Alana
“I NEED YOU to go somewhere with me,” Crystal says, pressing her palms on the round table in our dining area.
“Where?” I ask, closing my laptop screen down. Learning how to register for classes is a pain in the ass and every class I try to pick, is booked. Now, I’m stuck with crappy classes.
“This is an A and C mission,” she murmurs.
A and C mission means Alana and Crystal mission, and possibly means breaking the law and getting jailtime. I get up from the table, go to the living room, grab my black hoodie and pull it over my head.
“We better not go to jail,” I say, grabbing my black shoes from the rack and sliding them on, lacing the strings together.
“We won’t. I promise.”
We drive to the middle of the boondocks; small houses are surrounded by tall naked trees. Stars pop across the pitch-black sky. Unlike in the city, crickets sing in the background as the chilly breeze nips me on the cheek. Crystal cuts the engine off and grabs a brown bag and lighter fluid from the back seat.
“What are you about to do?” I knit my eyebrows together.
She smiles and says, “Light dog shit on his porch. He thought he was going to get away with being a deadbeat? He thought wrong.”
Before I can protest, she hops out of the car, rushes to the concrete porch, sets the bag down and lights it. She hops in the car and puts her Honda in gear, driving onto the black asphalt. She stops at a stop sign on a hill, and we watch the smoke and orange flames light up the porch. Clarence rushes out in his boxers, stomping on the fire. My belly hurts from laughing. We keep laughing until we can’t talk. Clarence glances around as he pulls on his short, spiky, dark brown hair. Crystal drives off in the opposite direction.
Back at our condo, I kick off my shoes and we sit on the couch.
“I was stupid to get knocked up by Clarence,” Crystal says. “And you know what else is stupid? I fell in love with him. Thought that we had a future. Seems like the joke’s on me.”
Her thin lips tremble as she rubs her glossy eyes.
“You’re not stupid, Crystal. He is the one who’s going to miss out on a precious baby. Make him pay child support.”
“Not going to happen. If he doesn’t want to help with our child, then I won’t force him to.”
The next morning, it’s Sunday, and I call out of work at the bar. Don’t feel like going to work today. Just want to sit here and not do a damn thing but finish watching Attack on Titan.
My phone vibrates on the coffee table, so I grab it and swipe the screen. I have a few text messages from my mom and Crystal. I ignore my mom’s text messages—she’s probably letting me know that she made it home from her trip with Harold, her boyfriend. I open Crystal’s message.
Bestie: Why didn’t you tell me about you and Darien?
Then I have a text from Gunner.
Big Bro: If it comes to choosing you or him, I’ll pick you.
What the hell is going on? The day that I want to chill, everyone wants to blow up my phone like the world is coming to an end. Give me a break. Gunner is blowing up my phone again and I hit the ignore button. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Gunner’s name flashes across my screen, and I press the phone to my ear, gripping it hard.
“What?” I snap.
“So you and Darien made it official, huh? He better not break your heart or I’ll break his legs.”
“Made what official?” I stand up from the couch and begin pacing the floor.
“Your relationship, it’s all on Facebook.”
“Wait, what?” I can’t believe what I just heard. Without giving Gunner time to respond, I hang up the phone and pull up the Facebook app. I scroll to my notifications and I have a ton of likes and comments on my relationship status. I. Shit. You. Not. My status says, Relationship with Darien Casey. Wow, didn’t know that Darien knew so many people.
I go to my room, throw on a tank top and sweatpants, and slide on my tennis shoes. I stomp all the way to Darien’s apartment. He is about to hear a mouthful. He hasn’t asked me to be his girlfriend, so why the fuck does he assume we are together? Cocky bastard. How did he hack my account in the first place? This is borderline creepy and stalkerish.
I bang on his door a few times and Darien swings it open. His chiseled stomach drips with water. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and I stare at his junk before I meet his eyes. His cock is huge even when it’s not hard. I jab a finger into his hard chest as he walks backward.
“Why did you change our relationship status on Facebook?”
“I want the whole world to know you’re mine,” he says, folding his arms across his chest.
“Who says I want to be your girlfriend? Maybe I just want sex out of you.”
