“Don’t care.” When I’m sure he gets my meaning, I turn my attention back to Green. “You were saying?”
It takes her a minute to figure out what I’m getting at, then she remembers, but apparently doesn’t want to get into to it with the boy thing around. So she slips me a sinister, quirky grin and ropes her hand through douchebag’s arm.
“Some other time, Stiles. We’ve gotta go.” She turns and pulls him along, but his eyes stay on me like Peanut Butter on toast, trying to figure out who in the hell I am exactly.
Fuck you. That’s who I am, asshole.
As they scuttle off together, into the sun, I have to admit, I’m slightly impressed with the way Green ended it just now ’cause, you know, heels.
More than that, though, I’m kinda baffled.
Green has a boyfriend? Who knew?
Then again, maybe it’s not a boyfriend. Maybe it’s just a guy she fucks every once in a while to relieve the tension of the job. Though, she doesn’t strike me as the type for flings.
Maybe a long term Dom/sub relationship.
She’s definitely the Dom.
I’m picturing a more intense version of Trinity from The Matrix when a shiver flies up my spine.
I don’t wanna think about why that bothers me, so I shake off the twisted fuckery inside my head and wait a minute before leaving. Lilah may be hiding somewhere, waiting to jump me at her earliest convenience. Despite the fact that I’m ninety-nine percent sure she’d never really do anything that might get her or myself killed, on purpose, I like to remind myself that those are just about everyone’s famous last words.
X X X
Back in the safety of my car, I lock the doors and check my messages. It shouldn’t surprise me that the first one is from my mom, considering I never responded to her text last night.
Dammit.
I can always blame my inconsideration on the job I was dealing with at the time and how late I got in, but it won’t matter. You never leave your mom hanging. Ever.
“Jackson, dear, it’s your mother calling.”
Her messages pretty much start out the same way every time. How, having lived in Redemption her whole life, she manages to sound like a true Southerner, is beyond me.
“I just wanted to remind you that your father’s birthday is this weekend.”
And here I thought my day could only get better.
Air leaves me in a defeated sigh.
“Shit.”
I completely forgot. Not that it matters; I won’t be buying him a present or anything. My dad and I, well, let’s just say, he’s kind of an ass. Mostly because he’s what a lot of people would call a functioning alcoholic.
I wouldn’t say he’s drunk every day. Only when he’s got responsibilities that are weighing him down, or when the holidays roll around, or when I’m near him, or when he’s awake.
So, yeah, I guess every day.
He’s not just any old drunk, though. He’s a mean drunk.
He’s also a retired cop, which is why Nick is a cop, and why I was supposed to be a cop.
Dad was always kind of a hardass, but back in the day, he was a pretty decent guy. He earned a name for himself in Redemption by putting away almost fifty-five percent of the street thugs all on his own. He was awarded the Redemption Medal of Honor a couple times. Had his very own task force. Even landed himself in the company of the mayor on more than one occasion.
That was before his descent into what I like to refer to as being a complete dicktwat. Not that I wasn’t partially to blame for that, but still.
I’ve spent a lot of time since moving out of my parents’ place avoiding him. Mom makes that difficult at times.
Typically, I’m a pro at making sure I have plans that are out of town for this very occasion. This year, my mind has been preoccupied.
“We’re having a dinner on Saturday,” she says, then she hesitates. And, there it is, my friends. Even via voice mail, she knows how to dish out the guilt trips with long pauses.
Don’t get me wrong. My mother is a saint. I love her to death. But damn, she can lay it on thick.
Then she adds the humdinger. The double whammy. The side-swiper, if you will.
“Nick is driving over. He said he could pick you up.”
Fuuuuuuuuuuck me.
I shake my head and smile, in awe of the way she knows exactly how to manipulate me, even in adulthood.
I check my calendar. I have a few days to come up with an excuse. One, I’m positive won’t be working at this point, is leaving town. She knows I’m here. If I go now, it’ll be obvious.
“So, I’ll see you then, honey,” she says with that flippant, motherly, I won’t bother waiting for you to call back to confirm because you know better than to cross me tone.
She ends the message, and I let my head fall back against the headrest.
At least I don’t have to bring my own booze.
GUTTERAL INSTINCTS ARE A BITCH
THERE ARE, at any given time, two types of bullshit that tend to go down in my world. The first kind can be extinguished with a quick trip to the local bar. That’s, generally speaking, bullshit of the family kind. Then there’s the type that takes a little more energy to snuff out.