Playing with Fire_Shen

by Shen, L. J.

  I was careful not to ask anything about how things were back home. It felt like a slippery slope that could lead to an actual conversation.

  “We miss and love you so much.”

  “Bet you love the weekly allowance even more.” I cocked an eyebrow.

  Her big brown gaze sprang up from her hands then scurried to the peeling wallpaper. Her eyeballs were coated with a thick layer of tears.

  I sighed, sprawling on the chair, folding my arms over my chest and staring at the ceiling.

  “What’s up with you, anyway?” I grumbled.

  “I’m doing well, thank you for asking. Better, on all fronts. Still on the meds. Still working at Walmart. I got promoted last month. I’m a cashier now. It’s a nice environment, and I get to go out, talk to people.”

  Her fingers were inching to touch mine. I wanted to throw up.

  “I make my own money now.” She puffed her chest out, gaining more confidence. “Things are not as bleak as they look, Westie. We’ll get out of this mess soon. But we never expect you to help us financially. It’s not on you.”

  Only it was on me. It was my fault they were in this situation in the first place. Mom finally put her hand on mine, leaning toward me.

  “Let’s go out downtown. I want to buy you soap and shampoo and new shirts. Maybe get you a nice haircut. I want to see the town you live in. Do the whole mom-thing I didn’t get the chance to do when you first moved here. Please, Westie?”

  Her fingernails clawed at my skin, so desperately they nearly produced blood.

  She wasted the hard-earned money I sent her by booking herself a surprise flight. Then suggested we’d go on a shopping spree.

  My knee-jerk reaction was to call her out on it, but I knew if I threw her out, it would bite me in the ass in the form of East giving me hell. Also, I would feel guilty.

  Spending time with my mother was so low on my to-do list, you couldn’t find it unless you read that whole shit through. Still, even I recognized taking her out would be less soul-crushing than sitting here with her, one-on-one, and face the artillery of questions and attempted hugs she would no doubt throw my way.

  “What do you say?” A hesitant, synthetic smile spread on her face. It looked wrong. Like a wonky picture on a bare wall. I knew what she looked like when she smiled for real.

  I still remembered, even if vaguely.

  I squeezed her hand in mine and felt the pressure dissipating from her body, all at once, as she dragged me in for a hug.

  “Whatever.”

  An hour later, we were out on the town, carrying approximately a thousand nylon bags full of socks, shirts, toiletries, and groceries. My hair was trimmed into an actual cut. Buzzed at the sides, longer at the top.

  I felt rich, in a screwed-up, poor boy way.

  I wasn’t used to getting new shit. My socks were so holey I stopped wearing them about six months ago, and when my shirts became too faded to have a distinguished color, I dealt with the problem by wearing them inside out.

  Soap and toothpaste I did use (life sucked badly enough without actively preventing myself from getting laid), but I always went for the cheap crap you could buy in bulk at the dollar store, or better yet—hit a party or two during the weekend and raid the bathroom like it was Target.

  Mom didn’t spend a lot of money by any stretch of the imagination, and one hundred percent of that money came from me. Still, the new shirts and briefs made me feel like one of those nerdy chicks in movies, who got a makeover consisting of an entire new wardrobe and a personality implant while she was at it.

  Who the fuck was I?

  What the fuck was wrong with me?

  The answer was clearly everything. Everything was wrong with me. Because I’d started imagining Tex laying her angel blue eyes on my new briefs, admiring how pristinely white they were. Yesterday, her innocent gaze made me feel like we were doing something dirty. And dirty was a realm in which I’d thrived.

  Then I remembered another hookup probably wasn’t in the cards for us.

  I’d told her flat-out I could only do casual, but she wasn’t a casual type of girl. She said she’d think about it, but really, it was a no-brainer. Couldn’t blame her. She deserved a whole lot more than my delinquent ass had to offer.

  “How about I make dinner?” Mom looped her arm in mine when we pushed the door open, back at my house.

  “Pretty sure neither of us can afford a restaurant meal after this, so go ahead,” I muttered.

  East was there, lying on the couch in his boxers, texting. He welcomed us with a loud fart.

