"Should I even ask why you're in my RV?" Beck stepped through the door, taking a moment to survey the room, and I frowned.
"I hate you being sleepy and irritable."
"What does that have to do with you being in my RV, again?" He looked adorable when he was trying to connect the dots. "And why does it look like a tornado came through here?" He rubbed a hand over his face. Rehearsals for him had gone long this afternoon, but I was hoping to be done before he got back. "More than the usual Jade-nado, anyways?"
"Do I have a new nickname?"
"Maybe. If you don't help me put this back up. Seriously, you pulled all my clothes out of my closet?"
"I was looking for that damn cricket," I muttered, grabbing several of his shirts off the floor and flinging them at him. "Those are clean."
Beck inspected them for a moment, then brushed off a few dead leaves I must have tracked in. "Not anymore. How many times have I asked you to take your shoes off at the door?"
"You thought I was going to squish a bug with my bare foot?"
"So that's what this was about?"
"Yeah." I picked up two pairs of jeans from the floor. "Should I toss these back in the dresser, or in the clothes hamper?"
He ran his hands through his hair. God, I loved it when he did that. It gave him this laid-back, sexy air. "We'll take everything here back to the house to wash it all. I know I don't vacuum in here half as much as I should."
"Probably why you got that insect in here in the first place."

"Hey, hey, come here a moment."
"What?" I was annoyed I hadn't managed to surprise him with something good, and pissed that now I had this huge mess to clean up.
"Just come here."
With a huff, I stepped closer to my boyfriend, and he set his index and middle finger under my chin and tipped it up to kiss me.
When we were done—and believe me, that took a while—he smiled at me. "That was nice of you."
"What?" I crossed my arms over my chest, still gripping the pants.
"Trying to find and kill the cricket."
"Oh. That." I would have cracked my knuckles, but I was still holding the jeans. "Yeah, that. Well, like I said, I hate you being sleepy and irritable. And I wanted to see bug blood. And it keeps me up, too, when I want to sleep here."
"I appreciate it."
"You're welcome," I mumbled, and he kissed me again, light pecks that left me wanting more.

"Let's clear this place out properly, and then we can head up to the house for lunch. My mom said she was making sweet honey mustard chicken." He grabbed a laundry basket, propping it on one hip and starting to load clothes from the floor into it.
"She said?" I tossed the jeans I was holding into the basket, picking up more clothes from the floor.
"Well, I smelled it kind of wafting out of the kitchen window."
"Right." I kissed him again on the lips. "Let's go, then. That is, if your dad doesn't try to murder me on sight. I don't know exactly what I said, but he didn't like me much at Thanksgiving."
Beck Oliver laughed, lacing his fingers through mine and pulling me out of the RV and towards the door of his parents' house.

I think sometimes Beck like parading me in front of his parents on purpose, to get a reaction from them. In some of those pop psychology books they say that sometimes little kids will act out, be "bad" just to get any kind of focused attention at all.
Well, if I ever saw anyone like that, it was Beck. I would have killed to have his parents: logical, laid-back, minded their own business and let Beck do his own thing. Sometimes he enjoyed it, and sometimes it seemed like he really wanted a little more attention, a little more discipline from them, a little something to complain about like everyone else.
I was guaranteed to get a rise out of his father. I know he used me on occasion. I don't mind. I've been known to use him on occasion as well.

"Beck, talk to my mom for me." I handed him my ringing phone once we were out of his RV.
"Why?" Still, he adjusted the laundry basket on his hip and took my phone. I was a little sorry we were headed into his parents' house, since he looked damn sexy like that, but his mother made fantastic chicken.
"So you can tell her I'll be sleeping over here tonight. She likes you, and she trusts you."
"Yeah, big mistake." He quoted me with a grin before lifting my phone to his ear.
"Yes, Mrs. McDonegal. Hi, this is Beck. I just wanted to ask if you were okay with Jade staying the night at my place. She's helping me with a project. All right. You have a good day, too."
He ended the call and passed my phone back to me. "We're good to go."
I thanked him with a nod, pocketing my cell phone again.
"HEY, MA!" Beck yelled as he unlocked the door. "JADE AND I ARE HERE FOR DINNER!"
"Thanks for the information so early!"His mother shot him a sideways look as she carried a dish of broccoli out of the kitchen into the dining room. "Good thing I was planning on having leftovers to eat for a few days, because I am not going to start cooking again now. You two can help set the table."
"I got some laundry to wash, Ma. Jade can help."
I shot him a look, but headed into the kitchen.

