Bane (Sinners of Saint #4)(98)

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” Gail splashed down on the bed, lacing her black tattered Chucks. I peeked at her from under the pillows, my eyebrows pinched.

“Hi.”

“Have fun spreading STDs on my front door yesterday?”

“I think we missed a spot or two. Might revisit it tonight,” I grumbled.

“Yeah. I don’t care. I didn’t come here to hear about Bane’s dick. That shit should have its own Wikipedia by now. I’m here to tell you that your mom’s downstairs.”

That made me jump out of the bed and fling away the blanket. I charged for my Keds, tightening the laces like they’d wronged me somehow. My hair was a mess, and my breath still had that after-make-out aroma—a little dry, a lot horny. I shot Gail a look from behind her shoulder.

“How does she know I’m here? Did you have another slip of the tongue, like with Bane?” I immediately regretted the uncalled-for comment. Gail owed me nothing, and it really had been an honest mistake on her part. “Sorry,” I muttered, untangling my hair with my fingers and taking a sip of water from a bottle discarded on the floor. Gail fell onto her bed and flicked chipped black nail polish from her nails.

“I didn’t talk to her. I came back from the grocery store, and she was there, hanging out and asking questions. You really know how to channel people’s inner creepers, know that, Carter?”

I didn’t put it past my mom to have hired a PI to find where I was. I grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl in Gail’s kitchen and jogged downstairs to face The Wicked Witch of the West. She was wearing sunglasses the size of Cyprus and enough Prada to open a store. Her hair was newly bleached, and she looked about as mournful as I looked like a Hula girl. I dug one hand into the pocket of my black hoodie and took a juicy bite of the apple, leaning against the entrance of Gail’s building. Last I’d directly spoken with Pam, she’d been flailing in the pool, spitting water. I doubted this was a social call.

“Lost your way to the plastic surgeon?” I arched an eyebrow.

“Save me the hilarious commentary, Jesse. I’m here because we need to go to the lawyer ASAP. Do you think this is some sort of a game?” She was trying hard not to bark, dangling over the edge of a breakdown.

I tilted my head, silently producing Darren’s letter from the back pocket of my jeans and handing it to her. “Is this why you’re here? Because your pedophile rapist of a husband left me all of his shit, and you’re freaking out?”

She held the letter between her manicured fingers, not unlike it was a ticking bomb, and flipped her sunglasses to the top of her head. Her eyes skimmed the paragraphs, running in their sockets and widening with every passing second. I saw all the white around her blues. All the lies behind her fake-truths.

“Jesse…”

“Remember when I was twelve and had my first period? The one that didn’t come back until eight months later? I was puking in the bathroom and there was blood on my thighs, and you saw it, because you asked Hannah to clean it afterwards?” My voice was calm. Dry. The words slid from my mouth effortlessly, and even though I wasn’t in a state of hysteria, I still felt them. They hurt, but they no longer burned.

I was healing.

“I didn’t know. I mean, I wasn’t sure,” she stammered, taking a step in my direction. I took a step back, ripping another bite of the apple. It was shiny. Red. Beautiful, really. I understood why Snow White had fallen for the trap. But I was standing right in front of my very personal witch, refusing to make the same mistake.

“Yeah, you were.” I sniffed, kicking a little rock between us. “So, you found me. Mazal Tov. Now it’s time for us to go to the lawyer. You’re acting like you should be looking forward to this meeting. Spoiler alert: you shouldn’t.”

“Jesse, baby, honey.” She laughed, going for the hug—going for the freaking hug—and I sidestepped, avoiding what could have made me throw up the apple right on her glossy neon stilettos. I stuck up a hand between us, shaking my head.

“Get away from me, Pam. You want us to go to Darren’s lawyer? No problem. Send me a text message with a time and a place. I’ll be there.”

“What are you planning to do with the money?”

I shrugged. “Burn it, maybe.”

“Jesse, you’re being ridiculous! This is real money we’re talking about. Your father would be—”

I pushed her away before she could finish the sentence, smoke nearly shooting out of my nostrils. “Don’t. Whatever you do, don’t tarnish his name. He’s not to be blamed for any of the bullshit that happened.”

“Oh. That’s rich. The drunk philanderer was a saint, huh?” She threw her arms in the air. I laughed. She didn’t get it, and it occurred to me that she might never.

“Far from it. He was a cheater and an alcoholic. A savior and his own worst victim. He wanted to help people, but was doing a spectacular job at ruining his own life. But all is forgiven, Pam, because he tried. He tried to be good. You?” I stepped toward the door, shaking my head. “You don’t want to be good. You want to win. Maybe that’s why you keep on losing.”

“You need to leave me with something!” she called out.

“I am,” I said, yanking the door open. “I’m leaving you with the consequences of your actions.”