Wildcard: Volume One

Then the worst possible thing in the world happens.

“Ryder? Are you okay?” The door opens and Mum walks in. I’m on the verge of releasing, and my fucking mother is standing less than three feet away from me, a look of pure horror on her face.

“Oh God, get out!” I yell.

I reach for the sheet, sending the most excruciating bolt of pain shooting up my back. Poor Eva looks as mortified as I feel, and Mum, well, she’s just standing there like she has glue on her fucking feet.

“Mum!” I roar.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she cries, shielding her face with her hands. She backs out of the room, tripping over her feet as she reaches the door. Catching her balance, she scurries out and slams the door shut, leaving me lying there with my dying erection, nursing my bruised ego.

My mother just caught me getting head from a hooker. Sorry: a masseuse.

This is the most humiliating moment of my life.

Eva covers her mouth and eyes me helplessly, as if she doesn’t know whether to run or finish what she started. Not that there is anything to finish. That ship has well and truly sailed.

That is a ship I will not be catching for a long, long time.

Chapter Eight

It’s been two days since the incident, and Mum still can’t look me in the eye.

She sends every meal up with Hails, avoiding even being in the same room as me wherever possible. Dad hasn’t been around much either, which makes me wonder if she’s told him. I groan, because the only thing worse than Mum seeing what she saw is my father knowing about it.

Mum avoiding me hasn’t gone unnoticed with Hailey either.

“What’s up with Mum?” she asks, dropping the plate on my lap.

I pick at the meatloaf, my face heating up.

“She’s been acting weird for days. Did you guys have a fight or something?”

“No,” I mutter. There is no way in hell I’m going to tell her about this. I’ll never hear the end of it.

“She’s been weird since she came back for her purse the other day when we all went out,” she continues. “So I figured you must have said or done something.”

“Why is it always my fault?” I grumble. I don’t care that I sound like a spoiled five-year-old. “Maybe she’s having a bad week.”

Because walking in on your son mid-blowjob will do that to you.

“Fine. Enjoy your dinner, bro.”

“Hails, wait,” I call out.

She stops and turns around, her hands shoved deep into her pockets of her jacket. “Yeah?” she asks, her expression suspicious.

“Grab my wallet. It’s over on the desk.” I watch as she walks over to the desk and picks it up, throwing it to me. I catch it and pull out a fifty. “Here. Buy yourself something nice.”

She stares at me like I’m crazy. Maybe I am, but I’m also now a third of the way to achieving my three good deeds for Scarlett.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Just take the money before I change my mind,” I growl.

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nbsp; She winces and shoves the bills in her pocket. As she rushes from the room, I can hear her mumble the words “insane” and “freak,” but I don’t care. I’m too focused on trying to figure out what else can I do. My original plan had been to order Mum a big bunch of flowers, but after what she saw on Monday, I didn’t know how to do that without it looking like an apology.