Firsthand, actually. Have the ankle to prove it.”
“Anyway, he wants to speak to you,” she says.
“No, that’s . . .”
“Hello,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Hello,” I reply.
He exhales heavily, and I get a vision of Claire standing over him, making him do this. “I’m sorry. I was out of line this afternoon,” he says. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“I could have you charged with assault,” I reply.
He stays silent.
“I’m just your mother’s friend from work. You jumped to the wrong conclusion. It was completely out of line.”
No answer.
“Anything else?” I snap in frustration.
“Nope.”
“So that’s your apology?” I frown.
“Yep.”
“Is your mother there making you call me?”
“Yep.”
“Are you really sorry?”
“No.”
I narrow my eyes . . . what I really want to blurt out is I screwed your mother every which way, and she fucking loved every inch of my cock, you little shit. But I won’t. I’ll be the adult here.
“Do you want to speak to Mom again?” he asks.
I frown as I contemplate the question, and I close my eyes in regret. Eventually I reply, “No, that’s okay. Thanks for calling.” I hang up.
I stare at the phone in my hands for a moment.
I get a vision of Claire on the other end. Did she want to speak to me?
My mind goes over how much she has on her plate: work, financial difficulties—and that’s aside from bringing up on her own three boys who have obvious troubles.
I feel for her.
I throw my phone onto the couch and drag myself up. I put my foot down to test it, and a shooting pain sears through me.
Fuck’s sake, stupid kid.
It’s eleven o’clock the next morning when I hobble in to work on crutches.
Jameson is standing in reception. His face falls when he sees me, and he follows me into my office. “What happened to you?”
“Don’t ask.” I fall into my seat, annoyed.
“What have you done?”
“Torn ligaments. Pulled a piece of bone off when it snapped.”
He winces. “Ouch. How did you do that?”
I drag my hand down my face. “A kid beat me up with underpants.”
“He what?”
I smile and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I went to the twilight zone yesterday, Jameson.”
“How so?”
“Let me set the tone of the kind of people I’m dealing with here.”
He frowns in question.
“They have a cat called Muff,” I say.
He stares at me flatly.
“What kind of deranged, sick, fucked-up, twisted person calls a family pussy . . . Muff?”
“What are you talking about?” He frowns.
“So I met this chick at the conference in France.” I exhale heavily. “She was perfect.”
He rolls his eyes. “Here we go,” he mutters dryly.
“Ticked boxes that I didn’t even know existed. Smart and funny. Hot as fuck.” I turn my computer on. “Small problem, though—she has three kids.”
He winces.
“So we get back here. She tells me she’s ending it because of her kids. Saying that we come from different worlds, blah, blah, blah.” I roll my eyes.
Jameson smiles and takes a seat at my desk, his interest piqued.
“I don’t believe her reasoning, so I followed her home from work yesterday.”
“What? You followed her home?” He frowns.
I shrug. “Little bit. Well, Sammia found her address, actually. Anyway, I get to her house. It’s like a junkyard; there’s shit everywhere.” I wave my hands around as I try to explain the enormity of the mess. “Shoes and bikes and fuck . . . everything under the sun.”
He frowns as he listens intently.
“So her kid comes rushing out, but he isn’t a kid.” My eyes widen. “He’s a fucking man-child.” I hold my hands up to show him how tall. “He starts whipping me with a pair of underpants that I left in her suitcase.”
Jameson’s eyes widen, and he smiles.
“So I step back in shock, tread on a skateboard, and go flying down the stairs.”
Jameson chuckles.
“Only to have that crazy motherfucking kid jump on me and try to shove my own underpants in my mouth.”
Jameson tips his head back and laughs out loud.
“There’s more,” I stammer. “That’s not even the worst part.”
Jameson is laughing hard now.
“They take me inside. She sends that child to his room, and then she goes to get ice, and then another kid comes out.” I picture his face, and my eyes widen. “This kid . . . is fucking evil, man, I’m telling you.”
“What’s his name?”
I try to remember it. “Same as that nerdy wizard kid . . . the one with glasses.” I click my fingers as I try to think.
“Who? Harry Potter?”
“Yes, that’s it. His