Ready to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Jesus, Mom. Why do you have to be such a damned ruleser?”

“A what?”

“You’ve got too many rules!” He threw his controller on the floor in a fit of disgust, then snagged his phone. “And don’t start with the ‘my house, my rules’ lecture. I’ve heard it before. About a million times!” Grabbing his rifle and texting on his cell with his other hand, he turned and stalked downstairs to his bedroom. She let him go. Their gun closet was right next door, so Pescoli allowed him the dignity of putting his weapon away without her chasing down the steps after him, like a nagging shrew.

She would check later, however. Sturgis, though, slunk down the stairs after him, clearly thinking he was in trouble too.

Pescoli sighed. Unfortunately, all of Jeremy’s arguments hit home. She’d never been a person who played by the rules, but she expected it of her children, and as for jumping off the deep end, true, she had a quick temper, but she tried like hell to keep a rein on it. Lately she hadn’t been doing such a hot job, as Alvarez had so deftly pointed out.

Reminding herself that motherhood wasn’t always easy, she walked to Bianca’s room, rapped with her knuckles on the door only to have it whisper open.

“Hey, Mom,” Bianca said. She was seated at her makeup mirror, polishing her nails with a glittery hot-pink color. Cisco followed Pescoli into the room and whined to jump onto the bed, a feat he’d managed as a younger dog with no problem.

“Okay, you,” Pescoli said, and picked him up to drop him unceremoniously onto the mussed pink duvet and assorted pillows. “What’s up?” she asked her daughter.

“Nothin’.” Bianca stroked a glossy patch onto her right index finger.

“I never could get the hang of that, you know,” Pescoli admitted, sitting on the edge of Bianca’s mattress while Cisco dug frantically at one pillow. The mattress sagged a little under her weight. “Polishing my right hand. The left was a breeze, but the right? No way. Ambidextrous, I am not.”

“Oh, come on, when did you ever polish your nails?” Bianca laughed, meeting her mother’s gaze in the mirror of her small table.

“I did, or tried to, with my sisters, when I was your age or maybe a little younger.”

Gently, Bianca blew across her wet fingernails. “I thought you were all jocks with attitude or something.”

“We were, or at least I was, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to be pretty, or hip or popular.”

“And you thought fingernail polish would do that?” One of her eyebrows arched skeptically.

“I thought it might help.”

“I can’t imagine you ever caring about anything so girlie.”

“It was a phase. Didn’t last long.”

“Did it help make you popular?”

“God, no.” Pescoli laughed. “I didn’t take the time or was too impatient to do it right, and my sisters got sick of having to do my right hand, so I gave up on it.”

“You want to learn?”

Pescoli hesitated and saw the earnest look in Bianca’s big eyes. “Well, sure. Not tonight, though.”

“Too busy.”

“I promised I’d see Santana.”

“And you’re late. Again,” Bianca said. “Wow.”

“Work.”

“Like always.”

“I know, I know, I’m thinking about changing that.”

Again, she elevated a disbelieving brow. “Was that right after hell freezes over?”

“You know, on Christmas morning, the reason I was going to the sheriff’s house was to talk about my options, possibly turn in my resignation.”