Seven
Shiloh
Iwrapthe white comforter covering the king-size bed in a death grip, ripping the lace overlay. Heaving a disgusted sigh, I flip onto my back and stare up at four princess-style pillars with a sheer, gauzy thing draped over thetop.
What the hell was I thinking as a teenager? It looks like a virginal Disney princess slept here, which doesn’t make sense. The only things I had in common with those bitches were that we lived in castles, had assholes as parents, wore killer shoes, and had boyfriends with the IQs of a condomwrapper.
Yes, the wrapper. Because the actual condom has apurpose.
Before I can contemplate the full existential bullshit that is my life, my bedroom door opens and my mother stands at the threshold in a pink monogrammed velour tracksuit, holding a silverplatter.
“I have morphine and Xanax, what’s your pleasure, darling?” Staring wide-eyed through makeup that’s still perfect at eleven o’clock at night, she pushes the tray toward me. In the center of it sits two prescription pill bottles and a highball glass of what I assume to be straightvodka.
“Mother,” I say, drawing out her name slowly, “I’m randomly drug tested. I don’t think scarfing down narco-skittles is the smartest bedtimesnack.”
She just shrugs and sets the tray on the nightstand. “Suit yourself.” Popping a pink pill, she washes it down with half of the highball glass without even a grimace and plops down beside me. “What’s got you so antisocial? You came in from your job and ran upstairs without dressing fordinner.”
“It’s not a job.” I roll back over and groan into the pillow. “It’s communityservice.”
“It can’t be thatbad.”
“I swept andmopped.”
“Floors?”
I turn to the side, cracking an eye open against the pillowcase. “No, the lawn. Cary’s really particular about hisgrass.”
My sarcasm is lost on her as she cocks her chin and squints as if in deep thought. “Cary. Cary.Cary…”
Let’s get real here. My mother isn’t the sharpest crayon in the box. My pathetic excuse for a father didn’t marry her for her intellect or her conversation skills. I can only assume she snagged him with other oralskills.
No, I’m not horrible for talking about my own mother like that. It only makes me a bad person if it’s not true. People talk in a small town. Trust me. It’strue.
“Carrick,” I grumble, flopping on my back before her brain overheats. “Carrick Kincaid. My newboss.”
“Oh, yes.” Her lips thin at the mention of his name. I turn away because unfortunately, she knows every ugly detail. “How is Carrick these days? I remember him as looking like he could’ve used a good meal all thetime.”
“Yeah, well, apparently, he’s Cary now, and he’s had plenty of meals since then.” I swallow, remembering the hard plane of his chest as it clung to his t-shirt. “He’s been working out since I left. He’s veryfit.”
And tattooed from head totoe.
Andpierced.
And his hair has grown out and dusts over his eye like a dangerouscriminal.
And his smile isn’t as sweet as it isdeadly.
“Shiloh, where’d you go? You seem a million miles away and you have this silly little grin on yourface.”
“I do not.” I scowl and brush my fingers across mylips.
Shit, I totallydo.
“I was just thinking how long three years seems.” Sitting up, I pull the pillow from behind my back and hug it to my chest. “He’s not going to make it easy on me, that’s forsure.”
“Well, aside from the horrid manual labor, maybe you’ll make some newfriends.”
“He has juvenile delinquents coming in and out of there all day, Mother. I can’t even secure my purse because the lockers are located where they allshower.”
