Hold On (The 'Burg #6)(15)

“Too bad you didn’t have a momma who taught you how to treat a woman right,” I remarked.

“Nah, me that got rid of them, seein’ as they didn’t treat me as good as my momma,” he shot back.

Suddenly, I needed to hold on to something because I felt weak in the knees.

My dad drank, slapped my mom around, then gave her the best gift he could: he f*cked around on her with a woman he preferred, so he left us to be with her and then minimized contact in order not to deal with his responsibility, but it made it so we didn’t have to deal with his garbage.

I didn’t like school so I screwed around, graduating by the skin of my teeth, too young and too stupid to know one day I’d need it.

I liked wild because it felt good, so I found it everywhere I could find it and ended up with men so far worse than my father, it wasn’t funny.

I ate shit because I’d bought it and I ate shit because that was life.

But in all that, I’d done something right. Something so right, it was the anchor of my life that kept me steady and whole instead of allowing me to get chewed to shit and spit out, bloody and beaten.

I’d made Ethan. I’d kept Ethan. And I made sure my boy knew he was loved right down to my soul.

Which meant he loved me that way right back.

“You know I love you, baby?” I whispered.

He turned his head and gave me a glare. “Jeez, Mom. Gag.”

I couldn’t help it, I burst out laughing.

The last couple of years, the love and hugs and cuddles I showered on my kid had had to dry up. He might allow it, in private and in moderation. But affection was not big on his hit list any other time.

“You done bein’ gooey?” he asked through my laughter.

“Yep,” I said, fighting that laughter back. “Just hit my weekly quota of gooey. But, just warnin’ you, kid, next week I’ll have to fit more gooey in somewhere.”

He rolled his eyes, but his lips were tipped up again and those eyes were shining. He then headed to the Pringles selection.

We bought four tubes.

I found time in the pasta aisle to text Merry, With Ethan. Talk later.

I got back, You on tomorrow?

He could find out easily; my shifts at the bar were hardly a state secret.

Early, I replied.

Catch you there.

Fabulous.

He was going to lay it on me while I was at work.

Morrie had talked Feb into putting a few TVs in, which meant Sundays at the bar, always steady but not busy, became the last—busy. Good for tips. Bad to have a bunch of folks around while I had to take the hit that Merry was going to deliver.

But Merry thought I was a woman who “got it.”

And I did “get it,” even if I didn’t want to.

So I’d take it, I’d understand it, and we’d carry on.

I just wasn’t looking forward to it.

Chapter Three

Guarantee

Cher

“All right! We’re rollin’ out!” I called to the house, walking out of my bedroom.

It was the next day and we were on our way to my mother’s so I could drop Ethan and then get to work.

In preparing, I’d managed to beat back the urge to go all out—or more to the point, not.

Part of me understood why Mia Merrick didn’t make an approach to her ex-husband (a small part of me), this being he had so far from remained celibate since their break it wasn’t funny. He’d tagged and bagged a lot of tail in the time I knew him, and although Mia rarely came into J&J’s and definitely didn’t attend any other events I’d been to when Merry was around, the amount of tail he’d hit in a town that small would be impossible to miss.

And I saw what he went for. Petite. Emphasis on hair. Talented hand with makeup brushes. Dressed like me, showing skin. They’d get their cling on, if not skintight, not much left to the imagination.

The difference was it was designer, expensive, not only the clothes but the hair. They didn’t get their hair cut in their mother’s kitchen and their color or highlights out of a bottle. They got it from folks who charged a lot more than my mom, who’d do it for a bottle of wine or me making dinner.

The extra cake spent on the entire package catapulted them from what I was considered—trash—to what they were considered—class—even if we were all going for the same effect.

I didn’t spend money on clothes and hair, and my makeup was drugstore, Walmart, or Target purchased.

I didn’t do this, because I had a kid.

This didn’t mean I didn’t have the odd piece in my closet that might show Merry I had that in me—class. The ability to turn a different kind of eye, maybe even his.

The thing was, it was the odd piece and those pieces were for hanging with my girls. They weren’t for work. And I didn’t want to say what it would say to Merry if I faced down the hit he was going to give me that day dressed in armor he’d take one look at and understand that I needed armor. I needed it because he had the ability to hurt me and that was because he meant more to me than I wanted him to know. Or, more to the point, he meant everything to me in a way I didn’t want him to know.

Besides, it didn’t matter. If he didn’t know me and want me for me, then f*ck him.

So I was in my usual. Tight jeans. Thick, black belt with a huge rhinestone buckle. Black tank with a deep racerback and a rocker cross on the front, studs abounding. Black lace bra that was sexy as all hell, straps showing, giving a hint of the rest of the goodness that was hidden. Spike-heeled, black suede bootie sandals with a slouchy top that my jeans were tucked into, my black-polished toenails and heels exposed.