Rough Ride (Chaos #5)(40)

“Honeypot,” she called.

I looked to her.

“Do you feel guilt for not being loyal in your heart to Beck?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered tightly. “And Mom,” I went on when her face started to set hard, “it isn’t all about Beck, even if part of it is. It’s about wondering what Snap will think that I could do that to Beck when he might be up next.”

Understanding dawned on her. “Ah.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “Ah.”

“So, along with healing after being gang-beaten, moved into a new space, worried what your ex’s club has planned for you, and concerned about the activities of the man you’re currently in love with, you’re also bearing the burden that if you try it with him, the way it started between you, he’ll never truly trust you.”

There was absolutely all that.

There was also the scar thing, but Snapper took care of that.

Gah!

“Yes,” I answered Mom.

“And what does Snapper say about all of this?”

“I think this is going to be our conversation tonight.”

All of a sudden, she leaned into me, latched her fingers around my forearm and whispered fiercely, “Be the daughter I raised and recognize what’s good for you, fucking grab hold, keep it close, and keep it precious, Rosalie, for as long as God gives you the privilege of having it.”

I stared at my mom with big eyes.

My father was a swearer. He could be working on something in the garage that wasn’t going right and let out a string of swear words that lasted five whole minutes that would make a sailor raise his brows.

My mother hardly ever swore.

So the f-word was huge.

But what she was urging me to do was even more huge.

“You like him,” I whispered.

She let me go, sat back, and said exasperatedly, “Oh for goodness sakes, Rosalie. Obviously. I mean, what’s not to like?” Then she sucked back an irate sip of her coffee, tasted it, and the irritation fled as the miracle of a serial-killer-but-not-serial-killer-looking barista’s artistry touched her taste buds.

“Mom?” I called.

She turned her eyes to me.

My eyes to me.

I loved my eyes. I loved my mother.

But I wished I got just a little piece of my dad.

“I miss Dad,” I admitted.

She leaned back toward me, her face melting into sheer beauty.

“Of course you do, sweetie. He was the kind of man who was always going to leave a huge hole in the world of those he loved when he left them. The kind of hole, honeypot,” she leaned even closer, “that feels when he’s gone like it’ll never get filled. Don’t try to fill it, Rosalie. Let it sit because it’s not empty. It’s filled to bursting with the love he had for you and the memories he gave our family. It isn’t the same as having him. It never will be. But it’s a treasure regardless. So learn to treasure it and do what he’d want you to do. Find someone to love you, to make new treasured memories with. And don’t let fears and loss hold you back. That isn’t the daughter I raised. But more, that isn’t the daughter your father raised.”

I stared at her, muttering, “Oh no, I’m going to start crying.”

“Okay, I have Kleenex,” she replied.

“Mom!” I exclaimed kinda loudly. “I don’t want to start crying.”

She looked perplexed. “Why in the world not?”

“Because…because…because…” I didn’t know why. “Because I’m seeing Snapper later. It’ll mess up my makeup and make my eyes all puffy.”

She waved her hand in front of her face, took another sip of coffee, got a fleeting look reminiscent of what she looked like after Dad was done with her, then said, “That’s why God made washcloths and Visine. Cold compresses take the puffy away and Visine rids the red. Walgreens is just down the street. If you don’t have Visine, we’ll get you some drops before you head home. And some condoms. I’m sure with the man Snapper is, he’ll come prepared, but just in case.”

I stopped wanting to cry and started smiling.

“Do you know how much I love you?” I asked.

She looked me right in the eye and answered, “Yes.”

Damn.

I felt like crying again.

Instead of crying, I jumped and looked up when the huge, serial-killer-looking-not-a-serial-killer, wild-gray-and-blond-haired, crazy-russet-bearded barista smashed two coffee mugs on the table before us and boomed, “Jesus Jones! I don’t even know what you bitches are talking about and you’re killin’ my mood. Suck more of that back and get over this shit. I got a new litter of kitties that came in last night I get to go home and play with. I don’t wanna be on a downer when I got new kitties.”

Mom and I stared up at him, agog, and I was pretty sure both of us didn’t know which part of his boom to be most agog about.

He retreated behind the coffee machine as the beautiful redheaded lady who owned the place took up the space he’d exited.

“Sorry about Tex calling you bitches, bossing you around, and freaking you out talking about kittens. He’s kind of a cat lover. And a crazy guy. The, uh…coffees are on the house.” She then took off on a stomp and did it shouting toward the coffee machine, “Tex, swear to God, the next customers you—”