  “’Sup, Sir Crabs-a-lot?”

  “Easton Liam Braun!” my mother screeched, and I let out a genuine laugh for the first time today. When East heard her shriek, he jumped up from the couch so fast he nearly made a dent in the ceiling.

  “Mrs. St. Claire.” He flashed his good boy smile, hurrying into his bedroom. He hopped back into the living room with one leg in his sweatpants, the other still out, and wobbled in her direction. She sucked him into a viselike grip that was supposed to be a hug, peppering his cheeks with wet, motherly kisses. I glanced at his crotch. He had a semi. He was probably sexting someone. Fucking gross. I made a note to punch him in the face until his nose curved out of the back of his head for touching my mom while he was aroused.

  “You look wonderful, Easton. You’re doing a fine job here. Your momma is very proud.” She pinched both his cheeks and tried to make them wobble, but East’s baby fat was long gone.

  Now would be a good time to stop touching this pervert, Mother.

  The thought was so natural and funny and old-West, as opposed to the newer, miserable version, a pang of nostalgia hit me.

  “Sure am trying.” He bowed his head in fake modesty.

  Mom gave him one last peck on the cheek. “Well, you’re succeeding. I’m making pasta and meatballs. You boys are going to be my little helpers.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He flashed me an eager grin. And just like that, it was like when we were kids all over again.

  For him, anyway.

  Mom made the best meatballs and pasta in the universe, a fact I would defend with my last breath, no matter how fucked-up my relationship with her was.

  I was half-French from my dad’s side, half-Italian from my mom’s. My height and size were from my mother’s family—the Bozzelli men towered to six-five on average and were built like tanks. I also got the olive skin from her. But I had Dad’s hair and pale green eyes.

  The recipe definitely worked in my favor back when I was still in the business of conquering women as an Olympic sport.

  “I’ll let you two catch up in the kitchen.” East clapped both our backs, already retreating back to his room. Not only was he a shithead, but he was also a traitor—leaving me with her, knowing that I avoided her at all costs.

  “I’ll go buy some wine and bread. Give me a shout when dinner’s ready.”

  Stuck in the kitchen with Mom with nowhere to hide, I listened to her small-town gossip. When she realized she’d been talking for twenty minutes straight without getting any type of response, she stopped, still stirring the tomato, basil, and garlic sauce in the pot.

  “But enough about me. Who was that friend you spent your birthday with?”

  I was sitting at the kitchen table, cutting lettuce into miniscule pieces for the salad. “Just a chick.”

  “She must be special to acquire your friendship.”

  I hated when she did that. Acted like she gave a shit. My mother wanted me to meet someone. Become someone else’s problem. Guess it was inconvenient for her to check in on me daily to see I hadn’t offed myself/killed someone/started a cult.

  In her eyes, I wasn’t above doing all three.

  “It’s just someone from work.”

  “Does she have a name?”

  “Yes,” I drawled. “Don’t know many people without a name.”

  Even I had one. Never mind that my parents had named me after a fucking cardinal direction.r />
  Downplaying my relationship with Grace wasn’t lying per se, but it didn’t feel right either. Whichever way I looked at it, we were tight. Definitely tighter than I was with Reign or Max or any other oxygen-wasters on campus who thought I was their buddy. The fact I wouldn’t shy away from riding Texas’ ass like a cowboy didn’t help matters.

  I was considering dropping the food truck gig to avoid her altogether.

  Mom bit down on her smile, childish glee radiating from her.

  Half an hour later, food was ready: salad, spaghetti with meatballs, garlic bread, and red wine. The last two were Easton’s courtesy. The three of us gathered around the creaking table. Mom rushed the grace part so we could tuck in, and I was finally able to somewhat relax.

  The doorbell rang.

  We all glanced at each other. East knew better than to invite people over when I was around. I was notoriously misanthropic.

  “Who could it be?” Mom asked around a bite of pasta.

  “Only one way to find out,” I muttered, pushing my chair back and walking to the door. Our peephole wasn’t working. Some punks filled it with wax before we moved in. I had no choice but to open the door and trust it wasn’t an assassin sent by Kade Appleton. Recently, I had a weird feeling I was being followed.

