My disgust and contempt for what he did was by far the easiest grudge I’ve ever held. Living through labor alone had sealed my anger. He’d robbed me of the chance to experience it with someone capable of feeling the same type of emotion. Not a kid who had a curfew and a prom date waiting. I had no intention of letting him back into my headspace. But one long look at him on my doorstep had made it impossible not to. Of the words he spoke, he seemed so sincere in his apology, in his eagerness to prove himself, at least concerning Dante. But he’d also seemed sincere the night he talked my panties off. Years ago, with anger being my motivator, I swore what I said was true. I would never get over what he did. The way he manipulated his way between my legs.
I could never trust him for myself, but for Dante?
He’s been more persistent in the last few years with his gentle stalking. He’d respected my wishes from afar trying to be a silent support. I’d torn up his checks and, even in the most desperate of times, refused to cash one.
Over the years, I’ve tried to rationalize what he did, tempted at times to open the door and wave him in to get temporary relief from the hellacious days, but I never did. Because deep down there was still that voice of pre-baby Clarissa, who held too much resentment for his disrespect for my life, my career, for my plans.
And what would happen if he got a pro ball contract? Was his son a hobby?
Still, if he took measures to move so close just for the chance, who am I to deny him a relationship he could very well legally fight for? He’s given me all the power, though I was forced to make the decision on the spot. Troy might not be able to afford an attorney now, but the minute he signs a pro contract, he will be able to afford the best. An unethical decision is not illegal. Lying doesn’t make him an unfit parent. He does have rights.
“Damn you,” I whimper as I watch Troy and a few of his friends unload his king cab. “Must be nice,” I stare at his truck with longing before darting my gaze to my ancient SUV, which only has one AC setting. Freezing. Which is helpful on sweaty ass-to-leather days, which Texas is notorious for. Still, I can’t deny my little man and I have come a long way from the one-bedroom apartment with the broken dishwasher. Admiring Troy’s physique as he lifts a table from the bed of the truck, I sigh, resting my temple against the window. I’ve got an annoyingly clear view of him due to the last of the sun setting behind him.
“Why can’t you be ugly like Carly?” Bright blue eyes blaze my way and pin me where I stand. He knows. He knows I’m watching him. His intrusive, penetrating stare followed by the twist of his lips and flash of teeth are enough to have me jumping back.
Busted.
“Shit,” I mumble, mortified, just as my table lamp goes down. I know, without a doubt, he saw the room go dark.
“Mommy?! What did you break?” Dante shouts from his bedroom like he’s scolding a child. Thanking God for my son’s laziness in seeing for himself, I move to grab the broom and dustpan.
“Just a light bulb. It was hot.”
“You owe me three dollars for today! Five dollars from last week! Curse monster!”
“Yes, son. But you said shit twice today, so we’re even!”
“Give me a dollar and we’re even. Now be quiet, I’m recording!”
Yeah, well, your ‘hot as hell athlete daddy’ just moved in next door, and your ‘haven’t had a proper penis in ages’ mommy is hard up. How about a little grace?
“Don’t talk to me like that, buddy, or I’ll soap your tongue!”
“Mommmmy. I’m on take three now because you can’t be quiet!”
“Sorry!”
“Gah, now take four!”
I sigh and try my best to keep my laugh quiet. The boy is serious about his videos on his YouTube channel, which he titled The Legit Life. In a way, it scares me, but he has enough personality for the two of us, it keeps him busy, and none of his info—including his name—is public, which gives me a little relief. I’m letting him have his outlet while monitoring it like a hawk. There’s a whole hell of a lot more he could be discovering instead of reviewing games, and other vlogger’s videos. So, like the old married couple we are, I’ve compromised. My son, though not quite six, is very much the man of the house.
Due to his arrival and unbelievably early skill set, I’ve never been in much need of a handyman. And I have no idea where he got it, but the boy is my own personal superhero. He can hook up anything with the word ‘smart’ attached to it in a matter of minutes. He’s taught me more in his near six short years than any other human I’ve ever met. He’s smart in a way that scares me and far more advanced than I can grapple with.
