By the time Wes returned with avery intoxicated Chastity in tow, I was tired of sidestepping all the questions. I told Jen I would catch up with her later, then offered to share an Uber with Wes and Chastity so she could get home safely.
When Wes said he would just take her back to his place, a sigh escaped. I wasn’t sure if it was relief or disappointment, nor did I care to overanalyze it. It had been fun while it lasted, but I expected this to happen. Wes was still in love with Chastity even though she treated him like garbage. I didn’t have the dedication or interest to help him get over the heartbreak, which meant he would be stuck in limbo as long as I was in the picture.
Pretending to be the understanding girlfriend, I agreed, telling myself Wes would call me eventually. When he did, I would do my best to bolster his self-confidence and act hurt, but deep down, Wes didn’t matter.
Now, as I sat in the backseat of my own Uber ride, my brain had moved on to more important things. Like getting from the main gate to the house without getting snatched out of my front yard. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t going to happen. Security measures had been put in place on the grounds to ensure no one got past the main gate, but knowing that and accepting that were two very different things when your brain continued to dredge up ghostly images of Diggy and the hole in his head.
The driver kept looking back at me through the rearview mirror. I could tell he was trying to figure out if I was someone famous. When he realized he’d been caught, he nodded and smiled.
If he recognized me, he didn’t mention it, but I was sure he was trying to determine if he’d seen me on television or in movies. Then again, I probably wasn’t the first famous person he’d driven around. Not that I was famous for any reason other than being Monica Quinn’s daughter. If it weren’t for the fact that I lived in Los Angeles, people wouldn’t recognize me on the street.
It wasn’t until he stopped in front of the house that I decided to ease his curiosity. “My mother’s Monica Quinn,” I said with a smile as I opened the door. “Can you wait until I’m through the gate?”
“Of course. Yes. Thank you very much.”
Rather than risk unauthorized vehicles getting in, I punched in my code for the single-door gate next to the main one, then hurried through, closing it behind me and standing completely still until I heard it lock. Once inside, I felt better. I wasn’t worried an intruder was lurking in the bushes because they couldn’t get this far. The gate was electrified, and without a code to open it, a few hundred volts were going to knock whoever tried to get past it on their ass.
As I strolled up the brightly lit front drive toward the house, my pepper spray held at the ready (you know, since there was no such thing as an absolute), I realized I was disappointed for a number of reasons.
One, Chastity was going to have drunk sex with Wes tonight, and she wouldn’t even remember it in the morning.
Two, I was going to break up with Wes without fucking him because he was going to have drunk sex tonight and pretend it was them making up when in reality, Chastity would kick him to the curb in the morning.
Three, I wasn’t the one having drunk sex.
And last but not least, my mother was home. I knew because there was a shiny gold Lexus in the front, parked haphazardly in the driveway, one tire in the grass, the bumper pressed up against the brick, dangerously close to the elaborate flowerbed she’d had installed two months ago.
I ignored all my disappointments except one. Right now, the only thing I had control over was the fact that my mother was home. It was never a good sign when she came home before dawn after a night out. It usually meant she’d brought the party to the house. And by party, I meant whatever person she was entertaining for the evening.
As I walked up the rounded porch steps that descended from the house like a cascading concrete waterfall, I felt the same sense of foreboding I got every time I came home. Not only did I fear what lewd act I might stumble upon once I went inside, but I also hated this place. I hated what it stood for. I hated that my mother thought it was her castle and she could rule the world from it. But most importantly, I hated that I still lived here, more so that I didn’t have the means to get a place of my own. If my mother had one lick of sense in her head, I probably would’ve had a trust fund to fall back on, but she wasn’t good at managing money. Unfortunately, when you put a lot of it in her hands, she found a way to make it disappear without much effort.
So, no, I wasn’t rich. I had a few thousand sitting in my account—what little I’d saved back when my mother showed her love by showering me with cash. Enough that I could get a place of my own and live there as long as I got a job. It wasn’t that I was opposed to gainful employment. I’d just never given it much thought. Or actually,anythought, really. I wasn’t sure I even had any skills someone would pay me for. Maybe that explained why I was still living here. Not only because my mother begged me to but also because I wasn’t motivated to actually work for a living.
Did that make me pathetic?
I stood on the porch, staring at the front door, and pondered that momentarily. Finally, I shook off the thought. I would let that keep me up another night, but not tonight.
I started to put the key in the lock, but I realized the door was open. Definitely odd.
The house was lit up like Monica had been entertaining guests, and based on the sickening scent of cigarettes and pot, not to mention the strange car in the driveway, I figured she was.
Once inside, I tucked my pepper spray in my cross-shoulder bag and locked the front door behind me.
“Monica?”
Yeah, I referred to my mother by her first name. Not because she said it made her feel creepy, although that was true. It was merely my passive-aggressive way of letting her know she sucked at being a mom. She only thought I was doing it because she requested it.
“Are you home?” My voice echoed back at me.
My mother’s house was ridiculously fancy, not to mention extreme overkill for two people. Eight bedrooms—five of which had never had a guest—and twelve bathrooms were far more than we would ever need. There was a parlor, three living areas, two dining areas—the formal and the one reserved for only really special guests—and even an indoor greenhouse, although my mother couldn’t keep a cactus alive. We didn’t use even a quarter of the house, but my mother was a diva and insisted status was only reflected by the material items one owned. Although I didn’t share the same ideology, I figured she was doing something right since she was still highly admired and sought after.
Too bad it had nothing to do with taking care of herself or nurturing the relationships that might see her into old age.
I scanned the interior, trying to determine what was different since I left for the party nearly six hours ago. It looked the same. Mostly. The circular staircases ascended to the second floor, a large marble table positioned in the center of the space with a lavish floral arrangement sitting on top. The gray-veined marble floors sparkled as though they’d been shined with a cloth, and under the cigarette stench, I could smell a hint of lemon oil.
The only thing different was the single Dior slingback pump that looked like it had taken a tumble down the stairs. I recognized it as my mother’s.
Monica had been gone before I left the house. When I was leaving, the housekeeper was rushing through, tidying up, emptying my mother’s dirty ashtrays and glasses of whatever liquor she’d received as a gift from people looking to get her attention.
