A cigarette is tucked between her wrinkled lips, voice hoarse as she says, “what do you want?”
“Hello to you, too, Mother.”
She holds the door open, and I tuck my hands into the pockets of my work trousers as I pass her in the doorway.
“You know what I mean. Why are you here? You never come here.”
I fight the urge to curl my lip in disgust as I peruse the place.
Empty cans and bottles litter the floor and coffee table in the front room. By the looks of it, she has taken to using a can as an ashtray instead of just emptying the one that’s overflowing on the table. There are visible burn holes dotted on the floor and on the recliner where she sits, no doubt from her passing out with a cigarette in her hand. And the air is so thick with the stench of stale beer and smoke that it’s hard to breathe.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“I don’t plan on staying long. Just came to find out what you said to Daisy in the store two days ago.”
Now, her lip curls in disgust. “Nothing that isn’t true. That girl is only sniffing around here for one thing.”
I quirk a brow at her. “And that is?”
She waves her hand at me like it’s obvious. “Your money.”
I blink at her. “Sorry, what?”
She huffs and rolls her eyes, taking a seat in her burned recliner and flicking her cigarette in the can next to her. “It’s obvious. Your sister must have told her how well your business is doing and now she’s come crawling back. She’s after your money. Your house, too, probably.”
I laugh, but there is no humour to it. Just pure disbelief. I don’t know what kind of money she thinks I make, but I can guarantee its less than she imagines.
“Are you hearing yourself right now? You sound fucking delusional.”
She frowns as she takes a long swig of vodka straight from the bottle.
“You know nothing about Daisy. And you know even less about our relationship. You think she wants my house? It’s hers. It always has been hers. I fucking built itfor her.The only person benefitting from my money is you. You forget that my money keeps this roof over your head. My money is what pays your tab at the store when you steal something.Mymoney fundsyourdisgusting addiction,” I spit through gritted teeth.
You see, here’s the thing. As much as I hate her, hate the shit she put us through as kids and the responsibilities I had to take on as a young boy because she wasn’t capable of stepping up and being the parent, I couldn’t just cut her off.
I tried. I really did, at first. But I couldn’t live with myself knowing that she was in this town, a short drive away, with nothing.
When I started my company and finally started earning enough money to be comfortable, I bought this house. I keep this roof over her head and pay the bills every month to keep the lights on and the water running. I wish I could say that’s as far as my generosity goes, but it’s not. An allowance is deposited into her bank account every week, yet somehow, I still find myself paying her tab whenever she steals from the people of this town.
Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment. And maybe I’m an enabler. But she’s my mom. And somewhere deep inside of me, beneath the resentment and the hate, I still love her.
She glares at me, a wildfire blazing in her eyes. “You’re just like your father.”
“I’m nothing like my father. He left you with nothing. Stay the fuck away from Daisy, or all of this disappears.” I look around the room, not caring to hide my disgust any longer. “And clean up in here, it fucking stinks.”
With that, I storm out of her cesspit, letting thedoor slam shut behind me.
CHAPTER 22
DAISY
The sound of knuckles rapping against the wooden door of the tack room drags my attention away from the shears I’m cleaning. Hunter stands in the doorway; his hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans.
An easy smile curls his lips as he runs a curious gaze around the room. “You’ve done a good job of organising things in here.”
I glance around, brushing off his praise with a shrug. “I like to work in a clean space.”
“Well, I appreciate it.” He steps inside the tack room. “How are you finding it?”