Once I’ve swept up my lamp, I resume my seat in the chair just as a soft tap sounds on my front door. I know exactly who it is.
I open it with my hip hitched and both hands on my side.
“Troy.” My greeting is anything but friendly.
Towering over me, his ‘I just ate the canary’ smile is dazzling, and I want nothing more than to wipe it off his face. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay. I saw your spill from the street.”
“I’m fine, unannounced neighbor.”
He leans in, all six-foot-four inches of man steel, his coppery blond hair soaked in sweat, his T-shirt riding high on his bicep.
“Haven’t had a girl fall for me that fast in some time. I’m flatt—”
The door is shut and locked before he can finish his sentence, but I hear his muted chuckle on the other side just as Dante comes out from his bedroom. “Who was that?”
Satan? My arch-nemesis? The living, breathing reason women stereotype?
“Just the mailman.”
“No, it wasn’t. It was Troy.”
“Fine, it was Troy. He heard the lamp break, and he was checking on me. Ready to eat?”
Dante walks past me and opens the door.
“Hey, Troy!”
“Dante, no!”
Troy turns back, amused by the address of his son and jogs over to where Dante stands, his arms crossed. Out of breath, Troy leans in close, his hands on his knees to lessen the difference in height. “Yeah, buddy, what’s up?”
“I’m the man of this house. If you want to know if my Mommy’s okay, you ask me.” Troy’s smile slips, just as Dante slams the door in his face for the second time.
I widen my eyes, mortified. “Dante!”
“You always whisper to Parker, ‘monkey see, monkey do.’ Well, I’m your monkey.”
Shit. Round one million, point Dante.
Troy
Scrubbing my jaw, I step back from the front door as Kevin howls with laughter behind me.
“Damn, dude! That kid is off the chain!”
“Tell me ‘bout it,” I mutter as I take the steps down from the porch, defeated.
“Is she as hot up close as she looked standing from here?”
I glare at him as he lifts the bulk of my mattress from the yard.
“Don’t even think about it.”
“That has to be the hottest fucking MILF in the state of Texas.”
Kevin drops my mattress choking just as I withdraw my hand from a swift blow to his throat.
I’m an impulsive man by nature, but that nature has to change if I’m going to stick in the mind and heart of my son. It’s my first order of business as a new father to keep those impulses in check. Kevin is my first fail.
Oops.
“What the,” he coughs out, trying to regain his breath as I lift my mattress and leave him kneeling on the grass.
I know I don’t have a chance in hell of a repeat of the night my son was conceived, but I have to admit it’s been hard watching her over the years and wondering what if I hadn’t fucked up. The truth is, she was out of my league then, and even if I hadn’t lied, I wouldn’t have had a shot due to her job and the age difference. She was a teacher, and I was a teenager. If I’d started with the truth, she would have laughed me out of the bar, not to mention blown my cover. I’d been tossing back suds after hard days for
a year at that place. I had the calloused hands of a hard-working man and the bills and responsibilities to go with it, so I had absolutely no issues bending the law or the rules to take the edge off. The edge of a life my mother had so tirelessly tried to pave smooth for the both of us.
My looks were deceiving then, and I’d used them to my advantage. Life never really had been fair to the Jenners, so my ‘fuck it’ mentality was par for the course. It seemed a harmless lie that night. Clarissa had been on the prowl. It’d been easy to tell the minute she stepped up to the bar and ordered a martini in her little black skirt. Once our eyes met and she took the seat next to me with a knowing smirk, there was no turning back, at least not for me. We were both clear it was a hookup. Never in a million years did I think it would bring us to this point, and neither did she. But the truth is, ‘all in good fun’ sometimes comes with serious consequences, and I’ve been careful since not to let any of my hookups go too far without making myself crystal fucking clear.
