by S. Love
For people like us, the grind isn’t over at the end of one day. It continues for the rest of our lives.
“I can handle them, and I’m going home this weekend. I’ll pick up one of those old baby books mom’s got lying around the basement.”
“Hit up that chapter on weaning. I think they’re at that stage by now.”
Our shared laughter consumes the last few minutes of my break.
“Tal, I’ve gotta get back to work before Cindy comes home. Text you tonight?”
“Sure. Bye, sis.”
“Love you.”
Ozzie strolls into the kitchen as I’m sliding my phone into my apron pocket. I suppress a grumble, prudently avoiding eye contact.
He dumps his body into one of the seats at the dining table, and I suffer his shrewd stare, even with my eyes cast downward as I tuck in my chair.
“You sleep on my offer?” Ozzie kicks his socked feet up onto the table, crossing them at the ankles. He’s shirtless, which is nothing new. Shirts must be a severe allergy in this house.
He runs one hand over his hair, tousled and unruly from oversleeping. His hazel eyes are glossy with tiredness, his lids droopy and sated. Two words come to mind: harmless and enticing.
I know he’s neither.
“Most men who’ve mastered the inner workings of a woman don’t feel the need to scream about it to anyone who’ll listen. You, Clayton Osborne, know jackshit about what a woman wants, least of all how to give it to her. Even if yours was the last functioning dick on the planet, I’d wear out my fingers before settling for a ride on what’s in your pants.”
Wearily, he offers little more than a jaded look chased by a gaping yawn that shows off fleshy pink tonsils.
“Con’s sticking it to you good, huh?” Voice hoarse with sleep, he isn’t too tired for extra dickish behavior.
“I’m sorry.” I hold onto the back of the chair, leaning over the table. “What exactly have I done that’s upset you so much? Because if you’re as important as you seem to think you are, why are you so concerned over every little thing I do?”
“Concerned?” Throaty laughter streaks from Ozzie in flying shards of gravel, his head tipping back to expose the silhouette of his Adam’s apple.
Whatever else he’s got to say, I don’t hear it. The front door closes, the echo reaching the kitchen in waves. A man’s voice followed by a child’s laughter draws a reactive frown over my eyes.
Ozzie stands up, palms braced against the table as his gaze sharpens on me. “The real reason you’re here just showed up.”
A navy duffel bag’s slung over Mr. Osborne’s shoulder as he squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Clayton,” he says in greeting, dropping the bag onto the kitchen island.
“Dad.” Ozzie’s response is sober, but he’s more tolerant of his father than he is his mother. I haven’t witnessed many interactions since I’ve been here, but the ones I have, the animosity appears to be targeted at Cindy, and I still don’t know why that is. The woman allows her kids to do whatever they want. They run this house and Cape Pearl, even though none of them are qualified.
Ozzie’s breath streams audibly from his nose, his chest inflating. His irritability’s down to the small girl shuffling into the kitchen who, seconds earlier, was laughing in the foyer. She isn’t laughing now, her eyebrows and mouth drawn in apprehension. And I don’t blame the girl. The hostility coming from Ozzie is enough to scare anyone.
As much as I’d love to stay and revel in the awkwardness—not—I excuse myself to get back to my work.
“Ah, Lyla.” Mr. Osborne’s hand flies out to stop me before I can leave the room. “I’ve brought some furniture home. If you could take Mariah up to the second guest bedroom by my office, and I’ll bring it up. Clayton will handle the bigger pieces, if you can arrange the room for me?” He sweetens his request with a sheepish smile. “I trust you’ll be more suitably equipped for the job than I am.”
I look at Ozzie. He rolls his eyes, but there’s no argument, even if he doesn’t want to help me.
“Of course.” I offer the little girl my hand. She stares at it, clutching a Barbie doll in one arm with sawn-off black hair and metallic sticker strips on her naked, plastic arms.
“It’s okay.” Mr. Osborne reassures her with a gentle nudge and a warm smile, immediately relieving the girl’s shoulders of some of their slump. “This is Lyla, she works here. Why don’t you go with her and show her your toys, and those new coloring pens I bought you?”
