She’s quiet. And after a few more seconds of silence, I turn to make sure she’s still there. Only I find her staring out the window, lost in thought.
I twist the faucet handle to ‘off’ and take the seat beside her. “Mama, sometimes you forget your meds. And other times you get those spells. And there are times you—”
She swats her hand at me. “I know.”
“In a few weeks, I won’t be just a phone call away anymore. And Dad can’t leave work on a whim if something happens.” I wring my hands. “At least let me apply for this and see what happens. It’s not like you have anything to lose.”
Mama drags in a slow breath and lets it go, shoulders falling. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Couldn’t hurt. Just don’t go getting all hopeful.”
I finish the dishes and help her to the living room to get her situated for her mid-morning nap. And when I’m done, I hit the shower, squeezing my eyes tight and letting the water drip down my neck slow and teasing, just the way he kissed me last night …
… just the way I’m going to let him kiss me again—soon.
A good time for a good cause.
How could it go wrong?
Chapter Seventeen
August
* * *
“Aug, check out my new driver.” Dad is polishing his golf clubs when I get home Saturday morning. “Top-of-the-line Hartford. Custom made. Look, they even engraved my monogram on the grips. Nice, eh?”
He attempts to hand it to me, but I ignore the gesture, making a beeline for the door.
There are few things on this Earth I hate more than golf.
My father must have paid for hundreds if not thousands of hours’ worth of golf lessons over the course of my childhood, always desperate to be the best on the green. If only he’d put that kind of effort into parenting, maybe I’d have taken more interest in his hobbies.
Though I will give him credit—he allowed me to accompany him to his favorite course once. When I was ten. Though I could only watch. After four hours in, I was growing restless and thought it’d be funny to drive off in our cart. My juvenile brain was convinced he’d find it hilarious, that we’d be laughing by the end of it. Instead he had me escorted off the grounds like a fucking criminal and made me wait in the back of his SUV for two hours while he finished his eighteen. After that, he never invited me golfing again.
“What, can’t say hi to your old man?” He chuffs, clearly insulted. Though he’s never struck me as a person capable of feeling anything. “Where were you last night, anyway? Who’s the lucky lady?”
“Oh, hey, August.” My father’s girlfriend, Cassandra, emerges from inside. “Haven’t seen you in a while. How have you been?”
Cassandra’s as fake as the double D tits hanging out of her unbuttoned, hot pink golf polo. That or she’s literally an imbecile. They’ve been together nearly a year, and I’ve yet to decide if she sucks at making conversation or if she’s just stupid.
Knowing my father, probably both.
God forbid he dates a woman smarter than him, or a woman my mother would’ve approved of. She was educated and eloquent. Fluent in three languages. An avid reader and a lover of the arts. At least from what I can glean from home videos and a handful of stories people used to throw around at the annual family reunions we used to host. She’d roll in her grave if she saw the kind of women keeping him company these days. Honestly, it’s embarrassing.
“August, a little respect, please. Don’t ignore Cassandra,” my father says. “No need to go shitting on someone else’s day just because you’re in a pissy mood.”
“Vince, it’s okay.” Cassandra’s breathy voice reminds me of a cheap Marilyn Monroe impersonator. I’m convinced it’s all some kind of act she uses to hook men. Like Hilaria Baldwin pretending to be Spanish when she was Boston born-and-raised. I suppose, if my father were with her because he found her interesting, it would matter. But she’s quite literally a bed warmer, a social accessory, and a human pocket pussy all rolled into one—much like the woman before her and the one before that …
My father checks his glimmering Patek Philippe timepiece. “We should head out if we’re going to make our tee time.”
It’s not like they’d turn him away if he showed up late. They’d rearrange everyone else’s tee times before they did that.
“Oh, wait. Let me grab my visor, baby …” Cassandra disappears inside, and I cringe on the inside because a man of his age should never be referred to as baby. I don’t care who you are.
