope out the immediate area around her and take more before she furtively shoves the money into the tortilla bag. It’s then she begins to tend the few customers coming up to pay. Fixated, I watch as she keeps the drawer open, making change before tucking their tickets in her apron. She’s covering her tracks. Once she’s left alone at the drawer, she takes a few more bills, makes some change, and I know the numbers will add up at the end of the night.

Smiling Selma is a tortilla making thief.

And this ain’t her first rodeo.

I’ve spent hours of my day watching this woman, admiring her for her ability to find joy in her solitude only to find out she’s a thief.

Well, ain’t that some shit?

Sean won’t believe it, and I find myself itching to tell him as a van pulls up beside me. A guy who looks to be in his thirties exits before opening the back door. Attached to it sits an electric chair making it wheelchair accessible. My attention locked on the van, I don’t notice Selma until she too is peering in the van, the bag in hand, her soft voice crooning out hurried Spanish just as the back seat is turned and a young boy comes into view. He’s severely disabled, his legs and arms shriveled at his sides, his eyes searching and searching, darting left and right. He’s blind. Selma steps up into the van, showering him with kisses and tosses the bag of tortillas and cash onto the seat next to him. My heart sinks.

She does it for him.

She steals for him.

My eyes drift back to the boy, who looks to be eleven or twelve. Her grandchild, maybe?

For a minute or two, I wish I’d taken Spanish instead of French so I could understand the conversation between her and the man who stands behind her, watching her shower the boy with affection. It’s so painfully clear she lives for him. The man speaks to her softly as if she’s breakable, so much gratitude shining in his eyes as she rains kisses on the boy’s forehead, nose, and cheeks.

Guilt gnaws me when I think of all the assumptions I made in those few seconds after I’m fairly sure I saw her steal the money.

Sean’s car door opens and closes, but I keep my eyes on the boy. What type of life does he live, confined that way, unable to see, unable to move his arms and legs, his body a prison?

“He’s partially deaf too,” Sean says as my eyes sting and tears threaten. When Selma steps out of the van, the man hugs her, shame and guilt in his eyes. He pulls back from her embrace, evident worry etched all over his features as he studies her and glances back at the restaurant. It’s obvious he doesn’t want her to do it.

“She steals for her son and her grandson?”

“Son-in-law. Her daughter gave birth and then left him to raise him alone. He gets a check, but it’s not enough. Selma has severe arthritis, but every single day she pounds that dough for her boys, and it makes her happy. The saddest part is that she’s a staple at that restaurant. It wouldn’t be the same without her. And the assholes that own it haven’t given her a raise in eight years.”

I swallow. “I couldn’t wait to tell you she was stealing. I didn’t think you would believe me. I almost didn’t believe it myself until I saw it happen.” He lifts a tear from my cheek and I turn to look at him. From the look he’s giving me I gather the rest. “You knew, you knew I would see this.”

“How did that feel?”

“It stung a lot worse than the watch.” Something close to satisfaction shines in his eyes before he gazes past me as the man drives his son away. In minutes, Selma is back behind her counter, pounding out tortillas with a smile on her face. I turn back to Sean and scrutinize him.

“Who in the hell are you?”

What twenty-five-year-old man does his friends’ laundry, genuinely cares about Selma’s cash flow problem and disabled grandson, hates money, hates time, has zero regard for status, and lives without a single worry for the future?

Alfred Sean Roberts.

That’s who.

It’s then I give myself permission to trust him a little more. But it’s also then that the budding feelings give me pause. He’s made it far too easy to like him. This man who bats away rules and boundaries, he may be dangerous for me. Sensing my fear, he leans in to kiss me for endless seconds. When he pulls away, I feel myself sinking further, more drawn in, and even more conflicted about it.

“Seriously, Sean, who are you?”

“I’m a man with clean laundry, and I’m starving. In the mood for Mexican?”

All I can do is nod.