Papa’s Got A Brand New Bag

Riley gets wet

“Give me a ride, already.”

“What’s the magic word?”

“Fuck you. Now let me in.”

“Seems like I have no space – sorry.”

“Dude, it’s raining fuck outside. You going to leave me to drown or what?”

“Too bad, so sad.”

“Bob. Dylan. If you don’t open the door… I swear—” I wrench at the door handle, tugging angrily as rain continues to pelt down on me.

“What’s that? Can’t hear you, man… ” He cups his right ear, grinning, while merely shrugging. He turns the ignition on, the car beginning to purr; sputtering momentarily before doing so. The sound makes me even angrier. I’m usually not the type to get this angry, but when it comes to rain coming down on me – it’s not a pretty sight, that I can tell you.

“Dylan, I’m being serious here. Open up!” I punch at the wet window, jaw clenched tightly, as I come back with pained knuckles. I can barely see past the window and catch Dylan’s form, everything’s blurry for me. The rain’s screwing up my vision.

“Password?” Dylan asks nonchalantly, looking back at me as if I’m not standing out in the pouring rain – drenched, seemingly damaging his car, and prepared to kill him.

“Y-your m-mama.” I grit through my now chattering teeth, quite seriously too.

With a roll of his eyes, Dylan leans over, unlocking the passenger door for me. I jerk it open, quickly slipping into Dylan’s shoddy Toyota.

“Close enough.” He remarks, watching me evenly now.

“You really suck. You know that?” Saying this, I rub my hands together; hoping for warmth that would spring from my damp and clammy palms. Stupid idea, I know; but I’ve got to give it a shot.

“You complain everyday, yet I’m still your best friend.” I blow in between my clasped hands, rubbing them vigorously together as I shift in the vinyl seat. I disregard what Dylan had to say.

“So I’m desperate for a ride.” I grumble lowly, ignoring the squeak that starts with every movement of my butt on the vinyl seat. It’s Dylan’s fault I got this wet, he deserves it. “Bad luck this isn’t leather… ” Mumbling this, I outstretch my hand, fiddling with the knobs on the dashboard – wanting heat. And wanting it now.

“Heater doesn’t work.” I gape, turning my head around slowly and shooting Dylan an astounded look.

“You still haven’t gotten it fixed?” I sneer; frustrated, disbelieving, and an annoyed mess.

“Too much money I don’t have.” Dylan says this easily and I fall back against the passenger seat, sighing heavily.

“You must be kidding me – remind me to disown you once I get home… ” I throw my arm over my face, closing my eyes wearily, and allowing my rain soaked body to remain wet and become prune like if it feels the need to.

“That I will.”

“Can I go home now? I’m wet, I’m tired, and in need of some sympathy.”

“And all that can be found in the arms of your dad, am I right?” I peek a side-glance from beneath my arm, noting Dylan’s hazel eyes and the hint of a smile playing on the corner of his lips. I scoff.

“Exactly. Now drive.” Stating this, I sigh audibly, wriggling – the uncomfortable dankness of my body catching up to me. With no response, Dylan pulls away from the sidewalk, driving forward.

The inside of the car is silent; that is, besides the wet whines of my butt on vinyl, the incessant tired sighs coming from my mouth, and the clicking of Dylan’s tongue from time to time. An annoying habit he still hasn’t dropped. I’ve gotten used to it.

All I can hear, because I’m being selective here, is the pitter patter against the metal and rusting roof of Dylan’s crappy Toyota; the rain is still coming down and it doesn’t seem like it’s going to stop any time soon.

Looking up at the side, past my arm, I attempt to look through the window – see something. Wet dribbles dance down the window, mucking up my vision once again; and fogging up the glass. All the houses are fuzzy.

“What am I, your bitch?” Dylan’s soft and encouraging query breaks through the pseudo silence, it catches my attention – at least some of it. I flop my head to the side, arm still strewn over my face, as I look over at Dylan with a blank look. He tires me sometimes.

“Don’t think so highly of yourself.” Murmuring this, I swivel my head back into the warm crook of my arm, breathing in stiffly. I catch a whiff of laundry detergent and damp leaves. It’s not too bad – could be worse. I could smell like Dylan – on one of his good days.

A few minutes later, some bored words traded – on my part, and I’m finally home. To the extent where Dylan is pulled up to the sidewalk, which runs horizontal to my house, and the car sputters to a definite stop. Same difference.

“We’re here. You can get out now.”

“You’re coming in with me.” I breathe.

“And why’s that?”

“So you can talk to my dad—”

“And what else?” I hold back a scathing response, scrutinizing Dylan irritably as he only sits patiently. “Why else do you want me to come inside?” His voice is so low. He flashes me a patient smile too. Ass.

“Coz I wanna get laid. Why else would I invite you in?” I say this as sardonically as possible, and without breaking into a sneeze.

“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” He gives me a look, and then leaves me in the car as he gets out of it, locking the door behind him. I tsk and with a long sigh, I swing open the door, jumping out of the car myself.

And it’s still raining.

“Move it!” I dash past Dylan, overlooking his looks and cuffing his shoulder as I race for the porch of my house – covering the top of my head with my already soaked arms the whole time. I make it up the porch but manage to still get barraged by rain, soaking wet even more – and not that I thought I wouldn’t be.

Sloshing wet stops follow after me, climbing up the two cement slabs that act as steps to my porch.

Guess who.

“You didn’t lock the door.” Dylan comes up from behind me, disapproval slightly marring his face when I turn around to look. If I had to say though, it’s more wet than it is disapproving. Works with me.

I shrug, slipping a hand into my pocket, trying to get the keys. They clink against one another and my fingers as I pull them out; heading for the front door.

“Oops. Slipped my mind.” I stumble for a bit but finally unlock the door, shambling in through the threshold.

Funnily enough, I land in my dad’s arms. And just where I wanted to be.

I'm really looking forward to this story. And where it can go. I'm gonna' admit now, at the get go, coz I can, that slow development may be the death of this thing. I've always had a fetish for slow development, both writing and reading it. Bad fetishes die hard. It's gonna' prob'ly take a while for the main story, like, the focal point of this; what the title is suggesting, to come along. Sorry? And I know. Another story. What the hell?