by Angel Payne
All too soon, I had to pull up to the house. As soon as I braked next to the kitchen door, the screen door was punched open hard enough to slam the side of the house. Mom appeared in the portal, no less a force of nature, an effect aided by the bright lights from behind. I chuckled as she forced herself to remain there while I circled around to help Margaux down from the car. As soon as Margaux was safe on the ground, I chuckled and gestured to Mom.
“Okay, come on. Hit me with all you got, mama bear.”
Mom didn’t need a second invitation. With Margaux watching, she damn near took a flying leap at me—in short, the usual—before mushing me with a cheek kiss then rubbing my jaw scruff. “Well, hello there.”
“Hi. Whoa, you look nice. Why the makeup?”
“City council photos.”
I chuckled. “That time again already?”
“It’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it. Besides, I am the one with the hotshot son now.” She ruffled my hair. “My beautiful baby bear.”
Margaux giggled. I growled. “Mom…sheez.”
“Shut up. I’m due. This is the carrot God dangled while I wiped your ass for two years.”
“You’ve washed up since then, yeah?” I glanced toward Margaux. “I am so, so sorry about—”
I wasn’t sure what snatched the rest of the words from me. The wistful smile on her face…or the pooling tears in her eyes.
Instant promise to the Guy Upstairs. I will never “apologize” for my mother’s affection again.
To ensure I remembered it thoroughly, the woman herself stepped forward to salvage the moment, extending a hand like Margaux’s tears were no more than the interference of summer bugs. “Welcome to Pearson’s,” she greeted. “I’m Diana Pearson, but nobody calls me that. Just go for Di and we’ll be good.”
Margaux dipped her head. I almost wondered if she was going to bow next. “Okay then, Di. Nice to meet you. I’m—”
“Oh, I know who you are.” Mom dashed off a little wink. “And it is very nice to meet you too, Margaux Asher. You’re every bit as lovely as I expected.”
Enough light spilled out from the house to pick up the flush in Margaux’s cheeks. Whap. Another window to the woman flew open—a huge, fascinating one. I’d seen her flummoxed, furious, flirty, and haughty as all hell, but never—what was this, anyway? Bashful? Embarrassed? Cautious?
“Well,” she laughed out, “I guess you keep an eye on the gossip magazines.”
“I keep an eye on my son.” Mom’s warmth eclipsed the words of anything except love and pride. “Including how he talks about the important people in his life.”
That didn’t go unnoticed. With gaze flicking to me, Margaux quipped, “And…I’m important?”
“Do bees crap honey?” The two of them shared a giggle, which Mom interpreted as permission to link arms like they’d been girlfriends for years. I watched in shock as Margaux squeezed back.
This wasn’t good. At all. “It’s getting chilly,” I interceded. “Let me get Margaux’s bags and we can all go—”
“Great idea, honey. We’ll see you inside.” As Mom pulled Margaux toward the door, she went on, “So I already know some of the important stuff. You like chocolate, French movies, girl pop, and my son’s humor. I’m sure there are a few things still missing from that list…”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as I paced around to retrieve the two suitcases, garment bag and makeup satchel from the truck. After lugging them up the back stairs and parking them in the “girlier” of the two guest bedrooms—still wondering what the hell she could’ve been capable of with ten minutes to pack—I followed the sound of more giggling down to the den.
Two hours ago, I’d seriously wondered if zombies were going to materialize from the walls of Margaux’s place. Now, I realized fate was holding back on the true horror scene of the night.
“I think he was about five or six in these.” Mom swiped the screen of the electronic photo album I’d given her for Mother’s Day. “God, he loved that little cape I made for him.”
Heat claimed my face. I scrubbed at my jaw, glad I hadn’t shaved. Thick scruff made for good ground cover in a pinch.
And gave me an excuse to pause, still unnoticed, to watch a soft smile breach Margaux’s lips. “Captain America,” she murmured, “even back then.”
Mom popped her head up. “His favorite. How’d you know?”
“We’re talking Michael, right? How could anyone not know?”