“Any productive plans on the docket for this afternoon?” he asks while he waits. “Or are we planning to laze around the pool.”
“It’s a Saturday, so …” I shrug, smirk, and insert a sarcastic undertone to my words. “Definitely lazing.”
He peers down his bumpy snout at me. Thank God I took after my mother in the looks department. “I’d expect nothing less.”
“And I’m happy to meet those expectations.” I head inside before he can get the last word—a dick move, but I am my father’s son.
I finish the breakfast plate Clarice left for me in the fridge, hit the shower, and take care of the nasty case of blue balls I’ve come down with courtesy of the Rose girl. Only something’s … off.
My usual mental rotation of bukkake fantasies, nine person trains, and squirting pussies seems to be doing—quite literally—nothing for me.
I stroke myself faster, tighten my grip just a little more, pinch my eyes shut, and bite my lip, conjuring an image of my favorite cam girl. My cock throbs for a moment … before deflating.
“God damn it,” I mutter, rubbing faster.
Eyes shut tight once more, I visualize another tried and true classic—a farmer’s daughter getting railed on the back of a tractor by the hired hand. (I never said I was creative). And still—nothing.
Unsatisfied, I let it go, pressing my forehead against the shower tile and take a break. I didn’t sleep last night. Could be that. I stared at Sheridan for hours, my mind ruminating into the darkest corners, remembering things I’d once forgotten, fantasizing about things only a monster would be proud of.
But it’s her bitten smile that comes to mind next. The way she acted annoyed with me last night yet only left my side once. And how she slept so soundly in my arms, like it was the safest place in the world for her.
Her tongue was sweet like cinnamon, and her lips were soft like clouds.
She was worried that she’d taste like beer. And she did. But it was mostly cinnamon. Hot and sweet. And her skin was fucking cashmere. I could’ve touched her all night had she not pulled the emergency brake.
For the hell of it, I stroke myself to the fantasy of what would have been—what will be. Only it’s some kind of boring vanilla version. Regular sex. And just like that, my cock responds in record time.
Before long, I come so hard I have to sit down to catch my breath.
Stumbling out of the shower a minute later, I toss my damp, naked body on the bed and pass out for hours … because I don’t want to think about what this could possibly mean.
Chapter Eighteen
Sheridan
* * *
I’m on my way home from work when I spot KT’s silver Mercedes at a red light.
She’s in the left turn lane on Rosemont, phone pressed against her ear, oblivious. Engaged in conversation with someone who’s putting a big, old dopey grin on her face.
Without thinking twice, I hook a right into an empty battery store parking lot and come out the other side so I can catch the light going in her direction as soon as it turns green.
Only I get stuck behind a garbage truck and a Buick going negative five miles per hour.
When the traffic clears, her shiny little coupe is MIA … until I spot it parked at a little hole-in-the-wall café off Market Street.
Rain drops pepper my windshield, clouding my view as KT makes a mad dash to get inside. Her tail lights blink as she locks it, trotting away in her sky-high heels.
The last several minutes are a blur. I’m pretty sure I cut off a minivan to make this turn. And someone honked, maybe even two someones, but, I was so hyper-focused, every noise had a faded, distorted edge to it, like it was coming from a tunnel a world away.
I park two rows away, waiting and watching like a stalker. Too curious to leave, too paralyzed to charge in and address the woman who promised my father she’d put Mama out of her suffering.
With a death grip on my steering wheel, and the radio playing some melancholy Adele song on low volume, I talk myself into taking the confrontation route because I didn’t drive like a bat out of hell just to sit here like some pansy. I didn’t do all of that just to slink of quietly into the night.
I kill my engine and shove my keys into my bag—just as my father pulls up and parks our family sedan in the empty spot beside her Mercedes. Thunder rolls; angry, booming and unapologetic. Rain pelts harder, bouncing off my roof like marbles on tin. Within seconds, Dad disappears into the cozy café with the beautiful woman.