I know that my verbiage at times may be a bit harsh with the ladies, I can see it in the faces of the women I bed. That, in and of itself, has given me my reputation. But I live with my guilt, and my regret daily, so the words tend to come easy when it’s time to speak up.
I fuck like there is no tomorrow because there isn’t. My plans are ball and making a connection with my boy. That’s my future. That and making sure my mother never has to work again. Pamela Jenner gave me a life, the best life she could having had me at age seventeen, and marrying my piece of shit father on a whim a few years later to make her family seem legitimate. The only relief she got out of that union was the day Dad slammed the door shut with his departure.
So far, the love of my life has been an inanimate object, a pigskin ball, and the feel of it in my hands as I fly toward the end zone. Clarissa is right to be leery of me for what I’ve done, though I’m capable of more. But since that day at school, I’ve been hard-pressed to aim for more than playing pro ball.
That day changed my life in more ways than one. It was my wake-up call. The first lesson that Clarissa unknowingly taught me was that no one with a hard life has a free pass to be reckless, careless, or heartless in any situation.
And even though I’m here by the skin of my teeth, I can’t resist egging her on. She’d been watching me for a good five minutes before I called her on it. That’s been our game for six years. Old habits die hard, and the only reason I caught her is because I’d been looking her way myself. I can’t think, for one second, this is a mistake. I won’t. But every move I make has to be the right one.
After lugging the mattress up to my bedroom, Kevin and I stick it on the frame before he leaves me to unpack. After sorting half my shit, I sneak a look through my blinds to see Dante playing in his room. In about five minutes, Clarissa is going to walk in and have him read her a story. Last year it was just the opposite. My son reads now. I’m not sure on what level, but he’s getting pretty good at it because he finishes the books in record time compared to how long it used to take him. He’s so smart, my son.
My son.
He wasn’t a mistake. I refuse to believe it. I will be whatever he needs.
For my son.
It’s time to be a father.
Theresa’s Pulled Pork
Legal Assistant, Dallas
Makes 6 servings
6-8 hours (in slow cooker)
2 Lb. Pork Roast
1 12 Oz. Bottle Root Beer or Dr Pepper
1 Bottle Barbecue Sauce (I like Sweet Baby Ray’s sauce)
Place the pork roast in a slow cooker and pour the Root Beer or Dr Pepper over the meat.
Cover and cook on low until well cooked and the pork shreds easily (usually 6-7 hours but may vary depending on the slow cooker and size of roast).
Drain well. Shred and return to slow cooker. Stir in the barbecue sauce and continue to cook on low until sauce is heated.
Serve on hamburger buns.
Hawaiian buns are great with this. Also, a side of coleslaw and Southern Style potato salad make a really great meal.
Clarissa
Tossing my favorite Lush ‘Sleepy’ bath bomb in, I mentally unplug from another week of teaching youths about ancient books the world has mostly forgotten about. Students are a lot more outspoken and opinionated than they used to be in my school years. The web has given them false confidence that theirs is the only opinion that matters. I catch hell from the girls who I can see openly scrutinizing the way I dress and apply my makeup, and the guys, well, the guys are still guys. Some of them little Troys, great genetic makeup but infuriatingly cocky. It seems to be a daily pissing contest amongst the little Troys I teach on who can get the biggest reaction from me. I like my men bold, but the operative word is men, not little jockstraps with a recurring Proactiv monthly charge who have barely hit their second growth spurt.
I cringe at the thought that only years ago, I’d taken one of those at that inexperienced age between my legs and enjoyed every second of it.
Troy had acted like no boy. But was he really so different? The only conclusion I can draw is no. He was not. During my morning coffee on the porch yesterday, I’d caught him escorting a girl out on her walk of shame. She looked melancholy as he bid her goodbye. He might be capable of fathering as he claims, but he’s still a wildly sought-after college senior, apparently still getting where the getting is good. And I can’t exactly blame those women, Troy is ridiculously appealing, with his athletic build and natural swagger. I’m sure to women of all ages and types, Troy’s that guy. The guy others want to be, and the one women fawn over. He had wooed me after all, and I’d been raised by a womanizer. Even with my grudge, I must admit there’s definitely a sort of charm, a charisma about him.