“Many don’t.” Mom tried to be light and fluffy about it—but the woman clearly didn’t know who she was dealing with. Margaux “I-See-Through-People-Like-Cellophane” Asher.
Sure enough, Margaux forgot about the picture, swinging up her stare, intent on drilling through Mom’s pretense. “I don’t follow. Your son’s pretty amazing, you know. No secret behind that.”
Mom’s face dipped into the same conflict punching my chest.
Oh, princess…if you only knew.
But she couldn’t know. And wouldn’t. I’d all but absconded her ass all the way up here because of the escape I wanted it to be for her, not the complication. Cleaning out her mind was the goal, not clogging it more with bullshit from my past—and the demon from it who thought he could terrorize his way into our future.
Fuck.
An image of Declan and his smirk invaded my mind, a blockade to getting into the den to run the interference Mom desperately needed. I fought back with a grunt, mentally punching into his features like cartoon clay. It was easier to shove the mess aside then escalate my grunt to a growl that sounded peeved at discovering my childhood on twelve-inch display for the first woman I’d brought home since Laci.
“Well…shit,” I grumbled, bursting them both into laughter. I picked up the monitor and snorted again before arching a brow at Mom. “Now do you wonder why I wouldn’t load the one of me doing this in my underwear?”
Margaux straightened. “There’s an underwear one?”
“Don’t. You. Dare,” I barked before Mom could take a breath.
She laughed then stood. “I think that’s my cue to go rustle up some dinner.”
A couple of hours later, after we’d stuffed ourselves full of lasagna, Caesar salad, pie, and more mortifying stories about my five year-old super hero antics, Mom rose from the kitchen table with an exaggerated yawn. On her way out, she doused the fluorescents that illuminated the room like a surgi-center. The perimeter track lights took over, softening everything to shades of peach and gold. The hues played perfectly over the top of Margaux’s head, turning her hair into a little cloud. Entrancing as it was, I fought the craving to pull down her pony tail, wondering if her strands felt as silken as they looked…and how they’d feel in my fist if I yanked her into my lap, kissing her without mercy…
She didn’t help anything by tilting her head, throwing a stare over in open question.
“All right, I’m going to bite. What the hell’s up, Pearson?”
Up? Except what the thoughts of your hair are doing to the wood between my thighs?
“Just enjoying the evening, Miss Asher.” And thinking about how I never wanted it to end.
Surreal. I returned again to the descriptor, though I’d never really stopped. And why not? It was so fucking appropriate for all this, forcing me to confront a significant truth about why I’d insisted on the stunt to begin with. Sure, I’d sensed this might be exactly what she needed—what “complicated” life didn’t benefit from fresh air and a sky full of stars?—but there was no denying the second half anymore: I’d done it for me, too. Inviting her up here was one thing. Damn near forcing the event was another, especially when the scenario had disaster all but spelled out for it.
Her: square peg. Julian: round hole. Annihilated edges: distinct possibility.
A trap set on purpose?
If I denied it, I’d be lying.
But dammit, if her life was so “complicated” that she was willing to douse us for it, then I needed a reason to let go
, too. A legitimate one. Six months away hadn’t surrendered that reason for me. The last month sure as hell hadn’t. So, maybe now I needed to detonate my own C-4 on the situation. Watch the princess curl up her nose at my home turf for a while, reinforcing the theory I’d tried to prove from the start. Our worlds had collided by accident, not fate. Bogie and Bacall without Sam and the piano. Tony and Maria without the fire escape. Bella and Edward without the sparkles. But maybe the blood. Yeah, maybe a little of the blood—namely my own, all self-inflicted—before this was through.
Because, God help me, it seemed like she’d belonged here all along.
Mom adored her. The house was brighter with her in it. Shit, she even sat here at the table we’d had since I was a kid, tracing over its nicks and grooves with scary familiarity.
Was the rat about to be snapped in his own trap?
And, if so…what the hell did that mean for his sanity now?
How the hell did I confront the concept of giving her up after this?