“Okay,” she mumbles. Round eyes the same alluring shade of hazel as Ozzie’s drop to the floor, the toe of her patent leather shoe rubbing against the marble. She doesn’t take my hand, but she does walk with me to the staircase. Five steps up, her hot, little fingers wedge silently between mine.
In the bedroom that’s going to be hers, I wander to the middle of the beige-carpeted floor, Mariah’s soft hand slipping from mine as she hangs back by the door.
The twin bed’s made up with a white comforter fringed in white lace. The blush walls are bare, and there are no curtains at the shuttered windows. This is the first time I’ve been in this room. The first time it’s been unlocked. Surprisingly, there’s no dust in here, and I wonder who’s been cleaning it. I picture Cindy with a feather duster and a vacuum, but the image fizzles out quicker than it appeared.
If anyone’s been in here keeping on top of the muck, it hasn’t been her.
“So, this is pretty,” I say to Mariah, injecting too much enthusiasm into my voice. She doesn’t say anything, hugging her Barbie doll like it’s her only friend. “What’s your, ah, Barbie’s name?”
Ocean eyes speckled with unsureness peer up through long lashes. “Tina,” Mariah says in a whisper-like voice.
“That’s a cool name. Like Tina Turner.”
Mariah’s unsureness levels into a slanted frown. “Who?”
“Tina Turner.” For some silly reason, I click my fingers and do this weird two-step dance. “Ohh, Oh, Ohh, what’s love got to do with it… got to do with it…”
A loose giggle slips from Mariah’s mouth, and she quickly clamps up upon hearing the sound.
“No?” I cross my arms and smile. “You don’t know that one, huh?”
She shakes her head, wild, sandy curls bouncing around her shoulders.
Ozzie barges through the doorway with a long cardboard package balanced on his shoulder. He hasn’t said a single word to Mariah, and just from looking at her, I’ve put two and two together and possibly come up with six. She’s got Ozzie’s eyes, but her skin tone is one shade of caramel darker. Her afro hair’s tamed with silky, corkscrew curls that surround the most interesting little face.
“Are you going to be living here, Mariah?” I ask, since Ozzie won’t. His acting like she isn’t here, while he tears into the furniture box, is irritating me no end. Each cut of the scissors on cardboard going right through me.
Mariah shrugs.
I’m not sure what to say to this girl. Asking where her mother is seems like the wrong question.
“Where’s my dad?” Her tiny voice shakes. She might trust me more if I come down to her level, so I sit on the carpet beside her. I’d hate for her to think I’m anything like Ozzie.
Mr. Osborne strolls in, pulling a child’s size pink luggage bag on wheels. “Here’s your stuff,” he says to Mariah. “I bet Lyla would like to see your dolls. Or you could color her a picture.”
“Daddy,” Mariah sputters in one giant sob. Her small shoulders heave, fat, silent tears dripping from her eyes like they do in animated Disney movies.
Mr. Osborne swoops her up with one arm, and her arms fly around his neck.
Ozzie throws down the scissors and picks up the empty packaging. Pieces of white wood have been stacked neatly, bound by plastic cable ties. “I’ll bring the rest up,” he says.
“I’ll help,” I tell him.
Ozzie glares at me and then glances at his dad and Mariah. Her tears are running down Mr. Osborne’s neck, her brea
thing becoming more erratic. I’m worried she’s having a panic attack.
“Fine,” Ozzie says bluntly.
I follow him from the room, rushing down the stairs to keep up. I’d rather not shout what I’m about to ask. “Is that your sister up there?”
No answer.
He flings open one of the double doors and charges down the driveway to a black SUV. A flock of seagulls squawk overhead in the clear blue sky, and the tang of the briny ocean hits me in the back of my throat.
“Where’s her mom?”.
Boxes are pulled from the SUV’s backseat and dumped on the ground. “I don’t know a damn thing about that girl’s mother.”
I pick up one of the boxes, not stubborn enough to push Ozzie any harder. Ray Osborne has a child with another woman. And that child is moving into this house. With. Cindy.
Yeah, I can’t not find out more.