He pulls me inside, kicks the door shut, and tilts my chin so I can look at him.
“Red, we like each other, spend time with each other, and fuck each other. That is what a relationship consists of. So stop fighting it.” He kisses my forehead. “I know you’re scared because you think I might turn out like your piece-of-shit ex.” He runs his index finger around my bottom lip, and I am tempted to nip it so I can hear him moan. “Don’t punish me for what he did.”
I hear the plea in his voice and it makes me feel ten times worse. I stare at his face, unable to say a word. He leans down and kisses me like he owns me. Pulling away from me, he laughs.
“What?” I say.
“Your mom sent me a message on Facebook. She wants to have dinner tonight.”
I let out an exhale. My mom is probably jumping for joy because she is happy that I am moving on from Charles.
“She wants to”—he finger-quotes—“‘check my aura and make sure I’m good with you.’”
“You will have to excuse my mom, she’s into auras and palm-reading and all that. What did you tell her?”
“I told her that I will talk to you.”
I look at my new possessive boyfriend. Wow, can’t believe I thought that. And I will be expecting a call from my mom later about Darien. We have been seeing each other for two months, and maybe I can give us a try. We mesh together, and the sparks do fly between us. When I’m with Darien, I am happy. Haven’t been happy since forever.
He heads to the kitchen and grabs a plate from the cabinet. “You hungry, sweetheart?”
“A little.”
I hop on the granite counter with my legs dangling. He pulls out a skillet, places it on the stove and pulls out a carton of eggs, then grabs four of them and cracks them open and pours them into the skillet. I watch him as he moves around the kitchen and I check out the sculpted chest muscles and the thick veins in his tan arms.
I can’t stop the butterflies overflowing in my belly. And it feels good not to hurt and not to walk around with a hole in my chest. Not to walk around thinking that the pain will never get better.
I hop off the counter, grab the placemats and set them in on the dinner table. This feels right—no, nice. I have to get used to the idea of being Darien’s girlfriend.
Darien sets our plates on the table and we begin to eat. He can cook. I thought I made a good omelet, but his tastes delicious.
After brunch, I insist on cleaning the dishes, so I gather the dishware and place it in the dishwasher, clean off the counter, and wipe down the table. Darien disappears from the dining room and returns wearing a white V-neck shirt and black jeans.
“What do you want to do today?”
I got a few things on my mind; I could blow him in the kitchen.
“I can blow you, and afterward you can fuck me,” I say, blushing. I feel so comfortable speaking like that. Being around Darien does that to you.
He leans in and whispers, “No. We are still waiting for sex.”
“You trying to turn me into a nun?”
“Nope. Just like to torture you.”
He kisses the bridge of my nose, pulling me close to his hard body.
My phone rings and I pull it out from my pocket. Of course, it’s Mother dearest calling to barrage me with questions.
I look at Darien as I answer the phone. Darien steals kisses from my neck and my ear. Yep, those kisses state “you’re mine.”
“Is that any way to treat your mother? Haven’t spoken to you in two weeks and you get a boyfriend without me reading his aura?” I picture my mom, tapping her foot, with her hands on her hips, the “you’re in trouble” stand. I giggle and my gaze lingers on Darien. He ushers me to sit on his lap at the breakfast nook.
“Hi, Mom, how are you?”
I ignore her statement. Darien’s erection brushes against my ass. It’s not fair that he is holding out on me. I have needs, for Chrissakes. If he thinks I’m a cock tease now? He is gonna hate me later.
“Never better, I suppose.”
My mom and I always had a close relationship. Even when I was the reason for Cole’s death, she never blamed me.
“Are you and Darien stopping by for dinner? I want to meet him and do a tarot card reading. We will have games, too.”
“Mom, we have only been dating for an hour.”
Darien gently bites my neck and whispers, “Bullshit. You were mine since I saw your perky ass in that strip joint, you just didn’t know it yet.” I playfully tap his chest. Not cool for him to turn me on while I’m on the phone.
“But I haven’t seen you in two months,” she whines.
“All right, we’ll stop by at eight.”
We say our goodbyes, and I hit the red button on the screen.