Thwack. She ordered me back to reality by snapping a fingernail against my thigh. I chuckled. She glowered.
“Enjoying the evening?” she shot back. “That’s all?”
I quirked one side of my mouth. “Does there have to be more?”
She yanked a knee up to her chest. Rested her cheek against it. But while the pose was casual, her stare wasn’t. Her sass had flipped to serious—and the piercing attention she’d given to Mom earlier was now my fate. “I just supposed you’d be…distracted by now.”
“Huh?” I was genuinely confused. And irked. Though the latter really made no sense. “Why? With what?”
Her head lifted. Brow furrowed. “Come on, Michael. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”
“Notice what?”
Only now, she looked like she had just seen a ghost. Her lips parted and I wasn’t sure if she’d speak or puke. “The…bruise,” she finally stated.
“The bruise?” I scowled. “What the hell are you—what bruise? Where?”
She blinked. Again. “On your mom, Michael.”
“On my—what?”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t see through all that makeup.”
“She had city council pictures.” Now I was totally lost. Disbelief took the spoon of my reality and twisted it into a pretzel. “Right? She said she had to—” I hurled my gaze back up at her. “And then I just thought she was tired.”
I stabbed a hand through my hair. On its way down, Margaux grabbed it. “Sometimes we see what we want to see.” There was no sympathy in it. Or pity. Just a lot of basic understanding. Thank fuck. “I was going to ask if she might have just fallen or something, but that isn’t the case, is it?”
My chest constricted. My gut heaved. My chair snarled against the floor as I pulled back and surged to my feet.
Then drove my fist into the countertop.
A couple of spoons jangled in the sink. Some glasses clanged inside the cupboard. Blood trickled down my knuckles onto the granite surface as the night wind and the crickets took back over.
How Margaux knew not to say a word was both comforting and troubling.
“Let me…show you to your room,” I finally grated.
“I think I can find the way.” When I growled at that, she gave back as good as she got. “For chrissake, Michael. Go to her.”
I didn’t—maybe couldn’t—argue with her. Hearing the words out loud made the action permissible.
I knocked three times on Mom’s bedroom door—like she needed the code to know it was me. Still, I called, “I’m counting to ten then coming in. Get decent now if you have to.”
She answered just before I hit nine—
With cold cream covering everything from her chin to her temples.
“Who do you think I’m in here being indecent with?”
I let the quip fall into beat one of my steely silence. Beat two: the stomp I took into the room. Beat three: the kick I gave to close the door behind me.
Before reaching up and swiping the white shit out from beneath both her eyes—
“Michael! Hey!”
—exposing the black and blue palette defining the crest of her left cheekbone.
I still didn’t speak a word. Stalked into her bathroom, scooped up a towel, and jabbed it toward her. “You going to wipe that shit off so I can see everything, or shall I?”
She let out air hard through her nostrils. “You’re not too old to spank.”
“You sure about that? Maybe I’ve regressed somehow. You haven’t lied to me since I was five. Guess I have gotten old enough for that.”
“Stop it. Right now.” Her eyes darkened to the sienna of her purest fury. Growing up, I did everything I could to avoid that color. Now, I squared off to meet it more fully. “I’m still your mother. I deserve your respect.”
“Though it’s clear I don’t deserve yours.”
It was over the line. I knew it right away, and thanked God that Margaux wasn’t here to whack the side of my head for it. But I wasn’t about to take it back. I’d inherited my pigheaded side from someone, and it sure as hell wasn’t “Diplomatic” Roark Pearson. That left the woman standing in front of me, still glaring through her cold cream.
“I won’t talk to you when you’re like this, Michael.”
“And I’m not throwing a tantrum about a toy you refuse to buy.” I kept the words firm but took a page out of Dad’s book on the approach. A step back. A kinder tone. “I’m mad about this, Mom, because I’m scared. Were you ever going to tell me about this? What if I hadn’t come up tonight?”
