Hazel Eyes and Peaches

chapter 7:

"What time are your friends coming?"

"You've got ten minutes. Don't try and look pretty alright? I can't have them all over you."

"I'm sure your older college buddies would love to have all of this."

I wave my hand over my white, chocolate-stained shirt and black sweatpants that are so big I had to roll them up on my waist. I wouldn't want to trip on the length of the pants. After a very puzzling day, more than usual, I decided that I wasn't going to go anywhere but my bed after school. 

It's about eight o'clock, and I've done everything in my bed so far. I'm still in my bed watching Blood of Zeus because, well, Heron. It should be illegal to look that beautiful. Because it's only the two of us in the house, Westin kind of took over the downstairs floor. We share the kitchen, but he sleeps, hangs out, showers, all the things - downstairs. 

So, I have the upstairs all to myself most of the time. This is why I have a minifridge, microwave, and small pantry in my bedroom. That way I don't even have to go downstairs. Which I can greatly appreciate.

"Is there anything else you are going to need?"

"I'll just come talk to you if I need anything. Or get it myself. No one's just going to jump me in the hallway and start making out with me. Unless that's the type of friends you have."

"No, I don't have those friends. I just want to make sure that you don't feel uncomfortable."

"I think I can handle a few boys."

As long as it's not Clay, I can handle anything.

Not even a second later, a loud bang of knocks comes onto the door. The doorbell rings about twenty times before we hear two boys arguing about how dumb that was. I smile, understanding why Westin would choose guys like that. They sound funny. He gives me one last look, and I shoo him out the door, turning back to the battle happening on the TV screen. 

It's hard to make out what any of the boys are talking about downstairs, which I'm grateful for, but it doesn't take long for me to get tired of the TV. I've never been a good binge-watcher with TV shows. I don't know why, but I can't sit still for that long, watching conflict after conflict happen. 

I can watch multiple movies in a row because different things are going on in each. Which is way different from the amount of TV Westin can watch without standing up. Plus, I want to eat something else besides popcorn. I love popcorn, but I've already had two bags of it today. I need something else.

The sound of the boys' voices grows as I get closer to the kitchen (obviously). Without interrupting anything they are doing - which is playing video games, typical - I reach into the fridge and pull out spaghetti with meat sauce and meatballs. My favorite meal of all time. 

I hear a bang and jump up hitting my head on the upper cabinet as I reach for a large bowl to put my pasta in. I groan, rubbing the back of my head with a grimace on my face. My brother peers around the corner to see almost crying me and putting an icepack on my head.

"Are you okay? I heard that from the living room."

"I'm a bit dizzy actually. I need to sit down."

He rushes forward, gently leading me to a chair.

"Dude! What was that!?"

Jesus, that's freaking awful.

"Go, Westin. I'll be fine."

"You can't possibly think I'm going to leave you in a chair while you're dizzy after banging your head on god knows what."

"It was the cabinet. I'll be fine in a minute."

"Westin! You motherfucking dump truck! Get in here!"

That was lame.

"I got her man. Go take care of dump truck in there."

"Thanks, Clay."

Clay? I glance up to see the one and only Clay Pierce standing there. I can't believe I didn't recognize his voice. That deep, rumbling, husky voice. I flick my eyes over his more casual clothes. A black, v-neck t-shirt, black sweatpants, and his hands tucked into his pockets. Tattoos on his chest peak out of his shirt, and I look down at my clothes with stains everywhere. 

Why is he here? How does he know my brother? Why would he want to see if I'm okay or even try to take care of me? Those questions remain unanswered as he comes to sit by me. He gently peels the ice pack away from my head, his fingers running gently over the bruised area.

"I think you'll be alright."

"I know I'll be. Westin is just being an overprotective idiot."

"He's your brother. He loves you."

"How do you know him?"

"The family issues. You know how he works for Special Civilian Services."

"Oh, yeah."

Special Civilian Services (SCS) is like the FBI but less looked after, if that's the right wording. The people working for them, like my brother, are more intimate in the ways he deals with different situations that might occur in certain areas. We live in L.A., and my brother is part of a group of people in L.A. who deal with circumstances outside or inside FBI jurisdiction to get the best possible care or not whatever the situation is. 

For example, if someone in a gang was shot, and they can't pay for the medical attention they received, and the family is having difficulties. My brother would go in and help the family using government money. He would also investigate the shooting, try to find out who did it, and give both parties the best route to solving the issue. 

There are a lot of covert operations that I don't know about, that most people don't know about. But no matter, it's the reason we can both afford to live in L.A. The government pays hefty amounts to keep Westin doing his job.