cramped, had little counter space, a thin-piled carpet that had so many spills and smells and so much steam and grease soaked in, it was like a thin living stew (so I ignored it), but the rest…well, I was used to it.
We entered in the little vestibule/mudroom and I led him to the living room.
But down from the foyer was a narrow hall, where off to the left, first, was a tiny bedroom, down the way was a small bath, and at the back, was my bedroom, which was only slightly bigger than the tiny one.
Off my living room was a dining room (without a dining room table, or anything, it was a largish space in my smallish pad that I’d only found a rug for and then stopped trying because I was going to flip houses, but ended up taking care of someone else’s kids) which fed into my aforementioned scary kitchen.
Both living room and dining room had fireplaces.
They were rad.
Straight up, if I had the cash, and the time, I’d buy this house from my landlord and restore it to its former glory. The mantles, the tile, the wood floors, the high ceilings, the cornices, the ceiling roses.
Sublime.
As mentioned, I did not have the time or money.
Boone walked directly to the built-in hutch at the end of my dining room and stopped.
Beginning to seriously lose patience with this, whatever it was, I followed.
And stopped.
“Boone, what the hell?”
With my head where it was at, I didn’t notice he had a folder with him.
He opened it and tossed an 8x10 full-color glossy on the counter of the hutch.
I looked down at it.
It was a picture of Angelica, looking pretty damned good, messy topknot in her hair, cute formfitting tank dress…
Valentino rockstud jelly thongs on her feet.
I stared.
Boone tapped the picture and I forced my attention from the $350 flip-flops she was wearing to the sign above the place she was walking out of.
It was a fucking day spa.
My head jerked when he tossed another photo down.
Angelica enjoying lunch al fresco with a friend. Another cute outfit. A sparkling glass of rosé wine in front of her.
My breathing went funny.
Another picture landed.
Angelica browsing in what appeared to be a Bath and Body Works, a Kate Spade shopping bag dangling from the crook in her arm.
“Worth those lap dances, baby?” Boone’s deep, drawling, caustic voice broke into my brain, a brain that was paralyzed with shock and rage.
Oh no he did not.
My narrowed gaze went to him.
“Totally playin’ you,” he stated. “I bet you dropped money on her today, seein’ as she’s got a facial booked.”
Oh my fucking God.
This couldn’t be.
This…
This…
It just couldn’t be.
“You’re stalking my niece and nephew’s mother?” I asked.
His chin shifted to the side.
“Ryn—”
“To what?” I swept an arm out over the pictures on the hutch. “Make some point?”
“Well, yeah,” he replied. “And the point I’m makin’ is, you’re shoving your tits into horny assholes’ faces so this bitch can have bi-monthly massages.”
Bi-monthly?
I hadn’t had a massage in…
I didn’t remember the last time I had a massage.
And Angelica had two a month?
Off my back?
No, wait.
Her kids didn’t have fucking carrots and were eating Cap’n Crunch and she was getting massages?
“She gets child benefit,” Boone carried on. “She’s conned her mom outta at least a couple hundred this month. Your mom outta a couple hundred more. And I don’t know what she’s telling you, but your brother ponied up, and he pretty much always ponies up, and if he doesn’t, it’s because he’s a little short. Then you take up the slack. Even so, she went and reamed his ass, and after he handed over a check for fifteen hundred a week ago, he handed over another one for five hundred a coupla days ago, both of which, when she got them, she went directly to cash, for cash, and they cleared.”
This was…
It was…
“So she’s shaking you down,” Boone continued, “and your brother’s shaking you down so he can cover his own ass, and hers, even though he’s gainfully employed, makes good cake, though I’ve no fuckin’ clue how he manages to stay employed since what doesn’t go to her that he earns or asks for from you goes right to Argonaut Liquor. And you’re racing to her house to get the kids to school so she can sleep in. Because I can guaran-damn-tee you that woman does not have a headache.”
Oh no.
He did not.
“How do you know she called about a migraine?” I asked quietly.
“Ryn,” he bit down on