I'd been there often enough to know where all the silverware was, and I set the table quickly enough. My parents insisted on propriety enough for me to know how to set it fancily, too. His mother always liked that. It didn't earn me any brownie points now, though. Thanksgiving was still too fresh in their minds.
His father still hadn't forgiven me for the Rottweiler incident either.

"I hope you didn't bring any dogs this time, Jade."
"No, but I was thinking a German Shepard would make a good Christmas present," I deadpanned.
"I certainly hope you aren't, young lady. I've had more than enough of your taste in dogs. It'll last me a lifetime." He reached for a second helping of chicken, the tooth scars on his arm showing.
"Beck might not. Have you, babe?" I grinned at him, maliciously for his parents' benefit. He squeezed my hand under the table.
"Well, seeing as how I never really got to enjoy your taste in dogs in the first place..."
"Don't expect me to come out and help you repair your RV if that happens. And the dog doesn't come out in the yard." Beck's father looked to his wife for confirmation before nodding his head and reiterating his last thought. "And the dog stays inside your RV."
"That sounds practically cruel for such a large dog, though." I continued to bait them a little before felt Beck nudge my leg with his own, his signal that that would be enough.
"Well, that's on his head, then." His father shrugged a little and lifted a forkful of broccoli and cheese to his mouth.

Beck runs hot and cold as far as conflict goes. Sometimes he thrives on it—I can see the light of battle in his eyes and he kisses me with so much more vigor afterwards. Sometimes he loves all the eyes on us in the school halls when I throw one of my hissy fits, and I can hear that happy, playful, patient undertone in his shouts, or in his easy, laid-back responses.
Other times he seems tired of it, preferring to pacify me as soon as possible, as if realizing that his life could be so much easier. Then he gets tired and irritable as soon as I say anything contrary, gets this pouty look on his face. Of course then the fights escalate because during those phases I get more worried he'll leave me, which makes it seem he'll be even more likely to leave me because the fights escalate, and so on and so forth.
Really, he knew what he was getting into when he started dating me. But sometimes, I humor him.

I grabbed my glass of water and downed a sip. "I'm trying to convince the school to put on a play of mine."
"Your last one was excellent." Beck's mother was eager to move on to a different subject than canines. "I can understand why the school didn't want to produce it, though. It was quite dark. Not necessarily something for the younger students. And rather… surreal."
I ground my teeth at the memory of those mutilated performances. I gave Vega a chance to earn my gratitude, my amiability like she apparently so desperately wanted, and she fucked it up. I should never have given in to the pressure to stick with that freakish Chinese lady and her money, but at the time I was out of favor with my parents, at least more so than usual. Beck nudged my leg again.

"It wasn't written for 'younger students.' I only felt like a more adult audience could truly appreciate it. I'll know to take more care in choosing a sponsor for any of my work ever again, though." I'm sure some of my resentment bled through in my voice.
"Was there an issue with the producer?" The lady opposite me arched an eyebrow. Beck blew out a breath before quickly swallowing his food, probably anticipating my irritation. He'd heard many rants on the subject before.
"She was the source of most of the 'surrealism'." I added air quotes around the word with my fingers. "Complete with the young 'guardian angel' who couldn't sing a note—aka her daughter. Opening night was the only performance that was free of her butcher's touch."
"It certainly made the play seem a good deal less disturbing than it could have been." I could hear a certain lilt to the older woman's voice, an attempt at diplomacy. Well, fuck it, that statement wasn't diplomatic in the least.
"It was supposed to be disturbing. You were supposed to leave the theater thinking 'What if that were me? What if that were my kid?' because it was unnerving, scary even, not leave there thinking 'Geez that was weird.'" I was getting worked up, and Beck ran his hand down my leg, massaging my thigh. I knew it was meant to be soothing, but I was not in the mood to be soothed.
"I wish it had been far more disturbing for the playgoers than it was." Punctuating my declaration by spearing several bits of chicken on my fork, I could hardly miss the long look Beck's parents exchanged.

The rest of the meal was only briefly peppered with small talk between Beck and his parents. I was more than enough for the adults without even trying. Sometimes more than enough for him.
Sometimes it got lonely, as I chewed my food in silence.