Truth Be Told (Blackbridge Security 4)

“He started it.”

“And what did I tell you?”

“You really think I can just walk away when some asshole disrespects me like that?”

“One,” I hiss. “Watch your language. Two, walking away is better than getting suspended once again. I don’t know how you’ve managed to stay out of the alternative school this year, but I don’t imagine you’re going to get any more chances.”

“Respect is all that’s important at school. You think things are bad now? If I walked away after he insulted me, everyone would be on my a—butt. That means even more fights.”

I’ve heard this argument more than once. His father, a man I refuse to think about, said the very same thing to me after knocking some guy out for smacking me on the ass at a football game. He swore that if he didn’t, it gave all the other jerks at school permission to put their hands on me. What I thought was chivalrous—what I awarded with my very first oral experience—isn’t as cute now that my own son is behaving the same way.

I’d like anyone who believes in nature over nurture to spend a few minutes with this child. He’s never laid eyes on his dad, yet he’s a mirror image of the man.

“You can’t get an education by being suspended all the time,” I argue. “The mature thing to do is walk away.”

He folds his long arms over his chest, a huff leaving his mouth as he stares out the window.

My throat clogs with emotion. I wanted better for him, but that life never came to fruition. Having a kid a month before my nineteenth birthday wasn’t my plan, but I know I wouldn’t change a thing. I’ve never regretted my son. Not even now when he has the potential to give me gray hair before I turn thirty-two.

We’ve had this conversation numerous times over the last couple of years – more often since returning to Houston to help take care of my mother. What started as mild anger at being pulled from his friends and school in Dallas has transformed into his hatred of everyone, including me.

I’ve been accused of ruining his life more than once, and last week, he told me he hated me. He’s all anger and hostility, and it bothered me more than I’ll ever admit until I heard him crying a few weeks ago. He wants to be strong, feels the need to be the man of the family, but it’s impossible at his age.

I wanted to slip into his room and hold him the way I did when he was younger, but I knew it wouldn’t be met with the open arms it once was. Instead, I slipped off to my own room and cried myself to sleep. Things are broken in my life, in our relationship, and I have no idea how to fix them.

“You’re grounded for two weeks,” I tell him, not having to wait long for the explosion.

“What? No way!”

Ignoring his outburst as much as I can, I park the car in front of my work and climb out. Thankfully, it’s payday. The last check stretched until three days ago, and we’re in desperate need of groceries.

When I realize he hasn’t climbed out of the car, I turn back and glare at him. Some may think I’m a helicopter parent, but bad things happen in the blink of an eye around here, and I’ll be damned if my child becomes just another statistic.

Chills rush over my skin, a perceived threat making me antsy as he climbs out of the car and walks toward me.

I’ve never once thought about wishing this stubborn boy away but wanting a quiet beach vacation is always at the forefront of my mind.

***

“I’ll get the rest,” Alex says as I turn from the kitchen counter to head back out to the car.

I work on unpacking the groceries, frowning as I place canned goods next to the meager amounts left from the last shopping trip.

The kid is helpful around the house, taking out the trash and often making easy dinners for himself and Mom when I have to work, but it’s like the child doesn’t understand that I’m missing out on paid hours each and every time I have to leave work to pick him up from school because he’s gotten into trouble.

At the rate we’re going, I’m going to have to find a second job, and that means leaving him alone even more.

Alex drops off another load of groceries on the kitchen table before stomping back out to the car.

“What’s his problem?”

I turn, giving my mother a weak smile as she wheels herself into the kitchen.

She doesn’t make it far, the size of her wheelchair compared to the tiny kitchen, making it impossible for her to even get to the sink.

“He’s grounded.”

“For sneaking out again or trouble at school?”