The Davenport Christmas Chronicles - Piper Davenport Page 0,43
much longer.
Hatch
Monday night, I got home to find Maisie in a knock-down, drag-out with our oldest boy, Flash. His real name was Parker, but we’d called him Flash ever since he was little because as soon as he could walk, he was off and running. The only thing faster than his feet was his mind. Very little about him had changed over the years, except these days he always seemed to be in a bad mood.
“What’s the rule, Parker?” Maisie growled.
“The rule’s stupid!” he snapped.
I did not like the tone he was usin’ with his mother.
“What the fuck’s goin’ on?” I demanded, walking into the kitchen.
Maisie raised her hands in defeat and turned her back.
I faced my son. “Flash?”
“He has a D in three classes,” Maisie provided.
“I have a D in two classes,” Flash corrected. “I have a D+ in science.”
“You’re gonna have an F as in, foot up your ass, if you keep up with the attitude,” I growled.
Flash looked at me sheepishly. “Yes, sir.”
“Look, son. You’re too smart to get grades like this, so what’s goin’ on?”
“Nothing, I’m good. I’ll get the grades up,” he replied dismissively.
“I know you’ll get your grades up. All of ’em. But that’s not what I’m concerned about,” I said, softening my voice. I could tell something was on my son’s mind and it bothered me that he was closed off. He and I had always been close and him holding back was unusual. “Talk to me, buddy.”
“Can we just talk about something else?”
“What else is there to talk about that’s more important than your education, Flash? What’s more important than you?”
“I just want to go work on my bike, can we do this later?”
“Oh, no, mister. There’ll be no working on your bike until those grades are up,” Maisie said.
“But that’s not fair! We have less than a week before Christmas break. It’s not like I have new homework or anything,” Flash protested.
“That means you have time to do your missing assignments and go over the material on the tests you failed before holiday,” Maisie shot back instantly.
One thing I’d learned quickly was to avoid arguing with my woman at all costs. Only the strong survived and I’d yet to meet anyone that strong. She’s as sweet as pie ninety-nine percent of the time, but she’d stab you in the neck with that one percent slice if you pissed her off.
“But I still have problems with the ignition to work out,” Parker whined.
“No buts. It’s like your father said. There’s nothing more important than your education.”
“Like he can talk,” Flash motioned to me without breaking eye contact with his mother. “Bikes are a hell of a lot more important to him than education ever was.”
“What did you say to me, young man?” Maisie asked in a deep controlled tone. My son may not have known it, but he had mere seconds left to live.
“Go to your room,” I said as sternly and plainly as possible, as I knew any further conversation or sudden movements would further add to the thoughts of filicide I knew my wife was currently having.
Thankfully, Flash did as he was told and as soon as he’d left the room I went to my wife. And gently kissed her forehead.
“You’re a good mother and our son is an asshole.”
Maisie slapped my chest. “Don’t you dare call my precious angel an asshole,” she chastised without a trace of irony.
“See? That’s why I could never be a mother,” I joked.
“Oh, is that the only reason?”
“I’m gonna get to the bottom of it, Sunshine.”
“He misses you,” she said. “There’s something else going on, for sure, but part of this is because you’re gone a lot.”
“Not sure how to change that,” I said.
“I know, love. I’ve got your back, but I can’t be you for Parker. You’re his favorite human and you’re not here much. He’s feeling it.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t take the Prez patch.”
Maisie sighed. “Darling, you deserve the patch, and I know that once all of this business with the Spiders is dealt with, things will calm down. You’ve just got to figure out how to make Parker understand.”
I stroked her cheek. “I’m gonna go talk to him.”
“I’ll keep your dinner warm.”
“Thanks,” I said, and made my way upstairs, stomping a little harder than normal to drive home my irritation.
Pushing open his door, I found him sitting cross-legged on his bed, his phone in his hand, probably texting Tate.
“Phone down, bud.”
He dropped the phone on the nightstand and settled his chin in