Whipped (Hitched #2)(5)

It's become a habit. I walk up the porch and ring the doorbell. The lock clicks, and Kevin's mother, Mary, opens the door. Her hair's all black, recently dyed. She adjusts her glasses and waves me in, a genuine smile on her broad dark face. "You know you can just come in, Lach. Family doesn't—"

"Family doesn't knock. I know."

"And you are family, my boy. Don't you forget it." She pulls me into a hug. Her hands are rough and covered in lines. Dark circles hang under her eyes. She's still searching for the beauty regime that'll make her look ten years younger. But, the way I see it, she wears the trophies of hard work. She should be proud.

I kick my shoes off by the door and tilt my head at the brown bag at my hands. "These are for you."

"Oh, thank you, dear." She grabs the bag from me and drops it on the kitchen counter—a sad excuse for what was once some type of white linoleum but is now more yellowed than anything, but always scrubbed spotless, like everything in Mary's rundown apartment. Clean, but old and on its last leg. She ruffles through the contents. "Awww. Organic chicken. I told you not to spend the big bucks on us."

My phone buzzes. A text from Darrel. He's my manager, soon to be my old manager. I ignore it. "Can I help with dinner?"

"You've done enough for us, my boy."

I pull the bag toward me and pull out the kale and carrots. "You can repay me with the pleasure of your company."

She shakes her head, smiling. "Let me cut the carrots."

We divide up the vegetables, and I throw the chicken in the oven. Kevin runs in, skateboard in hand, half-ripped shoes on, his nose tilted up. "What's cooking?"

Wrong move, kiddo.

Mary turns on him, hands on her hips. "Kevin McAllister. What are the rules of this house?"

His shoulders droop. "No running."

Mary waves a spatula at him. "And?"

"No shoes inside." He smiles apologetically and walks back to the door, kicking off his shoes and dropping his board.

Marry lowers the Spatula of Order and Justice and mixes the green onion sauce. "Good job."

When the dinner is finished, she asks me to eat with them and, after some nagging from Kevin, I agree. The organic chicken with sauce is delicious. The company is even better. Kevin's math grade went from a C-minus to a B-plus. Mary's boss finally paid the overtime he owed her. The prick. He manages Bill's Burgers four blocks away and still insists on high-heeled waitresses. Though Mary barely mentions it, I know her feet hurt every day.

I finish my meal with a sip of green tea—Mary doesn't keep soda or alcohol in the house—and Kevin asks about my work. "You found a place for the center yet?"

I smile. "You know the Spacey Mall that closed down?"

Kevin smacks his fork down on the table. The excitement in his face reminds me of why I'm changing careers. "Oh man, that place is huge." He's right. I examined the location yesterday. It's one of those malls you could get lost in.

"I could modify it," I say. "Or maybe even tear it down and start new."

Mary's lips are tight. I call it her "holy shit" face, because she never swears. She just makes that face. "That'd be really expensive, wouldn't it?"

"It would be," I say. "But it's worth it."

"You have enough for that sort of thing?" she asks.

"Not yet."

Kevin pats her on the arm. "That's why he's getting investors, mom."

"Ah, I see." She smiles and twirls her chicken with her fork.

"I have a meeting with a few interested parties this week." If it goes well, I can finally stop counting dollars and start helping people.

My phone buzzes, and I check my texts. Darrel's asking if we're still meeting tonight. I text back yes. Might as well get it over with. I say goodbye to Kevin and Mary and jog to my BMW down the street. The sky's dark, the stars invisible. When I arrive at the Wynn, one of the finest hotels on the Strip, I hesitate at the door. This was my old home. I’d hoped to avoid it for a while.

The hotel greeter, a young man with a skillful fake smile, swings the door open for me, and I, not one to keep people waiting, stride inside. I navigate the tall hallways to the Sinatra Restaurant, barely having to watch my way. "Darrel Fowler is expecting me," I tell the staff member. He nods and escorts me to a table for two, where Darrel waits with a glass of wine. My hands are slick with sweat. I wipe them on my jeans.

"Lachlan, my friend." Darrel stands and hugs me. His voice is deep. His smile white and full of teeth. His skin is dark. People are often surprised by his Australian accent.

We sit down, and I order a chicken salad with extra vegetables. Darrel orders a barbecue steak and whispers something to the petite waitress. She giggles and saunters away. Another one-night-stand in the making. I don't judge. I know the waitress. Her name is Micky, and I had her giggling a few nights ago.

"You know I'm not coming back," I say.

His smile doesn't falter. "One more year, Lach. One more tour."

"That's what you said last tour."

He sighs, rubbing his bald head. "Because you're meant to perform. This thing you're trying to do, this…"

"Youth Center," I say. I wonder if he forgot, or just couldn't stand the words. A week ago, I asked him if he wanted to invest. He laughed and patted me on the head.