Prologue
Houston, Texas 1985
A high-pitched wail woke him out of a dead sleep. Sebastian sat up abruptly, his Spiderman pajamas tangling with the bed linens. One at a time his eyes cracked open to find the room cloaked in absolute black. Someone had turned off his nightlight. That was the first sign that something was wrong.
All at once his heart was hammering inside his chest so hard it hurt, so fast butterflies filled his stomach. It didn’t take long for his fertile imagination to run wild. Out of the darkness he thought he saw a claw reach out for him and his palms began to sweat. Gripping the sheet even tighter, he pulled it up to his chin.
That old familiar feeling was back. Loneliness. He was always alone, with no one to chase the monsters away for him. Sebastian knew what he had to do then, what he always did when he got scared.
He became Spiderman.
Spiders were the coolest. Spiders were small enough to hide, and some of them were even dangerous. Mr. Miller, his third grade teacher, said that the venom of a black widow spider is fifteen times stronger than that of a rattle snake. They were real things. Unlike Superman, who was fake ‘cause Sebastian never met any man that was nice, and strong, and liked kids.
A second more pronounced wail interrupted the silence. His mother’s voice…he recognized it instantly. Without a second thought to those monsters, Sebastian jumped out of bed. Small, bare feet carried him as fast as they could down the endless hallway, headed straight for the shaft of light that filtered onto the carpet. Once he reached the edge, though, they stopped abruptly. They stopped because Sebastian was more scared of what awaited him inside that room than he was of the monsters lurking in the dark.
Spiderman doesn’t get scared, he reminded himself. Spiderman doesn’t need anyone. Gathering every drop of courage he possessed, Sebastian slowly stepped into the doorway.
Diana Horn lay face down on her sprawling California king sized bed, small mewling sounds and hiccups emanating from her prone body. Her vintage, red Halston dress was ripped and her long, champagne blonde hair spilled over the side of the mattress in soft waves. Sebastian’s stomach clenched painfully.
“Momma?” he called out, his voice barely audible.
At the sound of a whisper thin voice, Diana slowly lifted her face off the mattress. If there was ever a hot mess it was this woman. Tracks of tears melted down her face, stained black from the heavy eye make-up she’d worn that evening. Her lipstick was bleeding right off the edge of lips worthy of the front cover of Vogue magazine.
A boy stood before her, shifting nervously from foot to foot. She stared blankly at him while her alcohol fogged mind struggled to identify the child. As recognition hit her, so did a fresh set of tears.
“Scout? What are you doin’ up, baby?” she slurred, the words tripping over her sloppy tongue.
“I heard you cryin’.”
Reaching out, she clasped Sebastian’s wrist and pulled him closer, close enough that Sebastian could smell the familiar stench of wine on her breath, coming off of her skin and her pretty hair.
“My beautiful baby boy,” she mewled and batted her fake eyelashes. Another round of sobs followed.
“Are you okay?”
With the heel of her hand, Diana swiped at the dampness on her cheeks, the makeup smearing across her face. “Oh baby, what does that even mean?” Her son returned a confused scowl. “I’m fine,” she said, waving a hand at him dismissively.
“I gotta go back to bed, or Santa won’t come tonight,” Sebastian mumbled.
“Santa? You still believe in that old fool,” she chuckled, the sound ringing of bitterness. “There’s no Santa. He’s not real. Like love––” she scoffed. “That ‘aint real either, baby.”
Clumsily, she dragged herself into a sitting position and grabbed the bottle of Haute Brion Blanc off the nightstand. For a moment, solemn amber eyes made her pause, though the moment passed just as quickly. Then, after giving her son a weak smile that didn’t reach her eyes, she tipped the bottle up to her full lips and took a long, slow gulp.
Sebastian’s wide, worried gaze followed the track of wine that dribbled out of the corner of her mouth and snaked down her chin.
“Promise me something, Scout,” she pleaded, her long red nails digging into the boy’s slim shoulder. “Promise me you won’t ever love nobody but me, ‘kay, baby?” Her suddenly determined gaze bored into Sebastian’s.
“Okay,” he replied in a small voice.
Pacified, a flimsy smile spread across her face. “I knew I could count on you.”
Clutching the bottle of wine, Diana rose off the bed and staggered around precariously on her St. Laurent heels. Back and forth she swayed, her coltish legs as weak as her character. In an attempt to reach the back zipper of her dress she jerked dangerously forward.