I start my engine and the dash clock blinks to life—8:11 PM.
He should’ve been at work an hour ago.
I start my car, and as I peel out of the parking lot, my hands are locked so tight on the steering wheel that I can’t feel my fingers. Thick tears blind my vision and leave itchy tracks down my cheeks, and I drive until I can’t anymore.
And now here I am—in the library parking lot at eight o’clock on a Saturday night, bawling my eyes out. Alone. Lungs gasping for air. Weight of the world on my shoulders. My head pounds, fierce with pressure as I rest it against the steering wheel and wipe my tears on my sleeve.
I need to head home and check on Mama, but until these tears stop falling, driving in this rainstorm would be a death wish.
I check the radar, the way my dad taught me. The storm should clear in about twenty minutes.
I mess with the radio for a bit, dry my tears on a wrinkly napkin from the console, and scroll through my phone to kill the time. I’d text Adriana, but we just worked an eight-hour shift together, and she’s probably getting ready for her Bumble date anyway.
Scrolling through my contacts, I stop when I get to ENEMY DEAREST, and, for the hell of it, I read through our old texts. Every single one. By the time I’m done, I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror—my mouth is curled up at the sides. He’s crazy. Hot, but crazy. And he’s obsessed with me. Which is also hot. A weird kind of hot but still hot.
And his offer to help my mom is beyond generous—assuming his offer hasn’t expired. Maybe it isn’t from the kindness of his cold little heart because he’s made it clear he wants one night with me. But still. It counts for something, and it was so kind of him to let me sleep in his arms last night.
He may have a façade of steel and a signature wicked glint and naughty intentions, but I don’t think he’s the monster everyone thinks he is. Misunderstood maybe. And a spoiled Monreaux with unlimited access to fuck-you money. But if those are the worst things about him, I’d hardly call him a monster.
He doesn’t scare me.
He’s intense, sure. But he owns it. That’s more than most people can say.
The rain picks up, beading harder on my windshield as the worst of the storm makes its way through this side of town. I text Mama to let her know I’ll be home soon, and then I tune to a local radio station—the one that doesn’t fade in and out every three seconds.
A MUNRO song plays—A Thousand Words for Summer, and I hum along with August’s brother. I’ve never been a big MUNRO fan. For whatever reason, their music never resonated with me. It always made me think of lying on my bed, crying into a pillow and missing someone I could never have.
Maybe that’s a theme with them. Unrequited love. Missed chances. Too little, too late. Regrets.
But this song is catchy. It isn’t as sad. It’s about this girl and how there aren’t enough words in the world to describe how much she means to him. With nothing else to do but wait for the rain to finish, I snap a picture of my radio and send it to August because I need something to take my mind off of what I just witnessed. Can’t think of a bigger distraction than him …
ME: Listening to your brother’s new song. Is “Summer” a real person or a marketing ploy?
I add a winking emoji in case I come off the wrong way.
It takes a couple of minutes, but he replies.
ENEMY DEAREST: Not sure. I’ll ask him.
ME: Appreciate it.
ME: What are you up to tonight?
ENEMY DEAREST: Literally sitting around waiting for you to text me.
ME: Whatever ... What are you really doing?
ENEMY DEAREST: Top secret project.
I laugh under my breath. Such a smart ass, this one. But, for all I know, he might not be joking. I heard a rumor once that the Monreauxs have a “blacklist” and if your name so much as touches that list, they’ll destroy you from the inside out. A slow and painful reckoning. It’s probably why my father has had so many jobs in the last twenty years. Every couple of years he gets a pink slip, and it’s always for some asinine reason.
They went after a local guy a few years ago—Mark Greeley—who had some kind of road rage incident with Vincent. Thirty days later, the guy lost his job of fifteen years at the power company due to “gross misconduct.” They said he sexually harassed one of the secretaries there. Never mind the two of them didn’t so much as work in the same unit. Shortly after that, he spent six months on unemployment. And when his bills wouldn’t stop piling up, that’s when his marriage began to crumble. He’d gained weight. Lost his spark. And had all but given up. By the end of that year, his wife took the kids and filed for divorce.
