Soured Milk, 11

If I were to describe Ollie, I'd say he was a kind of boy-scout mobster; with his puppy-dog eyes and sleazy smile. He had a boyish charm about him, this playfulness that presented itself with an air of innocence, but deep inside was as rotten as an out of season apricot. A man of endless contrasts and contradictions, that's how Ollie was. He was up and down and left and right, without being anything in particular, without being anything at all. 

"Jeez, Lo, I swear I could hear you talk all day."

I rolled my eyes, too familiar with his random compliments to know that they weren't random at all.

"I like the way your mouth moves, too."

"Oh?" I smiled, fiddling with the front-buttons of his boxer shorts, "What else do you like about my mouth, hmm?"

He pulled my hand away and smoothed down the creases on his underwear. "I like you, Lo, I like you a lot."

"Well you're in luck, because I happen to like you too."

He frowned, hesitating before starting once again, "Listen, Lo. I know we're not gonna get married or nothing, it's just... I really fucking like you, y'know?"
 
"What are you getting at, Ollie?"

"This," he said, pointing at the scar at the back of my thigh. The scar where Sven's tattoo used to be.

I sighed.

"Don't get me wrong, Don's a fucking nutjob, but he doesn't do shit like this for no reason."

"And you think the reason is?"

"Sven," he said, and gave me one of his understanding smiles. I guess he thought he was being kind, but, man, did it piss me off. I just couldn't shake off this feeling that it was eerily similar to Don's patroinzing hand-on-shoulder routine. "You really like him, don't you, Lo?"

"I don't."

"Really, it's okay—"

"I told you I don't! And I'll prove it to you. I'm going to call Sven and invite him over, how about that? We can catch up and be one big, happy, fucking family."