“Yep.”
“Are you really sorry?”
“No.”
I narrow my eyes . . . what I really want to blurt out is I screwed your mother every which way, and she fucking loved every inch of my cock, you little shit. But I won’t. I’ll be the adult here.
“Do you want to speak to Mom again?” he asks.
I frown as I contemplate the question, and I close my eyes in regret. Eventually I reply, “No, that’s okay. Thanks for calling.” I hang up.
I stare at the phone in my hands for a moment.
I get a vision of Claire on the other end. Did she want to speak to me?
My mind goes over how much she has on her plate: work, financial difficulties—and that’s aside from bringing up on her own three boys who have obvious troubles.
I feel for her.
I throw my phone onto the couch and drag myself up. I put my foot down to test it, and a shooting pain sears through me.
Fuck’s sake, stupid kid.
It’s eleven o’clock the next morning when I hobble in to work on crutches.
Jameson is standing in reception. His face falls when he sees me, and he follows me into my office. “What happened to you?”
“Don’t ask.” I fall into my seat, annoyed.
“What have you done?”
“Torn ligaments. Pulled a piece of bone off when it snapped.”
He winces. “Ouch. How did you do that?”
I drag my hand down my face. “A kid beat me up with underpants.”
“He what?”
I smile and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I went to the twilight zone yesterday, Jameson.”
“How so?”
“Let me set the tone of the kind of people I’m dealing with here.”
He frowns in question.
“They have a cat called Muff,” I say.
He stares at me flatly.
“What kind of deranged, sick, fucked-up, twisted person calls a family pussy . . . Muff?”
“What are you talking about?” He frowns.
“So I met this chick at the conference in France.” I exhale heavily. “She was perfect.”
He rolls his eyes. “Here we go,” he mutters dryly.