I’ve seen him around town a handful of times over the years. He’s put on at least fifty pounds, gone all gray, and wears a full beard to hide half of his face.
It’s crazy how a single incident can have a ripple effect that spans the rest of your life.
I should count my lucky stars that our family didn’t crumble like that. My father has spent his fair share of time standing in the unemployment line over the years, but we never went hungry and we never had our water shut off and he and Mama never once considered divorce.
Then again … look where we are now.
I exhale, pressing my cheek against the cool glass as the rain drops diminish to almost nothing but a few tear shaped trickles.
I could go home now.
But I have a wild hair to ask a favor of August.
ME: Can I call you?
ENEMY DEAREST: ???
ME: Is that a yes or a no?
I nibble my thumbnail. Maybe he’s one of those guys who hates phone calls. Who only text. Or maybe he’s with someone?
ENEMY DEAREST: Yeah. Give me 2 secs. I’ll call you.
Resting my phone in my lap, I make sure the ringer’s on, and I wait. Only the ringtone is different, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s Face Timing me.
Oh, god. I wasn’t ready for this.
I flip my visor down to check the damage. Swollen eyes, pink nose, puffy lips, humidity-kissed hair.
Screw it. It’s dark in here anyway.
I accept his call and manage a cool yet casual, “Hey.”
“Hey, you.” His voice is low, intimate almost. Judging by the motion behind him, it would appear he’s walking down a dimly lit hallway. A second later, he closes a door behind him. “What’s going on?”
“I just have a weird favor to ask, I guess.”
“And you couldn’t text it?” He runs his hands through his messy waves and his hair falls in a deep side part. “Wait. I can hardly see you. It’s super dark. Where are you?”
“In my car.”
“Just sitting in your car in the dark?” He climbs onto his bed and rests a tattooed arm behind his head. “Everything okay?”
“You have resources, right? Like you can find people?”
He sits up, almost choking on his words before chuckling. “Are you high right now?
You’re acting so fucking weird, Sher.”
Sher. He’s never called me that before.
It’s always been Rose girl, which I’ve always attributed to the fact that I’m some kind of fetish to him so it’s some kind of turn on-slash-reminder.
“No, I’m not high. I just need to figure out who someone is. A name. I have initials. And I have a picture of her car,” I say. “I figured you might have more connections or you might know people who know people. It’s a stretch. But I wanted to ask.”
He’s sitting cross-legged now, one hand covering his mouth as he breathes over his fingers, examining me from his side of the screen.
“I think … I think my father’s having an affair, and I just want to know who this woman is,” I say. I don’t love the idea of sharing this fact with August. After all, his father would probably go to town with this little detail. But for some insane reason … I trust him. “Her initials are KT. I’ve seen them together a handful of times, but I haven’t gotten close. I just want to have all of my facts straight before I confront him so he can’t brush me off.”
“Jesus.” He mumbles through his fingers. “Is that why you look like you’ve been crying?”
My cheeks burn in the dark. I didn’t think he’d be able to notice.
“I had a moment, yes.”
He leans against his headboard, shaking his head as he stares off. “I don’t know much about your situation, but I do know that cheaters never come clean unless they’re caught red-handed. Having a name isn’t going to do you any good. He’ll deny it. They avoid confrontation like the plague—it’s partly why they cheat. They’re allergic to the art of breaking up with people. Deep down, they’re cowards.”
A month ago, the word coward would have never sat beside my dad’s name in a sentence.
“And you know this from experience?”
“Psh. I’ve witnessed it first-hand all of my life.” He’s talking about his father. I should’ve figured. “The man’s got it down to a science.”
Enemy Dearest Page 10