Controlled Burn (Blackbridge Security 8)

I’m sure the teacher is a reasonable woman, and I want to remind him that picking fights with his peers has probably more to do with the fact that the teacher isn’t always excited to see him, but that reasoning would be lost on him.

“Did you leave it out of your backpack after you were done with your homework?”

His eyes snap to mine. I’ve seen that look so many times before, only I thought I got rid of the problem when Ty left. He’s the only man, before now, that could look at me in a way that made me want to clench my teeth until my jaw hurt.

“Do not look at me like that. Did you?”

“I told you! You’re siding with him!”

In a rage, Kason picks up the television remote and hurls it across the room. I watch the thing bounce off the drywall, denting it, before crashing to the floor.

Kason’s eyes widen, and I see the instant remorse, but it’s a little too late.

“I’ve told you more than once to put things back up after you’re done with them,” I say calmly even though I feel anything but calm. “I was already going to have to replace your math book. Now I’m going to have to pay for the wall to be repaired, and possibly the remote now that you’ve acted this way.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, his head hanging lower as his shoulders slump.

“No YouTube for the next three days.”

“What?” he snaps, his eyes widening as if this punishment is the end of the world. “I said I was sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix the wall, Kason. You’ve got to think before you react like that. Now go put your school things away and send Knox in here.”

Sulkily, Kason stands from the couch, and although I know he’s livid about losing YouTube, he doesn’t say a word. He’s not a dumb kid. He knows giving me any more attitude will only lead to him losing what he loves most for longer. He learned that lesson two weeks ago when he threw a similar fit.

“Momma?” Knox says, his eyes already filling with tears as he approaches.

“You colored in Kason’s math book?”

“I didn’t have any paper, and you were busy cooking dinner.”

And just like his father, I’m being gaslit by a five-year-old.

“You know better, and you also know that sometimes you have to wait to get what you want. Bring me your crayons.”

He scurries away, already crying by the time he makes it to the bedroom. I don’t have to wait long. Knox hates being in trouble.

When he’s on his way back to me, I speak up. “If you bring me that box again with the blue crayon missing, you’re going to be in more trouble.”

He stops in his tracks, his chin wobbling even more as he turns back around, disappearing into the bedroom before returning.

I learned my lesson a long time ago about how sneaky kids can be.

“This is all of them?” I ask as he hands the box over.

“Even the blue ones,” he whispers, his little heart broken over losing what he loves the most. “How long?”

“Three days,” I tell him, knowing that’s probably too long of a punishment for his age, but I’d never hear the end of it if he got his prized possession back before his brother’s punishment was over. Sometimes the punishment doesn’t meet the crime, but in the end, it’s better for the greater good.

The bickering doesn’t end as I carry the crayon box to the kitchen, depositing it on top of the fridge before going back to cooking dinner. At least the yelling and fighting is at a tolerable level.

I’m thinking back, trying to remember if Ezra and I fought like that, but I can’t recall a single incident. Maybe it’s because he’s ten years older, and by the time I was old enough to be annoying, he was already hanging out at his friends’ houses. He avoided home as much as I wanted to back then. I think that’s why he seems less damaged than I feel most days. He wasn’t around to witness Mom’s manic behaviors, and he was happy she wasn’t bitching when she was down and could hardly get out of bed.

“I don’t know how you can eat that stuff,” Ezra mutters as he walks in. It’s clear his mood is no better than it was a few days ago.

“This?” I say, stirring cut up hotdogs into the mac and cheese I just finished. “This is an excellent meal.”

Ezra makes a gagging noise, and it irritates me more than it should.

“The kids are still up,” I tell him, knowing he’s been purposely staying away most evenings until it’s past their bedtime. He’s trying to avoid the chaos that goes along with having three kids confined to a small space. I don’t blame the man. He never wanted kids in the first place, and although he loves his niece and nephews, they’re a lot to handle on a daily basis.