I raise my eyebrows. “Because in no way, shape, or form is she a nice girl.”
“Show me.” She pauses in her worm consumption long enough to waggle her hand at the laptop. “Bring up her details and let me see who this terrible girl is who’s got her claws into my perfect gentleman of a son.”
Her eyes gleam when I hesitate.
“Is she related to your billionaire project? Are you trying to catch yourself an enormous fish? Should I tell your father to increase our allowance so you can impress the hell out of her?”
I mumble something noncommittal but she’s barely listening, still running through scenarios. “How’s this man related to your girl? Her father?”
“No. I told you. The research is for work.”
She ruffles my hair again, then tries to comb it back into place with her fingers. The movie is still playing out on screen, now so deeply into it that there’s barely anyone left to fight it out for their hollow and—considering part four is queued up to play next—short-lived victory.
As the familiar scenes unfold, my mind returns to Em. To the day in the pawn shop. The way she fought so hard to stop me helping her. Like she can tell there’s something wrong with me, just by looking.
And tonight. How she pushed me away, how she fled, even though lust was dripping from her eyes.
Through the static I have instead of a memory, I see her stricken face. The utter panic. Like making out with me was the worst thing in the world she could do.
“That doesn’t look like you’re thinking of your sweetheart.”
I drag my attention back to my mother. Considering how little time I’ll have before she’s either medicated into dullness or stays insufficiently medicated into baffling, I should appreciate the time we have right here and now.
“I’m not sure that she qualifies for that title.”
“Mm?”
“There’s nothing sweet about her.”
“You sure have a lot of negative things to say about this girl you like so much.”
“Maybe like was the wrong word.”
“And the correct word would be?”
“There’s a girl who infuriates me.”
The correction makes my mum freeze for a few seconds, then she laughs with delight. “Oh, ho. You’ve got it bad.”
“I don’t have anything. We barely know each other.”
“My boy’s in lo-ove.” Her voice takes on the sing-song quality of a full-on bout of teasing.
“Don’t be stupid. I haven’t even banged her.”
“I should hope you’re not banging anyone. You’re far too young.”
Her tone might be that of a school mistress but the deepening creases around her eyes tell me she’s joking.
A good deal. Otherwise, there’s a lot about my sex life for the past couple of years that’s going to come as a hell of a surprise.
I yawn, briefly wondering if I should make the effort to go to bed, then decide it’s just as easy to get a few hours’ sleep on this couch. The decision comes with the added benefit that I don’t need to move.
As my brain drifts into the sea of unconsciousness, I hear a teenage sniffing away their hysterical tears. Freddy’s back. The vague fragment teams up with thoughts of Em, of her obvious fear.
The teens on the television scared by the son of a hundred maniacs; the teen at the party scared by the son of just one.
CHAPTERELEVEN
