Scared of Beautiful (Scared #1)(18)

“Cancelled. Turns out my Comp Lit professor took a leave of absence after offering candy to the students,” she shudders.

“Really?” I ask, laughing.

“Uh huh,” she grins. “They’re trying to find a replacement.”

“Suits me fine,” I tease as she plops down on the couch next to me.

“So, I have a favor to ask,” she looks at me sheepishly. “My mom needs to move some stuff out of our apartment. It’s long story, but she’s moving out. Can you help us?”

If my mother were leaving my father, I sure as shit wouldn’t be smiling the way Maia is now, I’d be depressed as hell. But she seems pleased. Another question for another day, I decide. “Sure,” I smile, putting my arm around her shoulder. “But what do I get in return?” I grin at her suggestively and she laughs slapping my chest.

“What happened to good old-fashioned gentlemen?” she shakes her head in mock sadness.

“The gentlemen you read about never had the pleasure of being tempted by someone hot as hell, sitting an inch away from them.” I lean in and kiss Maia gently. “Besides,” I say grinning, “I’ve never claimed to be a gentleman, more of an opportunist, really.”

“It shows,” she laughs.

Jade’s right. Maia doesn’t laugh enough, but it’s melodic when she does. May have to work on that, too.





Chapter 9




Maia

Talking to my mother this morning was less than pleasant. My father’s been harassing her, calling and telling her that without him, she’s nothing. But to her credit, it doesn’t seem like she’s hearing it anymore. What a f-ucking joke. Aunt Megs called me as well, to say that she’s worried that my mother is wearing down with all of his phone calls. And the fact that he cancelled her credit cards and froze all of her bank accounts. He changed the locks on the apartment, but a courier delivered me a new key. Did he really think that I wouldn’t help her get her shit? I feel bad asking Jackson to help us move her stuff, but truthfully, and though I would never admit it, I need him there. I need him to remind me that I am likeable without my money or social status. The fact that he doesn’t know much about my past and doesn’t care is reassuring.

After lunch, I introduce him to my X5. I laugh as he grabs the keys like an excited schoolboy when I ask him to drive. First stop, the Bronx to pick up my mother at Aunt Megs’ place. Jackson doesn’t flinch at the neighborhood at all; in fact, he smiles at the kids playing and skipping on the sidewalk. My heart warms a little when I see it.

“My parents grew up in a neighborhood like this,” he says. “Places like this are good for the soul.” I’m surprised at how deep he is. “Except at night. At night, this shit’s bad for your health,” he deadpans.

Aunt Megs lives in a walk up, with paint flaking off the walls on the stairwell and molding carpet on the floor. We head up to the second story apartment. I could have called my mother to come down, but Megs would kill me for being so rude. I’m nervous as hell about Jackson coming so far into my world. Surprisingly though, this impoverished neighborhood is not what embarrasses me. It’s my life in Manhattan that does.

Aunt Megs flings open the door as we knock. She never changes, this woman. “Maia!” she yells and pulls me into her large bosom in a suffocating hug. Her tall and wide stature is deceptive; she’s a gentle giant. Her warm, brown eyes give her away, and her cocoa colored skin seems to pop amidst her always colorful outfits and wide grin. “You’re too much of a stranger these days,” she scolds. She turns her attention to Jackson and I hold back a giggle, waiting for her assault. “And who is this strapping young man!” she exclaims, pulling him into a bear hug. I damn near collapse into a fit of laughter as Jackson flails around in her embrace.

“Jackson Jones, nice to meet you, ma’am,” he nods when she finally releases him and he can breathe again.

“And he has manners!” she nods at me approvingly, and Jackson grins like he’s just been given a lollipop. “Come in,” she scolds as if we were standing in the hallway by choice. Megs’ apartment is as colorful as she is: red tablecloths with purple sunset curtains being her norm. Yet it feels homely, even if it does hurt your eyes sometimes.

My mother in a grey pants suit is the only thing that looks out of place in here. She glances up from pawing through her handbag as we enter, and walks over, offering me a long hug.

“Hi Mom,” I say, “This is Jackson.” She smiles at Jackson and holds out her hand. “Jackson this is my mother, Celia.”

“Lovely to meet you,” he greets her, taking her hand. My mother smiles warmly at Jackson. Even though she’s been a socialite for the past two decades, she’s never been shallow. Any other Manhattan mother would have asked immediately about his lineage.

Megs makes us chai tea, which Jackson politely accepts. but doesn’t drink. I notice that my mother’s eyes are red rimmed again. She engages in the conversation, but seems so distant. Then again, that’s nothing new.

The ride to Manhattan is uneventful. Jackson offers a brief history of himself and his family. I stare out the window, dreading each turn of the wheel that brings me closer to my old life. We pull up outside the apartment on the block opposite Central Park, and the valet races to park the car. I politely decline and say we would prefer if it stayed on the street.