Gannon (Kennedy Ink. Book 8)

by Jenny Wood

  Having an addicted loved one isn’t something you can truly grasp unless you have one. I wish that I was strong enough to cut her loose and forget about her, but, she’s my mom. I can’t.

  I bitch to Shade about his brother, but I know how impossible it is to hate someone, even when they’ve given you every reason in the world to.

  The lying, the stealing, the manipulating, the blaming, the anger, the hatred, it’s all just a part of the disease. I wish that I could explain to my mom how seeing her doped up and out of her fucking head kills me a little bit more every time. I wish that she cared enough about one of us to stop doing this, if not for herself, then maybe for me. Unfortunately, recovery doesn’t work that way. She has to hit rock bottom, they say, but I know my mom’s hit that place so many times, it doesn’t fucking phase her anymore. It might as well be home.

  So, here I am, once again startled awake for the third time tonight. The clock says it’s a little after two-thirty and the darkness in the room feels charged. It wasn’t a nightmare that woke me this time, though I don’t really know what it was the startled me out of what feels like the first deep sleep I’ve gotten since last Thursday. I lay in the quiet room and listen for any sounds, but all seems quiet outside the box fan I keep in the corner for it’s sound.

  I check my phone and make sure I don’t have any alerts from the doorbell cam that Jody had taken me to get yesterday. He’d recommended it after I’d told him about worrying I’d miss my mom coming back while I was at work or something. I didn’t want to miss her. Jody said that he swears by his, and it makes his husband, Cam, feel safer when he’s home alone in the evenings. It apparently has a sensor on it that sets the cam to record if anyone steps up on the porch. It gave me peace of mind that if mom came back while I was at work, I could get here in time to talk to her. I didn’t have any hope that she’d go back to rehab, but, maybe I could keep her here until I could make alternate arrangements.

  Cam had been telling me about these places called “sober-living” houses, and the rules seemed more lax and less, rehabby, if the pictures from several websites were anything to go by.

  Unfortunately, the cam app just kept me distracted and I was constantly checking the damn thing to see if it was working. I’d only tested it the day I got it, so I worried that it might not work right.

  I grab my phone off the nightstand, knowing that I won’t sleep until I check it anyway, I pull up the app and hit the button for the front porch, though we set one for the back deck too.

  Nothing seems out of place at first. I could see my truck in the driveway and there’s no traffic on the roads this late. My porch looks normal and I can see the corner of the mailbox on the screen and half of the porch swing in the corner. I’m about to close out the app when a slight movement at the bottom right of the screen, grabs my attention. It looks like something tiny, but I can’t tell what it is. It had jerked or moved for just a second but is now motionless. I bring my phone closer to my face and study it, trying to gauge whether it was worth getting out of bed to check it out or not.

  It could just be part of the cushion I had on the chair out there or something the neighbor cat brought up to offer me. It’s really hard to tell. It isn’t moving, so I didn’t think it is anything to be concerned about… That is until it slides just a fraction and a little bit more of it makes an appearance on the screen. It looks like the tip of a foot, only a couple of toes, maybe, but definitely a foot.

  I jump out of bed and run to the front door, my phone still in my hand. The hallway is dark but I can see the light from the porch casting a shadow of something backed up against the door. I should’ve opened it carefully, but I wasn’t thinking that when I pulled the door open, whatever it was would fall inside at my feet. It was exactly what happened because there is my mother, sprawled on her back in my doorway.

  She’s unconscious, head rolled to the side and arms and legs limp. I notice the tiny track marks all over her bruised up arms right away. She’d somehow lost her shoes since I’d seen her last.

  Taking in her appearance, I don’t see any vomit anywhere and she seems to be breathing okay, just passed out. Unfortunately, this isn’t our first time, so, I’m pretty confident that she isn’t overdosing or having trouble breathing. I scoop her up and carry her through the living room to the guest room, laying her down on the bed. I wish I could wake her up to clean up first, but, I’d likely have to toss the blankets anyway. Her clothes and feet are thick with grease, dirt and what looks like spots of dried blood. I cover her up and go back to lock up the house, wondering how she even got here. There was no way in hell she would find my place on foot, not on her own. Not being that fucked up.