“Does your mom know?” The question’s spilling from my mouth before I’ve given myself time to think about what I’m asking.
Ozzie shuts the SUV door with a hard slam and bends down to hook two boxes under his arms. “That’s the best part.”
The distant hum of a big engine grows nearer. Tire traction on the road attracts a sigh from my lips, and I brush my hair behind my ear, taken off guard when I turn to see Falcon pulling up beside the parked SUV, and not Topher in his fancy Mercedes.
He drops down from the driver’s side of a black Range Rover, eyeing the stack of boxes. “What’s going on?” he asks Ozzie.
Ozzie hitches the boxes higher, to stop them from slipping. “Mariah’s here.”
Falcon’s eyebrows sneak up his forehead. “Here? In this house?” His glance swings to me, like he’s just noticed I’m there. “Where’s Mom?”
“In a compromising position somewhere,” Ozzie says to his brother. “You want to grab those boxes and help me get this stuff upstairs?”
Falcon doesn’t move to help. “Whose stuff is this?”
“Mariah’s new furniture.”
“She’s moving in?”
“That’s right, big bro.” Ozzie’s dry grin is as cool as his tone. “We’re finally getting that baby sister none of us wanted.”
With Ozzie and Falcon’s help, the room setup’s completed in just a few hours. Mr. Osborne’s been holed up in his office for most of the transformation and heavy labor, but at least he took Mariah with him.
I stand with my hands on my hips, sweat cooling around my hairline. It’s a girl’s dream palace in here and somehow avoids looking tacky. The wonders of money and how the other half live.
Falcon pops his knuckles and drops down onto the bed on his back. He’s creased the sheets and he’s too long and wide for the bed, but I don’t bother mentioning that.
“Should I fetch Mariah?” I ask.
“Do whatever you like. I’m out of here.” Ozzie kicks a piece of cardboard from his path to the door, deliberately bumping into me.
Sick of his disregard for anyone but himself, I yank on his T-shirt before he can escape into the hallway.
“Why knock into me like that when there’s enough room for you to walk by uninterrupted?” Ozzie’s physical abuse isn’t why I’m challenging him, but the chip on his shoulder is growing way out of proportion. “You don’t like me, message received loud and clear days ago. But do you plan on treating Mariah the same shitty way while she’s here? How old is she, like five?”
“Got it in one,” Falcon throws in from where he lies on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. His hands are folded behind his head, and he looks like he’s there for the night.
Ozzie’s head tilts back and he peers down at me through lowered lids, his gaze sweeping laziness. “You really need to get your girl in check.”
His jab at me is meant for Falcon, but I straighten my shoulders and say, “You really need to get your mouth in check. It has this mega ugly tendency to run away with itself and you start talking the worst kind of shit imaginable.”
One step closer from him leaves us almost chest to chest. My stupid heart flutters because it doesn’t know any better. It’s those tropical eyes. You’d never believe sheer evil lurked underneath.
“If Con loans you out for the night, you could help give my mouth something more inventive to do. I’m accustomed to pedigree, but rogue bitch could be interesting, too.”
“Don’t talk to her like she’s one of your throwaway fucks.”
My gaze swings to Falcon. He’s sitting up on the bed, a teddy with chocolate fur and a cream button nose between his hands and knees. The icy undertones frosting his voice warns not to mess with him. Warns me not to continue poking the bear.
Ozzie looks from me to Falcon, a lingering, skeptical glance reserved for his brother. With one last look my way, he steps back, and then right out the door.
All I want is to get out of this house. Without saying a word to Falcon about where I’m going, I head to my room and change out of my work clothes. I pull my hair through the back of a baseball hat, so I don’t have to spend time messing around with it. When I’ve fixed the laces on my Converse, I leave my room and idle down the hallway, pausing at the balcony to consider where I’m going next.
The boardwalk after dark’s pretty cool, and it’ll be busy tonight. It’s busy most nights through summer.
I flex my fingers and walk up to the closed office door. I knock three times and hold my breath.
“Come in.”
Opening the door, I ease through the modest gap with trepidation. The lamps and wall sconces are lit, a cozy glow closing in the room and filling it with an old-fashioned kind of warmth.