When I knock on the door, my mom opens up and welcomes me into a hug. Emptiness lies in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t expect Darien to meet my mom so soon.
I remove my black leather jacket and place it on the coat rack. My brother bought this house for my mom when he made his first million dollars. Harold, my mom’s live-in boyfriend, is stretched out on the brown recliner with his legs propped up, watching an action movie. My mom pulls Darien into a tight hug like he is her son. My mom has always been so welcoming when it comes to people. She looks between Darien and me.
“His energy is calm and loving, Alana. I want to pull out my tarot cards.”
“Not now, honey. You don’t want to scare him off,” Harold says, getting up from the chair. Steel boots squeak against the black tiles, and he shakes Darien’s hand.
“You want a beer, boy?” Harold grabs a beer from the white fridge and hands it to him before giving him a chance to respond. My mom has been dating Harold for three years now. Harold puts up with her weird way of thinking. He loves the fact that she believes in superstitions and that she doesn’t celebrate Halloween because she believes souls rise from the dead. Or breaking a mirror is seven years of bad luck. With his arms draped over her shoulders, she doesn’t look a day over forty, with her high cheekbones, wavy golden-blonde hair, and pretty, pale skin. The long green sweater hugs her petite body.
“Give Darien a tour of the place. Dinner will be done in thirty minutes.” My mom shoos us out of the kitchen. I show Darien to the big living room with elegant furniture and big entertainment center, with the walls painted gray. The home is two story, with a white porch wrapped around it.
Pictures hang on the wall like any traditional home. There is a picture of my mom, Gunner, and me at a park. I was six years old and had two missing top front teeth. I wore a Little Mermaid blue shirt and yellow pants my mom got from the thrift store. After my dad left, we couldn’t afford brand-new clothes and shoes like the rest of the kids in my neighborhood.
We stop in front of a baby-blue door, and my heart beats fast as tears burn in the back of my throat. I place my hands on the handle, and I breathe in deep as the air in my lungs burns like hell. If we are going to be together, then he needs to see the real me, the broken me. If he turns away because he can’t take me as I am, then we don’t need to be together.
“Darien, there is something I want to share with you.” My voice breaks, and I’m on the verge of tears.
“What is it?” He strokes my cheek.
Concern etches his face. Here goes nothing.
Without answering his question, I turn the knob and slowly open the door. Haven’t been in here since the death of Cole. I hit the light switch, and dust motes fly in the air. The familiar smell of Play-Doh and crayons hits my nostrils, making my stomach nauseated. I want to puke up my omelet that I had for lunch earlier. Drawings of pictures are on the wall that say “mommy,” “dad,” and “me” and the paint on the wall is blue, with faint marker stains.
Darien grabs me by the waist and pulls me to his chest, and I shed a few tears, trying to keep my composure. The bed where Cole slept is still messy. His grandma allowed him to eat in his bed, which isn’t allowed at my house, so moldy applesauce is dried on the Paw Patrol blanket. Mom decided to leave his room the way it is after his death. I used to come in here and sit and cry until there were no more tears in me.
“Whose room is this?” Darien asks as he looks around. He picks up drawings from the wall.
“My son, Cole,” I say. Why did I think it was a good idea to bring him here? I hang my head low, focusing on the brown carpet. Darien tilts my chin to look at him, and he cocks his eyebrow, and millions of questions play on his beautiful face.
“You have a son?”
I exhale and say, “Had. He passed away two years ago. He was five years old.” I bury my face in my palms, fighting back the guilt.
Darien pulls me into his embrace and, damn it, that causes the tears to overflow like a waterfall. That pain in my chest is back, raw, and fresh. Stepping into this room is like ripping a scab from a sore that has not healed yet.
“What happened to him?” His voice isn’t full of accusation like Charles’ was when I had to break the news to him. Instead, it is filled with sorrow and concern.
“He drowned. I was in the kitchen cooking and I told him he couldn’t get in the pool because it was too cold and he couldn’t swim . . .” I trail off and swallow the huge lump in the back of my throat. Darien strokes my arm and tilts my chin to meet his stormy gray eyes.