  I wash my hands and change my shirt before putting on a pot of coffee because there’s no way I’m going to be able to get back to sleep knowing she’s just down the hall in an altered state. I wondered if I were to call Cam, or Jay, if they’d come to look her over and just make sure that she’s okay. I’d be embarrassed as hell, but, I didn’t think either of them would gossip about it to our friends.

  Sitting at the table in my tiny dining area, I bring up my texts with Shade, wondering if he’d even be surprised by this at all. Probably not. He wouldn’t judge, though. Complain, probably; be pissed off on my behalf, absolutely. He wouldn’t give me shit though, he’d likely offer to come over and try to help in some way. It’s just the kind of guy he is.

  Thinking back over the years we’ve had together, I couldn’t remember a single instance that he didn’t come running the second he thought I needed him. I’m so incredibly lucky to have him, though I can’t help feeling guilty that our friendship was so unevenly balanced sometimes. I feel selfish for needing him so much and even wanting to text him now.

  His last couple of messages came after Kayson had been circulating the videos from Saturday. All of the guys had texted at some point to congratulate me on embracing my inner diva and recognizing my inner rock star.

  I hated them all and sent a group text with reminders of dumb shit they’d all done that I remembered over the last year or so. I’d been blessed enough to witness a lot of them. Unfortunately, my attempt of distraction didn’t work, they’re still giving me shit. I’d just have to take it until one of them topped my performances and gave everyone something new to talk about. Fucking Kingsley, though, this is all his fault for scaring the shit out of me in the first place.

  - Shade: Your rendition of Lady Gaga was one for the books. You should consider entering a talent competition.

  - Shade: What the actual fuck? How did I miss the duck face posing and ass slapping during Party in the USA? I’m buying Kayson something shiny!

  Knowing that Shade isn’t likely to get my texts until morning anyway, I use our text thread to kind of, not feel so alone right now. It makes me feel pathetic, but, I hate dealing with mom and all her shit on my own. I wouldn’t dump this on my worst enemy, but having someone to unload it on helps me to not lose my mind.

  - Me: Guess who showed up, floating in a junkie stupor on my front porch?

  I wonder how long this will be my life. Long enough to ruin any chance I have at finding someone and settling down? If I have kids, how will it affect them if I don’t cut her out of my life and shelter them from her middle of the night appearances and drugged up tirades? How will I support a family if big chunks of my money keep going to rehabs and halfway houses? I don’t know of anybody who’d put up with that shit, let alone be willing to bring children into it. Do I even want kids? I’d likely fuck them up. I wouldn’t have the first clue about a normal childhood or how to be a good parent.

  - Me: I don’t know what to do anymore, man. I’m tired of being tired of it.

  After sending that last text, I click my phone off and put it down. No need to bring Shade down with me, he’s got enough on his plate with his dad and his brother. I’m just feeling sorry for myself. Heading over to the couch, I grab the blanket that Shade had folded up and left out here and wrap it around mysel
f and lay down. I can faintly smell the shampoo he always uses, it smells like strawberry kids’ shampoo. I make fun of him often for it, because he legit still uses strawberry kids’ shampoo.

  “I have a dry scalp, fucker. It’s the only thing that doesn’t give me dandruff!” he argues, everytime though I think he really just likes the smell. I nestle my face in the pillow with a smile and despite the fact that my mom is down the hall and I’m supposed to be at work in a few hours, I close my eyes and am asleep in minutes.

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  Jingling keys and the opening and closing of the front door have me popping up off the couch before I have a second for anything to register. If mom is leaving again, I want to make sure she is okay and maybe that she doesn’t have anything of value of mine that she’s taking with her.

