The Guy on the Left (The Underdogs, #2)(17)

“Have a good time on your date, not a date, old friend get together.”

She rolls her eyes and sighs. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Sounds good.”

I shut the door and mentally roll up my sleeves. This is my shot.





“TROY!”

I close my eyes and scrub my face with my hand as Theo chuckles from where he sits on the couch.

“Bet you’re wishing you didn’t offer your child sitting services up so fast.”

“How much shit can a five-year old have inside of them?” Grumbling, I take the steps back up to the bathroom and double tap on the door. “Sup, little man?”

“I pooped again.”

“Good on ya.”

“I need you to wipe me.”

“What? You’re old enough to wipe yourself. You did the last time, right?”

“Mommy says I don’t do a good enough job when I have flare-ups.”

“And I say you can do this, bud. And you might want to mention you’re allergic to cheese next time I tell you there is going to be cheese in your food.”

“I need a wet wipe, not a lecture.”

I glance at the ceiling. I’m officially my son’s bitch. “On it.” I hustle down to the kitchen and wet a wad of paper towels before hauling ass back upstairs.

I double tap the door again.

“Come in here,” Dante says, unaffected by the lack of privacy.

“I’m good here.”

“No way, I’m not getting up. I don’t want poop juice on my new shoes.”

Holding my breath, I walk in the door where Dante sits swallowed by the rim of the toilet. He’s so small like I was at his age. I hand him the wet paper and step away.

“You can stay,” he offers.

“I’ll just wait outside.”

“You need to check my butt.”

I stand there as he painstakingly takes his time wiping his ass. He doesn’t want to deal with his mother’s disappointment any more than I do, and I get it. That redhead is fire. “I think I’ve got it.”

Thank Christ.

Dante gets up and turns to flush the toilet, and I jerk back in horror when I see the literal shit trailing from his ass down his legs.

“Don’t move!” Gagging uncontrollably, I lift my T-shirt to cover my mouth and open the shower curtain before turning on the faucet.

“What’s wrong?” Dante asks as he turns my way.

“Don’t move, buddy. This is going to take some skill.”

I’m still gagging, my T-shirt giving little aid due to the visual. It’s everywhere. I move him onto the rug, carefully stripping everything around the literal shit sandwich he’s made of himself. When his clothes are finally off, I lift him up by the arms and dispose of him in the shower, praying to God the water takes care of most of the debris.

“I didn’t wipe good?”

Dante looks up at me with innocent eyes, and I can’t help the tug in my chest as his lower lip quivers, but I’m gagging too much to console him.

“We’ll,” gag, gag, gag, dry heave, “fix it.”

I thank Christ Theo is high maintenance with his need for a removable shower head. I use it to get most of the crap off him before covering him in body wash. Shrouded from head to toe in suds, I can still see the shittastic mess running down his legs.

“Okay, okay, I’ve been up against much bigger mountains. I scored a seventy-six-yard touchdown last week after hurdling a defensive end and a safety. I’ve got this.”

Dante giggles, wiggling his butt as my gagging evokes another dry heave.

“Don’t move means don’t move!”

He frowns. “You’re bossy.”

“Sorry,” I gag again. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. You’ve got this,” he encourages, covered from head to toe in Old Spice body wash and shit. He looks over to me with a trust very few do, and inwardly, I melt at his eagerness to please me.

“Thanks,” I say as I pull my sponge from the rack and begin to scrub him down. After a few minutes, I finally have him shit free, and get him out of the shower before I start toweling him off.

Dante stands still, lifting his arms up and down to assist me, wiggling when my fingers dig into his armpits. “Ticklish, huh?”

We give twin-like smiles to each other in the mirror. His laughter fades as he takes notice of our similarities. “Heyyy! You look like me!” His statement strikes me right in the chest.

“I was here first, so maybe you look like me.”

“People could think you’re my daddy.”

My face is the picture of control when I ask him the question I already know the answer to. “What do you know about your daddy?”

“I don’t know my daddy.”

“You don’t know anything?”

“Nope. Are we going to play Xbox again?” He’s already over the conversation, while inside, I’m fuming. He begins dressing as I pull out my phone and shoot off a text.



Troy: We need to talk.

Clarissa: Kind of in the middle of something.

Troy: I’m aware, but we need to talk. Soon.

Clarissa: Is Dante okay?

Troy: Fine. He has diarrhea, but I don’t think he has much left in him.