“Charles said he locked the gate around the pool before he went on his business trip.” I shake my head. “But it wasn’t locked.” Tears are supposed to cleanse the soul, but no matter how much I cry, I’ll never feel better.
“When the pathologist did an autopsy on his body, he told me that he was in the pool for forty-five minutes. What parent doesn’t check on their child?” I’m such a bad mom. The policemen wanted to investigate the case and charged me for child neglect and murder but the court ruled it as an accident. It was a nightmare. Not only did I have to deal with losing Cole, I had to deal with court systems.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” His fingers lace with mine. I stare out into space as the memories barge into my mind. That night plays in my head like a broken tune, and I always play the what-if game. What if I had checked on him earlier? What if I just had followed him and made sure he was in his room?
“I should have been a better mom. Should have just watched him.”
We sit there on the twin-size bed in silence. I miss Cole so bad. Miss his knock-knock jokes, his love for Paw Patrol, and the way he would barge into my room in the middle of the night because he thought the Pumpkin King from Nightmare Before Christmas was living under his bed. I even miss the little things, like when I used to try to give him a kiss before he went to school, but he wouldn’t let me because kisses from moms were icky. A week before his death, I took him to the fire station. A guy Crystal was fucking worked there, so we were given a tour, and Cole was so excited, I saw stars in his eyes when he met the firemen. They told stories, how they save people’s lives. They let him take home a yellow jacket and a red helmet. He wore them everywhere, even took them to school to show his friends.
“I wish I could do something about Cole. Wish I could take the pain away. You’re broken, Alana. You have been through too much at a young age.” He rains kisses on each tear that falls down my cheeks. “But this is how I will take you, my shattered, broken girl. I don’t want to fix you. You’re sassy, sweet, and brave.”
His words shoot through me, and I press my lips to his with demand and want. His hand travels to the bottom of my waist and my fingers slide through his thick black hair, sticking it in the air.
“You mean that?” I whisper.
“Every fucking word.”
The door swings open, and my mom’s eyes damn near pop out of her eye sockets. She brushes a blonde lock behind her ear. “Alana, are you okay?”
“Yes, Mom.”
She nods as tears sit at the corners of her eyes, but they don’t fall.
“Dinner’s ready,” she says, before turning on her heel.
We sit at the square wooden table, laughing, Mom telling me about the cruise she and Harold went on a week ago. After dinner, Darien and Harold go to the living room and continue to watch an action movie, and they joke about what football team is better. Mom holds out her hand, flashing a big diamond ring on her finger.
“I knew Harold was going to marry me,” she says in glee. I look in the open living room, and Harold strokes his chestnut-brown goatee. My mom always had a thing for men with bald scalps and big beards. Harold looks like a lumberjack. Dirty blue overalls and faded shirt. Harold owns a mechanic shop, and my mom stays at home—she is a member of a local country club, so that place keeps her busy when Harold works long hours. I wipe down the plate with a white towel and place it on the dish rack.
“We got married last Friday. I know it was impulsive, but we love each other.” She leans against the granite counter.
“Mom, I’m happy for you. Does Gunner know?” I pull the plug from the sink and the water drains. Suds linger in the sink.
“I haven’t told him, you know how overprotective he is.”
“He just doesn’t want Harold to turn out like Dad,” I say, leaning against the black granite counter.
My dad used to get drunk and physically abuse my mom. I don’t remember him because he left when I was a baby. Gunner witnessed my mother getting abused by my father. We struggled so bad that my mom had to work two jobs to support us. Gunner used to save up his money to buy me expensive art stuff so I could go to a great art school. But I got pregnant when I was sixteen years old. My mom was so angry because she didn’t want me to follow in her footsteps—stuck at a dead-end job. We were so poor that we couldn’t afford heat, so we left the oven door open just to get warm.
“I’ll tell him on Thanksgiving Day, that way everyone will be here,” she says.
“Won’t be home for Thanksgiving. I’m spending it with Darien and his folks.”
My mom’s smile goes wide as the Titanic at my response. “I’m so happy, Alana. We will miss you.” She opens the cabinet and grabs a bottle of champagne, holding it in the air. “Let’s celebrate happiness.”