  “Hey, I got food,” Shade says, walking through the living room to get to the kitchen. Of course, it’s Shade. I texted him last night.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I follow him to the kitchen with the blanket still wrapped around me. I watch as he unloads little bowls of mixed fruits, a handful of bagels with several different spreads and cinnamon oatmeal with granola for me. “I love you,” I vow, hoisting myself up onto the counter and reaching with grabby hands for the styrofoam bowl. He snorts a laugh, but unwraps a spoon and dumps it in before handing it to me.

  “How’s your mom? She awake yet?” he asks. I shake my head but otherwise don’t answer. Mixing the contents of the bowl, I groan around the spoon after taking the first bite. Bailey’s deli has the best, flavored oatmeal.

  “You should do food porn, you’d make a killin’,” Shade tells me, his cheeks tinted pink as he turns his back to me and unbags a bagel with cream cheese spread.

  “This is food porn, taste it," I tempt him, holding out a spoon full of cinnamon-flavored oats. His body turns and he looks at me and then the spoon, then back at me again. “Taste.”

  Without breaking eye contact, he wraps his lips around my spoon and in the most pornographic way a person could ever eat a spoonful of oatmeal. He smiles, his dimple popping out to torture me.

  “Pancakes are better,” he whispers, pulling me further into a sexy Shade-haze. His guttural chuckle is enough to snap me out of it as I use my foot to push him away from me.

  “What’ve you got going on at the garage today?” I ask, taking another spoonful of oatmeal and granola. Shade turns with his bagel and leans against the island, crossing one leg over the other.

  “You remember Zach Collins? From high school, maybe a grade behind us? He was friends with Chaz Danny and Tommy Ray?” I nod, remembering of them. “Well, Zach’s dropped his bike off the other afternoon and had a little thing with Hudson. I didn’t think anything else about it, but he came back yesterday asking questions about Brock," I tip my brows in surprise, I didn’t see that one coming. How in the shit did he know Brock?

  “Nah, nothing like that,” he answers my unspoken question, “My dad works with his dad, I guess he mentioned Brock being home and looking for a job.”

  “Not gonna’ give him a chance, then?” I smirk, but he doesn’t take the bait.

  “Zach’s a prosecuting attorney, I guess, but he funds this organization in Atlanta that helps convicted felons find jobs, housing, and other shit to get them back on their feet. I’m hoping that Brock will be open to the help instead of planning on living on dads basement couch for the rest of his life. He’s agreed to meet up with us at the shop today, and his PO approved a two-hour window so we could pitch him the idea and see what happens," he shrugs it off, but I know how much this would help Shade and his dad, and especially Brock. This could be a turning point for him, should he choose to accept it.

  “That’s really cool, man. I hope he gives it a chance. Would he move to Atlanta?” the look in Shade’s eyes when he shrugs, says that he sure hopes so.

  “It would be good for him, I think,” he answers and I nod, completely agreeing. “So, on an unrelated note, do you remember Kelson Mandella?” the question takes me so off guard, I spit oatmeal all over my lap and blanket, when a surprised laugh flies past my lips.

  “Kelson Mandello?” I correct him, chuckling at the kid's unfortunate sounding name. Teenagers are assholes. “Yeah, what about him?”

  “He got hot,” Shade says, instantly drying up any humor I had only a second ago.

  “So?” I didn’t mean to sound defensive, but, why in the hell would he tell me that?

  “He brought a Chevelle in a couple of days ago and asked me to get a drink with him this weekend," I fight to swallow the lump of now sour oatmeal that feels like concrete traveling to my gut. I should’ve prepared for this a little better, it was bound to happen sooner or later, right? I know Shade dates, not often, but some. We don’t usually talk about it though, and he never tells me about it beforehand. Not like this.

  “Okay? So, are you gonna go?” I sit my bowl in the sink, no longer interested in it.

  “I said I would, he was nice, right?” I nod, though I don’t know if I’m agreeing or just using it as a way to stall for a minute to think of any reason at all to say, no. I can’t, though, nothing comes to mind other than the stark realization that Shade has a date and I want to throw up.

