Two things:

1. The inevitable return of her mother to her life
2. Retirement

To sell one of her paintings for a million or more.

It’s been awhile since we had an outtake!

In the end, Trevor couldn’t complain. He was riding shotgun as usual in Mitchell’s truck and Rusty fit between them with just enough room for Trev to move aside to show his dislike of her — but she was still close enough that Trev could smell her. Strawberries. Very faint, as if that, like her, was nothing more than a tease.

“Can someone please explain to me just why it is that we’ve got to stop and pick up food if we’re on our way to dinner?” Trevor half-whined as Mitchell pulled the Bronco into the parking lot behind the grocery where the lovebirds had met.

“Ma needs us to pick up extra chicken,” Mitchell said. “Sounds like the guest list grew by my sister and her dork husband.” He grimaced as he parked and turned off the ignition. “Man, that’s a way to ruin a night. Making the three of us be nice to him.”

Trev glanced out the corner of his eye, half-expecting Rusty to tell Mitchell that it wouldn’t be so bad. “Amy’s at least fun to be with,” she said.

“For you two,” Mitchell grumped as he opened the door to the truck. “I’m the one who always gets the short end of whatever you guys cook up.”

“Us?” Rusty asked, fluttering her eyes in an innocent act that Trev didn’t buy but probably left Mitchell drooling.

“Are you two gonna do some sick sappy shit in front of the tomatoes?” Trev asked as he hopped out and looked to make sure Rusty had gotten out of Mitchell’s side. He gave the door a satisfied slam, half wishing she’d stuck something in his way. A hand, a foot; didn’t really matter. Just something so Mitchell would get all pissed and work him over good for being so fucking careless with the princess.

Like Rusty was some prize or something.

Like Trevor would have hurt her on purpose.

“We could get sappy,” Mitchell said. He winked at Rusty as he slipped an arm around her shoulders. “We could buy us some tomatoes, grill ’em up…”

She shook her head at him, all business now. “Your mother was quite specific that we not show up with anything but the chicken.”

Mitchell waved her off. “Yeah, like washing the dishes before we split won’t shut her up. Remember that, Ker. If you do the dishes, she forgives all.”

Even Trevor had to agree with that. Mama V was as devoted to mothering as a woman could get, but there was nothing she despised more than cleaning up after dinner. It had probably been the only chore Trevor had done on a regular basis, plastering a smile on his face and telling himself repeatedly that if he did a good job, she’d forgive whatever he’d done that day to piss her off.

Inside the grocery, he beelined for the tomatoes as the other two trailed behind, probably absorbed in some lovers’ babytalk that needed to be stopped. Two of the biggest and freshest tomatoes got stuffed up his charcoal grey t-shirt. “So this is what was really going on when you invaded my life, huh? Tomatoes are round like tits — especially yours, Rusty. You thought M here was all about the fruit, but really, he was thinking how much it looked like your nice round boobies.” He leaned toward her, leering.

Before she could do anything but look a bit shocked, Mitchell cuffed the back of his head, making him bobble one of the tomatoes. He breathed out hard as he settled it.

Rusty just laughed, the way you do when you’re looking at something pathetic.

Trevor looked down and then gave her a death glare, wishing it really worked. One hand was still at tit-height, the other down by the waist of his jeans. He wasn’t coming off as a clown, just a fool. A pathetic fool. No wonder she looked like that.

He put the tomatoes back, trusting that if Rusty wouldn’t conveniently forget he’d done this, Mitchell would shut her up. M was good like that, always looking out for Trev’s pride. As if it was too precious to be abused.

Trevor wished it was that simple. It was more that his pride had been the first to get beaten away but like a loyal, stupid puppy, it kept coming back. And back. And back.

Maybe it was a good thing it had, Trev thought as they tromped through the rest of the grocery, toward the meat case in back. If it hadn’t been for pride — okay, and fear for Eliza, too — he never would have gotten the balls to get his hands on that gun. He’d probably be dead now instead of being the most constant viewer of the Mitchell and Rusty show.

“Hey,” he said, “why don’t we go out and hear some bands after dinner’s over?”

“If anyone good’s playing, sure,” Mitchell said. “Ker?”

“You guys can go,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Remember I told you I wanted to swing by that opening tonight?”

“We can do both,” Mitchell said.

Trevor wanted to smack him for sounding so fucking desperate.

“We need some chicken,” Rusty told the guy behind the meat case. “How much again, M?”

“Whaddya need?” the guy asked.

“Umm… five double breasts,” Mitchell said. “Wait. No. Make it four. Four singles, so I guess that’s two doubles…”

“Breasts?” the meat guy asked.

Trevor leaned close. “No,” he drawled. “Tits. We need chicken tits; that’s what’s on the menu tonight.”

Rusty covered her face with her hands.

“Aww, come on, Rusty,” he laughed. “Like that’s not what you fancy artists call ’em.”

“No, Trev, we don’t. We call them chicken breasts. Save the tits for the women, okay?”

He gave her a wolfish grin. “You know that’s the best part of you girls.”

Mitchell leaned over and whispered to him, “Only because you haven’t met a woman like Kerri.”

Trevor fought the impulse to spit, puke, and shudder. “Who the fuck wants a woman like her? Oh, yeah. You/, you big loser.”

Mitchell rewarded him with another cuff to the back of his head, hard enough to make his ears ring.

“Just take the bird tits and let’s get out of here,” he said, licking his lips and savoring the hit Mitchell had given him. On days like these, when Mitchell handed it out just right, life was good.