Too bad I hate his guts.
I’m about ten minutes into my soak when Dante’s conversational voice distracts me from my read, so I gather myself from the tub and unplug the water. It’s when I hear the gruff voice in reply that my whole body goes on high alert. Troy is in my house. I angrily towel off, dressing with my hair still soaked.
How dare he go back on our agreement so soon?!
I can already tell this arrangement isn’t going to work. Throwing open the door, hair dripping, I march into the kitchen where Dante stands dictating his day off to Troy while he washes his hands in my sink.
Troy’s gaze trails up my frame, his eyes resting briefly on my pert nipples through my tank, before his smile fades as he sees my repulsion to his attention.
“Troy cut our grass, Mommy,” Dante says uneasily, reading my temperament. “I wanted to give him some of the lemonade I made. He told me you wouldn’t like it if he came in unannounced, but he did something nice,” Dante explains as if I’m a four-year-old while I have a silent standoff with his father.
In response, I glare at our intruder, unable to hide my aversion to our new neighbor. I’ve been able to keep him away for nearly six years, and suddenly he’s everywhere.
“Mom-my, he’s not in trouble. He did the yard. It was nice of him.” Troy’s hair is disheveled and in need of a cut. Sweat runs down his throat, his skin darker from his stint in the sun. He’s shirtless, his rippling muscles jarringly defined from the light workout. He stands satisfied with his son’s protection as his neon blue eyes burn into mine.
I once read if you stare down a dog long enough, you prove your dominance if the dog is the first to look away.
I lift a brow in challenge, refusing to blink.
Troy’s thick lips turn up before he drops his gaze to the floor.
That’s right, Fido. Now, go lick your ass.
“He, uh, insisted,” Troy says as Dante tugs me into the kitchen by my hand.
“Don’t be mad. I’ll make some for you too, Mommy.”
Because my son is nervous, guilt wins, and I try to reel in my anger. “Okay, baby. That was nice of you to offer.”
“Mommy, you’re supposed to say thank you,” Dante scolds, widening his eyes in expectancy. He’s
trying to impress Troy, and nothing about that sits well with me. Troy turns, arms crossed accentuating his broad chest, weighing me carefully. He’s so imposing in our kitchen, the space too intimate.
I pull my hand from Dante and excuse myself. “I’m going to finish getting dressed. Can’t wait to taste it. Thank you for cutting the grass, Troy.”
He slowly nods, unsure if I’m plotting his death. I am.
“You’re welcome.”
I walk away knowing revenge is a dish best served cold and chuckle when I hear Troy’s sputtering after he takes a drink of Dante’s lemonade.
“This…is,” cough, cough, “well, this tastes great, little man.”
“I know. Mommy, yours is on the counter!”
Checkmate, Fido.
“Thank you,” I shout through my grin. Point Mom, thanks to little man.
The next morning I’m scrambling around the house as my son watches me at a standstill from the door.
“Don’t just stand there, son, we’re late!”
“I’m not late,” he taunts from the front door. “You’re late!”
“I’m not late, we’re behind!”
“Behind is late!”
“Uh,” I scan the living room. “Where’s your bookbag?”
“Got it,” he says, lifting it up as I frantically load my purse.
“Oh, no! Your lunch!”
“Got it,” he says, patting his backpack.
“No, you don’t got it.”
“Bread, jelly, crunchy peanut butter, and an apple. I didn’t cut it because I’m not allowed to use a knife. It’s so hard to make peanut jelly with a spoon. For snack time I put a bag of Sun Chips and one cookie not two.”
I stand, stunned. “You made your own lunch?”
“You’re late!” He reminds me.
“Right. And no, you can’t use a knife.”
He rolls his eyes. “I could put your seat belt on for you too, Mommy.” The look I give him scares him into backpedaling. “I went too far?”
The Underdogs: The Complete Series Page 31
