Blood rushes to my dick, and I subtly adjust the semi in my pants. It’s not cool to spring a boner about his mom when I’m hanging out with West, but lately I can’t get Kendall Hawthorne off my mind. It was easier to push my feelings aside when I was younger and could do nothing about them. But now I’m eighteen, old enough to act on them, and it’s like my brain and my body have decided to run free, indulging all my pent-up fantasies, and it’s all I can think about. Nothing helps to distract me, and I have zero interest in other girls. Staying away from West’s house has made no difference, and even pounding my fists into the punching bag until they bleed only works temporarily.
“You know most of Hazel’s friends are in love with you,” he says, handing the joint to Shepherd as our other friend Bowie emerges from the bedroom with a smirk on his face. “Pick one and we can double date for a while.”
Milana slinks out past Bowie, making a beeline for the door with her head down, her long pink locks curtaining her pretty face. West bursts out laughing as Bowie flops down on the couch across from us. “You dirty dawg.” West wears a shit-eating grin, but I see the pain behind it. Cheating is a sore point. “Abel is gonna kick your ass when he finds out you’re fucking his girl behind his back.”
“What happened to the bro code?” Shepherd asks, looking disgusted, but I can tell it’s a front to hide his pain. I don’t know how long Shep has been in love with Bowie because I only noticed recently. I’m not sure any of our other friends have worked it out, and it’s obvious as fuck Bowie has no clue. From what I’ve seen, he’s strictly hetero, but who knows? Maybe he’s into dudes too. Shep is proudly bi, and he’s had flings with guys and girls, so it’s no secret where he stands. I feel for the dude. I know what it’s like to want someone who will most likely never want you back.
“My brother is a dick.” Bowie accepts the spliff from Shep, taking a couple of long, lazy tokes.
“I’d kick Ridge’s ass if he ever hit on my girl,” West says, grabbing a couple of beers from the ice bucket on the coffee table situated between both couches.
On this level, there is a decent-sized living area with a kitchenette occupying most of the space. The bedroom and small bathroom with a toilet and shower is to the right. Upstairs houses my art studio, which I keep locked any time I have company. I normally sleep at the main house, preferring not to leave Mom alone at night, but on weekends or times when I paint late into the night, I crash here. It’s wired for electricity, so I have Wi-Fi, a TV, small refrigerator, a microwave, and a freestanding stove, and I bought a few plug-in heaters. The carriage house has everything I need to lock myself away from my warring parents when shit hits the fan, as it often does.
West hands me a beer while popping the top on his own.
“Good thing Ridge is only nine and you don’t need to worry about that,” Shep says. “Unlike Abel.” He fixes Bowie with a knowing look. “I don’t care how big of a dick your brother is. You shouldn’t be fucking his girlfriend.”
“Shep is right,” West agrees, drinking a mouthful of beer. “No good can come from it. You need to keep it in your pants.”
It’s good advice. Advice I should heed. Because obsessing about West’s mom is a shit show in the making. My buddy would be pissed if he knew the fantasies I’ve had about his mom, but I can’t find it in myself to feel guilty for wanting her. I only feel guilty for thinking those thoughts when my buddy is next to me, because if he knew the truth, it’d make him uncomfortable. But I refuse to feel shame or remorse for feeling the way I do about Kendall. I don’t even regret what happened at my birthday party, except maybe I was wrong to back down, because it’s not making any difference in how I feel, and it’s becoming damn hard not to do something about it. Especially after hearing what that asshole husband of hers has done. I want to beat the crap out of him and then take care of his wife the way she deserves to be cared for.
If Kendall was mine, I would worship the ground she walked on. Spend hours showing her what a queen she is with my mouth, my fingers, my…
Shit. I drag a hand through my hair. I can’t think those things here. Short of a lobotomy, I don’t know how to evict thoughts of Kendall from my mind. And I’m pretty sure I don’t really want to.
* * *
“Mom.” I hover over my parents’ bed, staring anxiously at my mother as she sleeps. Little puffs of air slip through her collagen-enhanced lips as she softly snores. Her reddish-brown hair fans around her face on the pillow, and although she’s forty-seven, there isn’t a gray hair in sight. Not that Dad would permit it. I wouldn’t be surprised if he left instructions at the hair salon like he does at the cosmetic surgeon’s office. Dad has little interest in Mom, but he won’t let her disgrace him in public, so she is forced to do his bidding when he comes calling.
The rest of the time is spent in a numbed-out haze.
Rubbing at the tight pain across my chest, I gently shake her shoulders. “Mom. Wake up. You need to eat.”
She stirs, moaning as she curls her knees up to her chest under the covers. “Go away,” she mumbles, swatting me with a floppy arm. “I have a migraine.”
I exhale heavily, silently praying for strength that is in diminishing supply. “Sit up,” I say in a more forthright tone. “Eat something, and then I’ll get your migraine meds.” My eyes sweep over the pill bottles on her bedside table, most of the contents gone. An empty vodka bottle lies across the carpeted floor. Vodka is her poison of choice because it’s odorless and it can’t be smelled on your breath. She told me that one time, when she was explaining how she manages to function in public when attending one of Dad’s events. It takes a lot for her to get drunk these days, so downing a half bottle of vodka before she leaves the house slices the edge off her nerves while enabling her to play the part of rich attorney’s wife to perfection.
“Leave me alone.” She swats at me again, and I rub a tense spot between my brows, struggling to hold on to my patience.
I don’t ever want to lose my temper or lash out at her. She deals with enough of that from my dad, but she makes it so hard to be kind and loving and patient. “Diana.” My tone is firm and bordering on aggressive as I say what I need to say. “Sit the fuck up and eat or I’m calling Dad.” I never would, and she knows it, yet we play our usual game.
Her eyes pop open, and her mouth curls into a frown. “Don’t call me that. I’m Mom to you.”
I wish she was. But the only parental figure around here is me. Which is fucking laughable. I only turned eighteen during the summer, but sometimes I feel ancient.
Like I have lived a thousand lifetimes in those eighteen years and I’m world-weary.
“You need to eat, Mom.” I help her to sit up against the headboard, hating how frail she feels under my large palms. “You’re too thin. You need to take better care of yourself.” I know I’m preaching to a void, but I won’t ever stop trying.
“You’re a good boy, Vander,” she says, in a moment of rare acknowledgment. Her fingers sweep the hair tumbling across my brow, pushing it out of my eyes. “A good son.” Her tired green eyes lock on to my face. “You’re the only one who cares.” Sadness is a dark shroud covering her face, and I wish I could contest her statement, but I won’t lie to her. Her parents are dead, she is an only child, and she has no true friendships. Only acquaintances. Most are the wives of men Dad does business with or wives of his golf buddies at the nearby club and resort, and they only tolerate her at best. Her only friend—an old roommate from college—lives in Europe with her husband, and she hasn’t seen her in years.
“I love you.” Gently, I give her a hug, squeezing my eyes shut when her fragile limbs cling to me in desperation.
“I love you too.” When she pulls back, tears are rolling down her face. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better mother. I’m sorry I’m so weak.”
I have heard all of this before. Along with futile promises to change. She has tried. Countless times. But it’s never enough.Iam never enough. And I have had to come to terms with our one-sided relationship because continuing to harbor hope was killing me.
I sit on the side of the bed, spoon-feeding my grown-ass mother the smoked-salmon scrambled eggs I made her because her hands are shaking so bad she can’t hold the silverware. As I make my mother eat, I wonder what the fuck I did to deserve this shitty life.
