Page 163 of Always Love You More

“W-what?”

“Isaid,do you want to fuck him?” he asks, drawing out each word.

Her eyes widen. “No, of course not, no. I only want you. You know that?”

“You gonna show me just how much you want me then, hmm?”

She leans into him and nods as he trails his hand up her leg and grips her ass. He slaps it then tilts his head toward me. “Give him the bag, and then go wait for me.”

I stand and she passes me a duffle bag, barely making eye contact this time, before making a show of kissing Marcus then scampering off.

I grip the handle of the bag, the fabric digging into my palm. This whole situation makes my fucking skin crawl.

“Same time next week,” Marcus says, pushing his chair back. “And you better not make me wait.” He holds up two fingers. “You’re already at two strikes. Don’t make me show you what happens if you get to three.”

I fight to hold back a response, dying to put him in his place. Wanting to remind him that he used to be someone’s bitch, too. That I still remember the hold my father had over him, the way he followed my old man around like a dog begging for scraps.

He stands. “You hear me, kid?”

I stare him down, not playing into his bullshit, satisfied when it’s him who finally drops my gaze. Then I sling the duffle bag over my shoulder and turn without a word.

“Jameson?” he says to my back.

“Yeah, Marcus,” I call out, not bothering to look at him, “I hear you.”

I swing into the driveway, stopping home after some drop-offs and a few hours at my usual spots. I’m done for the day and have a couple hours to kill before Sam needs to be picked up.

The house is quiet when I step inside. I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but each time I come home, there’s a part of me that hopes she’ll be up. That the mother I used to know will be back.

I picture walking into the house and it smelling like the roast chicken dinner she used to make because she knew it was my favorite. That she’d be in the kitchen, looking way too done up to just be cooking, humming some song the way she used to.

Instead, it smells like stale cigarettes, and the only sound is my boots hitting the floor.

I pass through the kitchen, noting the dirty dishes piling up in the sink. I ignore them for now, heading to my room so I can stash the duffle bag.

“Jameson?” my mother’s voice rings out as I start down the hall.

I take in a breath, slowing in front of her room. “Yeah,” I answer, lingering in the doorway.

Her room looks like a cave, the window covered with a sheet, blocking out any natural light. Her clothes are strewn around the room, an overflowing ashtray balanced on her nightstand.

“You’ve gotta clean this place up,” I tell her. “Seriously, Ma. This is getting to be too much.”

I move for the window, stepping over the mess on the floor.

She groans when I pull the sheet away and light floods the room.

“Get up,” I tell her. “This has gotta stop.”

This isn’t the first time we’ve gone through this routine.

Or even the second.

Or third.

I’ve been trying for months.

I click off the TV and turn to face her, tensing when my eyes land on her frail body.