  It wasn’t.

  The person who stood at the door was far less welcome than a serial killer.

  Grace.

  What was she doing here?

  She wore a stripy long-sleeved shirt, skintight jeans, and her timeless FILAs. Her ball cap was screwed on top of her head, lowered down, serving as her invisibility cloak.

  “Hey.” She smiled at her feet. Both my dick and I gave her smile a standing ovation. I wondered how many brain cells I was going to be left with by the time this chick was done showing me all of her mundane facial expressions.

  “What’s up?” I clipped.

  “You forgot your wallet in the truck. You weren’t picking up your phone, so Karlie called to let me know. I thought I’d swing by and drop it off.”

  She took out my wallet from her back pocket, handing it to me.

  “She asked me why we were there in the first place, why it smelled like cleaning products. I told her we went in to get slushies and spilled some. I think she bought it.”

  Then, I think she’s an idiot.

  Also: Goddammit. How had I not noticed my wallet was missing before? Oh, that’s right. I was too drunk on watching Grace masturbating to care where my fucking limbs were, let alone my wallet. Then my mother treated me to clothes and groceries (albeit with the money I transferred to her earlier this month). I hadn’t had to take out my wallet once today.

  I plucked it from her hand and moved to close the door in her face.

  “Thanks. Catch you later, Tex.”

  “Westie?” Mom called out behind my shoulder, peeking outside to see who it was. She rested a hand over my shoulder. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  Fuck. My. Life.

  Both women sized each other up in the way females did, grinning simultaneously, as if unearthing some rare secret. Grace did a little wave. I almost forgot that behind the sarcastic minx I wanted to shut up with my reproductive organ was a polite, Southern belle just ready to burst out at the first sign of a worrying momma.

  “Howdy, ma’am. I’m Grace Shaw.”

  “Caroline St. Claire, West’s mother. Such a pleasure.” Mom ditched any attempt to act like a civilized human and jumped Grace’s bones in a suffocating hug. Texas, of course, returned the favor, squeezing her right back.

  I opened the door all the way, even though if it were up to me, I’d rather slam it in both their faces.

  “Why, you must join us for dinner!” Mom exclaimed. It didn’t take a genius to do the math. Texas was The Chosen One whom I’d spent my birthday with.

  She was my so-called redemption.

  Antidote to my poison.

  The one Mom had been praying for.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose.” Grace blushed, batting her eyelashes and tucking her chin down. She was hiding her scar. Smart girl. If Mom saw her face properly, the shit show train would officially get off the rails and head straight off the cliff.

  My mother and Grace in the same room was my idea of a nightmare, for too many reasons to count.

  “Nonsense! We would love to have you. Westie doesn’t have very many friends, and I’m dying to hear more about his life on campus.”

  Mom was now pulling Grace into the house, even when the latter dug her heels at the door like a cat approaching a full tub. Caroline St. Claire would lock the poor girl in a glass room, if it meant making sure she’d dine with us.

  Texas shot me a sorry look. It was the first time she was here. She looked around, her aqua eyes big and exploring. I normally didn’t feel embarrassed about where I lived. And it wasn’t that Grace’s house was going to hit MTV Cribs anytime soon. Still, I hated that my brokenness, my poorness, was right up in her face.

  When Grace entered the kitchen, Easton stood up and greeted her while Mom took out another plate and utensils. We all sat down and tucked in. I avoided eye contact and all attempts at conversation.

  My mother, of course, was in full Spanish Inquisition mode.

  “So you work with Westie?” she asked before Texas took her first bite.

  “Yes, ma’am. At a food truck just down the road from here.”

  “Do you go to Sheridan University, too?”

  “I do. I major in theater and arts.”

  “Then you must know our Easton well.”

  “Sure do. He’s got himself quite the following.” Grace nodded, and I wanted to stab my own chest with a fork. “West too.” She shot me an apologetic smile.

  “Really?” Mom’s brows knitted incredulously. “Is he known for anything on campus?”