  Speaking of throwing up, I no sooner have the thought before the guest room door flies open and my mother comes running out, stumbling into the bathroom and falling to the floor to vomit. I let my head fall forward, shame and embarrassment ever present, reminding me why Kelson Mandello would be a better fit for my best friend and hating myself for even entertaining the thought that I could be.

  Shade

  Grabbing a cold bottle of water from Gannon’s fridge, I try not to think about the way his face went hard when I told him about Kelson asking me out. Am I immature and selfish enough to secretly love that he seemed pissed about it?

  “Get off me! I don’t need your help!” Gannon’s mom shrugs his hands off of her while she ungraciously tries to pull herself up off the floor. Gannon has a wet rag, handing it to her so she could wipe her face, and I bring the bottled water to the door and hand it to him. She looks over at me and rolls her eyes but thankfully doesn’t say anything.

  “Can I talk to you for a second?” I murmur, wanting to ask him if he has anyone that can come sit with her today and make sure she doesn’t leave or take off with anything valuable while he’s at work. He doesn’t look at me but slips by me while seeming to make a conscious effort not to graze me as does it.

  “Thanks for bringing breakfast, let me get you some money and pay you back so you can get to work," I’m being dismissed, but more than that, he’s making it weird. One of us always brings drinks or one type of meal or another, whether it was breakfast, lunch, dinner or just munchie food during a game or a movie. Neither of us had ever worried about paying back because we knew that it would likely be the other one who brought it next time. I’m suddenly getting pissed. Following him to his room where he has his wallet in his hand, I slam the door and slap the wallet from his hand.

  “What the fuck?” he whispers the curse, harsh and seemingly as aggravated as I am right now.

  “What’s wrong with you right now?” I demand to know.

  “Nothing. You’ve got a busy day today, you should probably go. I’ve got to deal with her shit and figure out what to do now. I don’t have time for this. Good luck with Brock and good luck on your date," he says, sidestepping me to leave the room. Without thought, I grab his arm and whirl him around to face me and then I take a step towards him and back him up against the door.

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I accuse. His expression is completely closed off and I can’t tell what he’s actually mad about. His mom? Me? Brock? I need to know. “Tell me.”

  “I don’t have time for this, Shade. Get out of my way,” It’s Gannon’s turn to demand. He pushes himself off the door and invades my space and all I can think is that, I want him to take all that controlled temper that h
e’s barely holding in check, and unleash it all on me. I want him to grab me and flip us around and shove me back into the door. I want his angry kiss and his punishing hands all over me. I want him to be mad and possessive and irrational. I want him to claim me, so I can claim him. I want him to be more than my best friend, right now. I want him to be mine.

  “Get out of my way,” he whispers menacingly, his chest heaving loudly and his fists balled up at his sides. I’ve never seen him look like this before, not even at the gym. He’s either about to kiss me or knock me out. I can’t tell which, but I stupidly welcome either one.

  “Make me,” I breathe, my voice hiding behind the thick fog of pure need. He does. Holy fuck does he ever. He grabs my face with his rough, calloused hands and pulls me close before spinning us and pinning me to the door. Exactly the way I’d wanted it.

  “This is stupid, what you’re doing. You know that, right?” It’s a snarl, directly in my face. I’ve never seen him so mad and I’ve never wanted him more than I do right now. “You keep pushing me, Shade, you aren’t gonna like what happens," I nod, my hands taking fistfuls of his shirt at his stomach, feeling the ripples of his stomach jumping under my knuckles. I want to rip his shirt off and run my tongue all over his body. I feel like I can’t catch my breath and I don’t even want to. I want him to kiss me, but I don’t know how to ask for it. The way he’s looking at me doesn’t make me feel like he wants the same thing, though I can’t for the life of me imagine why he’d have me pinned against the door like this if he didn’t.

  “I – Gannon, you… I want, -“ the pads of his thumbs cover my lips and he steps impossibly closer to me, the hardness of his body rubbing over mine. He’s an inch or two taller than me, though I outweigh him by a good fifty pounds at least. I could easily move him if I wanted to, but right now, I really, really don’t want to.