Billy & The Beast (Ever After, New York #3) - Eli Easton Page 0,5

this had even been real were the red pressure marks on my forearm. And even those slowly faded away.

Chapter 3

Billy

“For you.”

My mom gasped as I held the rose over her shoulder. She was stirring a pot of tomato soup on the stove when I got home. Turning to me, she put down the wooden spoon and took the rose. She inhaled its scent, closing her eyes. The delight on her face was worth everything.

“Where did you get this? It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” She held it back to look at it and brushed a thumb lightly over the tightly furled inner petals.

“Saw it on my bike ride.”

“Thank you, honey. You’re so thoughtful.” She brushed my bangs out of my eyes, her expression fond.

I surreptitiously studied her as she got a glass for the rose and filled it with water, then set it on the table. She’d dressed—just in yoga pants and a knit shirt, but still a win. The table was set with plates and there were two cheese sandwiches waiting near the stove to be grilled.

“How was your ride? Sit, sit. I didn’t want to start these until you got home.” She turned on the burner for the grilled cheese.

“It was good . . . kind of crazy actually. Um . . . I got a job.”

“What? Where?”

“Working for some guy,” I said breezily. “He lives up on Hillcrest, works at this big, gated estate, and he needs help. I think he’s the caretaker or something.” Do not mention the mask or the threats. Mom wouldn’t have much of a sense of humor about that kind of thing.

“Who is this guy? Is he okay?”

“Oh, yeah, he seems really nice.” I chuckled. “And there’s so much work there. It will basically be full time, and the money is good.”

“That’s great, Billy.” Her eyes softened and her smile was real. But then she looked worried. “Just don’t let him take advantage of you. If he works you too hard, or something doesn’t feel right, you can always quit.”

“I can always quit,” I agreed. Though, yeah, I really couldn’t. Not if I wanted to pay the electricity bill.

She smiled wanly and put the sandwiches in the pan. That was the end of that, I supposed. On her down days, she wasn’t much of a conversationalist.

My dad and mom got divorced when I was five. I guess he couldn’t take it anymore. He lives in California now. I see him on holidays and stuff. I used to visit him for the summer, but the last two summers, mom was too fragile. I couldn’t leave her. And I couldn’t afford it, anyway.

There were years when I was growing up—through middle school and most of high school—where Mom was pretty stable. She had mood swings, and I could always tell if she was “up” or “down,” but she’d been functional—painting, paying bills, taking care of me. It got a lot worse my senior year of high school. I don’t know if it was because she felt threatened by my going off to college and leaving her, or if she’d started menopause, or if her body grew immune to her meds or what. It’s really hard discussing it with her. And her doctor is worthless, as far as I’m concerned.

She brought over the sandwiches and soup and sat down. I was happy to see she’d taken a serving for herself too. Maybe she was feeling better, truly better.

“Hey, I took some photos on my bike ride you might like. I’ll send them to you. Maybe one will inspire you.”

“Maybe.” She forced a smile.

“Did I tell you I talked to Karen at the art gallery a few days ago? They’ve only got two of your paintings left that feature the mountains. Those always go really fast. She said she’d love to have at least a couple more. Remember the one you did with the little white cottage and the pink foxgloves, with the mountains in the background? That thing sold the first day it was in the gallery. People love stuff like that. Maybe you could do another one.”

My mom put down her spoon very carefully. “Billy, I’m an artist. I have to do what inspires me. I can’t knock out twenty of the same little white cottage and mountain paintings just to make money.”

I took another bite of my sandwich to stop myself from talking back. No, I thought bitterly, it would be too hard on her to paint something specifically to make