  Making people bleed.

  Texas didn’t even flinch.

  “He is quite popular with the ladies.”

  “Always has been. Why, sweetie, you can take off that hat now.”

  Being handsy as all fuck, Mom took it upon herself to remove Grace’s ball cap, tossing it to the counter behind her shoulder. “I want to take a look at your pretty fa—”

  She never got to finish the sentence because Grace let out a squeak that sounded like an injured animal was trapped inside her throat.

  Then there was silence.

  A whole fucking lot of it.

  Utensils cluttered on the plates. Easton sucked in a breath. The red, angry, ragged skin under Texas’ makeup told a horror story that wasn’t dinner-table appropriate.

  It wasn’t that Texas’ face still wasn’t caked with enough makeup to open a Sephora, but even through it, you could see the Freddy Krueger complexion she desperately tried to hide.

  Both Grace and I shot up from our seats in unison, reaching for the ball cap. She pawed it first, slapping it over her head with shaky fingers.

  Mom cleared her throat, clutching her fake pearls. Easton looked down.

  I tried to block away the disturbing fact that Grace Shaw was stunning. Because she absolutely fucking was. With her ball cap down, and her face in full view, the magnificence of her was like a punch to the gut.

  “I’m so sorry. How did you …”

  I’d known Grace Shaw for months and refrained from asking about her scar. My mother had known her for less than fifteen minutes and already felt comfortable digging in.

  “I mean, when did that happen?” Mom finished.

  “That’s none of your goddamn business, and you have no right asking her that,” I roared, knocking my fist against the table. Every single thing on it bounced up in the air, and my mother let out a cry.

  Easton jumped up from his seat and asked Grace to help him open another bottle of wine, even though the one on the table was half-full.

  They both disappeared to the living room while I pierced my mother with a deadly stare.

  “What the fuck are you thinking?” I hissed,
my rage barely containable.

  “I …” Her voice shook, and she looked at me like I was about to hurt her. “I didn’t think.”

  “Damn straight you didn’t.”

  “Westie, I swear, I would never …”

  Easton and Grace slid back into the kitchen. He dragged his chair closer to Grace. Mom was shooting worried glances her way, her eyes wide and bottomless with emotion.

  “Why,” Mom said shakily, to inject some words into the awkward silence, “I wish I had dessert to offer you, Grace. How about some coffee, though?”

  “She doesn’t want any coffee,” I snapped, getting up from my chair. The last thing I wanted was for my mother to talk to Texas. I couldn’t afford Mom telling Grace my big secret. My this-is-why-he-is-so-fucked-up reason. “Grace was just leaving.”

  I quirked an eyebrow and scowled at Texas meaningfully.

  Her eyes were two pools of shock, but I didn’t let myself look away.

  Hurting her hurt me, and I deserved all the pain in the universe.

  “Certainly,” I heard Grace say tightly. She stood up, reaching to hug my mother. “It was lovely to meet you, Mrs. St. Claire.”

  “You too, sweetheart. And again, I’m so sorry.”

  “Let me walk you out.” Easton grimaced.

  I knew I looked like a world-class jerk, but I figured whatever mess I’d created was salvageable with Grace. If I apologized and explained myself, we could still hang out and work together.

  If she found out the truth about me through my mother, however, she wouldn’t be able to look at me again.

  East and Grace walked to the door. My mother swiveled in my direction, her face twisting in horror. “The poor girl.”

  “You were the one who took off her hat,” I said flatly.

  “You kicked her out. I’ve never known you to be this cruel.”

  Have you ever known me at all, Mother?

  “Know what else is cruel? You showing up here. Barging into my shit like we haven’t been strangers for the past goddamn five years. Making me pasta and meatballs for the first time in half a decade doesn’t make up for all the time you haven’t showed your face, Caroline. And before you give me the I-distanced-myself-from-you bullshit”—I raised my hand to stop her, because I knew what was coming; her mouth already hung open, ready to fire back—“You were supposed to be the responsible adult between us. You were supposed to reach out to me. I send you money each week. Do me a fucking favor and pay me back by never contacting me again.”