She started swiping at the cream. I steeled myself for what she’d expose. “The guys at the PD know. I was going to have them call you after they decided what they could legally do—”
“So it was Declan.” My teeth grinded on the words as my gut roiled on the truth. Part of me had clung to a hope she’d call me a paranoid nut job, look me in the eye, and swear on Grandma’s bible that she’d simply run into a wall the wrong way. “He violated the restraining order. How much more ‘legal’ do they need?”
Mom winced. Fuck. Not good. “It happened in town.”
“In town?” I jacked my head back against the wall, hoping to knock free the confusion. “That’s even better. This is a holiday week. You probably had a dozen witnesses.”
She lifted her head. The damage from Dec’s blow wasn’t as grisly as I’d expected. The remorse in her eyes was another story. “I had to park a few blocks off Main because of the crowds. When I returned to the car—”
“That asshole moved right in.”
“Michael!”
I jerked my head up, realizing at least a minute had passed. Sixty seconds of a fury so deafening and violent, it had driven me across the room in blind, floor-eating strides, fighting back the craving to tear the goddamn furniture apart with my bare hands. Her shout jerked my glare around to her again. Seeing her again. Wanting to vomit from the sight of what that sick fuck had done to her. No. That was too kind. Declan Pearson was a coward and a bully, plain and simple, waiting until he figured I wouldn’t be in town for a while to make his move on Mom when she was alone and defenseless.
“I’m going to kill him.” I didn’t recognize the snarl coming out of me, but I liked it. Right now, I liked that blood-thirsty beast…a lot. “You and Dad will have to find a way to forgive me. I’m going to kill him, and—”
“No.” Her hand fastened to the center of my chest then pushed. “No, dammit. We’re not going to handle this by swimming in his gutter!”
“Even if he drowns you in it—again?” I shoved back, stomping forward. “You’re not a weak widow anymore. And I’m not a scrawny kid who won’t fight back.”
“No, you’re not.” She whispered it, raising a hand to my face as a tearful smile overcame hers. “You’re a miracle of a man, Michael. My successful, smart, wonderful lawyer.” She jutted her chin up with that—snagging my goddamn heart in the doing. Even with the damage wrought by Dec, she’d never been
more beautiful to me. Because of her pride in you. Her faith in you to do this like a man in the right, not a kid in a super hero cape.
Step back. Another. Deep breath. Another. Unbelievably, I found myself pretending I was at the office, purposely distancing myself in the name of professional effectiveness. “So you filed a full report with the police?”
She nodded. “At the same time I was checked out at the medical center. Everything was documented in full, with pictures and details. But they have to proceed carefully, Michael. You know this. Half the town is under his spell. Many think selling the water down the hill is the best idea since hybrid apples. They only see the dollar signs.”
“But not what that animal is willing to do for them. Or who he’s willing to hurt.”
I watched her battling the urge to say more. In the end, it would all be words we’d spoken before. The road we’d traveled together after Dad’s death definitely hadn’t been Richie and Marian Cunningham. Protecting her from Declan’s drunk rages with a steak knife and a trashcan lid definitely wasn’t the same as wondering whether we’d be having pot pie or pizza for dinner—but it had also fast-tracked me past the my-mom-sucks bullshit of normal teens. Angst had always been a waste of time I couldn’t afford—at least until I’d met Laci. Though I’d vowed to keep that shit out of the emotional budget after she left, Margaux taught me that some bottom lines were simply meant to be blown. If you cared for people, the shitty times came along with the good ones, and loving them meant you wouldn’t want it any other way. Easy enough with Mom—but what about the woman who’d brought the lesson for me?
I did not love Margaux Asher.
No way. Not even close. Approach a different runway, man. You are not that stupid.
Was I?
The question shot a king-sized gulp down my throat as Mom stepped over again, pulling me into one of her love-you-‘til-the-end-of-time hugs. As her arms roped my shoulders and she gripped the back of my head, I thought of her once again as she’d been downstairs, after Margaux and I first arrived. Laughing. Connecting. Seeing every awesome, adorable thing that I saw about the woman—as I knew she would. As I knew she still did.