Mariah’s sitting on the floor playing with two plastic toy trucks and a selection of animal figures. She goes quiet when she sees me, and I smile at her.
“I’m going to the boardwalk,” I say to Mr. Osborne. He’s at his desk with a pair of reading glasses on and an expensive-looking ballpoint pen in his hand. Paperwork and intricate diagrams are spread out in front of him, alongside an open laptop and a model layout of what looks like a housing development. “I don’t know if you’ve ever been, but there’s a fairground, and it’s not far to walk. I was wondering if you’d like me to take Mariah with me. I mean, only if she wants to, of course.”
Mr. Osborne takes off his glasses, setting them on the desk. He sits back in his leather chair, causing it to bob slightly from the shift in weight. He’s incredibly handsome, and a lot like his sons in appearance. There’s an unmistakable ruggedness about him, though, and I wonder if before money came along, he lived a different kind of life entirely.
“What do you think, Mariah? Would you like to go to the fairground with Lyla?”
Mariah’s eyes lock with her dad’s, and then she nods.
“Okay.” A satisfied smile settles on Mr. Osborne’s face as he looks at his daughter. “Are you leaving now?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Mariah, leave your toys where they are. I’ll put them in your bedroom.”
Mariah stands up, long, skinny legs unfolding in her canary yellow cycling shorts. I walk over to her and take her hand in mine. “Have you been to the fairground before?” I ask her as we leave.
She shakes her head.
“What!” I fake shock. Mariah glances up at me with big, curious eyes. “That’s crazy. Me and my sister have been hanging at this fairground since we were younger than you. You’re in for a treat.”
The front door bursts open before I reach for the knob. Topher walks in with one hand stuck in his disheveled hair and his head bent toward the floor. He raises his gaze, and one side of his mouth lifts into an easy smile.
“Yo, M!” Unexpectedly, Topher crouches down and pulls Mariah onto his bended knee while he balances on the balls of his feet. “You all right?”
Mariah’s head jerks, her hazel eyes alight with happiness. “Uh-huh.”
Topher glances up at me. “Were you going somewhere?”
“The fairground,” Mariah answers. This is the most I’ve
heard her speak since she arrived here.
“Oh, yeah? Got room for one more? I’ll drive you.”
“Ah, I’m going with her,” I interrupt, in case Topher’s got the wrong idea. “So, I’ll be there. Just so you know…” He gives me the strangest look, and Mariah’s expression droops like she’s about to cry again. An inner turmoil boiling like a rumbling volcano, braced to silently erupt any minute without advance warning.
“That’s cool,” Topher says. He stands, and Mariah stays on his hip, her hands sitting comfortably on his shoulders. “Let’s go, then, gorgeous.”
I balk, until I realize he’s talking to Mariah and not me.
Picking up on my idiot mistake, Topher laughs, grinning as he fishes his car keys from the pocket in his sweatpants. “Don’t look so disappointed.” He winks at me, and once again I’m the butt of the joke. “You’re gorgeous, too.”
Chapter 12
The ocean breeze hits the skin a little cooler from the top of the Ferris wheel. Our pink and yellow bucket swings, and the high pitch of Mariah’s yelp as she grabs onto the side in fear and excitement is so unlike the little girl who stood cowering in the Osbornes’ home.
The ride circles for the last time, the bustling midway rising to meet us as our bucket comes to a gradual stop.
“Why didn’t you come on with us?” I ask Topher. He’s waiting as I get off the ride and give Mariah a boost down onto the metal platform. The teenage kid who’s working this ride is more interested in the willowy brunette who’s waiting in line than of being any actual help. He’s lounging against the operations booth, oblivious to the next set of people wanting on the ride.
“I don’t like the Ferris wheel. It’s boring.” Topher side-eyes the useless teenager like he just read my mind. “And look at that useless lump of shit. You think I trust him with my life? Fuck that.”
“Is not.” Mariah’s hand slips into Topher’s, and his fingers close around hers, swallowing them up.
Topher peers down at her as we seek the next thrill. “Not what?”