His Fire Inside

Collette was clingy from the beginning. We went out every night, at her insistence. She was also a lousy fuck, lying back as if she were bored. I was ready to end things when I got the phone call about Mom. When I told her I needed to come back to Austin because of my mother’s stroke, she threw an ear-splitting tantrum. She’s been calling me ever since. I haven’t answered a single call.

A glance at my watch tells me it’s been an hour since I got here. It’s also close to dinner, at least for Mom. I go through her refrigerator; the meals I have delivered to her are stacking up. Another indication she isn’t doing well on her own. I’m aware she’s spending more time in her room, in bed.

Once again, as it has almost every day since I got the call, guilt hits me hard for not being here when her stroke happened. It’s not as though I haven’t been back in Austin at all in three years. I’ve come back for the festivals and racing. I also spend the weeks of Thanksgiving and Christmas here. On top of that, I asked Mom repeatedly to join me in Monaco and she turned me down every time.

It’s hard to believe she had the stroke—she’s only sixty-two—but it’s a wakeup call for the both of us. While I’m not sure how long I’m staying in Austin, I do know it will be a while. I have not given up on the idea of moving her into my place, only I’m not willing to go against her wishes. For now, having this Olivia stay with Mom is the best option out of the ones I have.

I hear the wheels of the walker seconds before Mom walks into the kitchen. “I’m sorry if I’ve kept you here too long. I guess Patricia worked me out harder than I thought.”

She reaches out for a hug. As I return it, I’m careful to keep my hug gentle, she seems so frail. “Don’t worry about it. I only just finished what I was doing. I am starving though. You hungry? Want to keep me company so I don’t eat alone?”

“Hmm...yes, something to eat sounds good. Are there any of those chicken enchiladas in there?”

“Yes, chicken enchiladas coming up. I’m thinking of this mushroom ravioli thing, is it safe?” These aren’t the strict dietician-developed meals I usually eat. My morning starts with an hour-long workout in the exercise room I added to my office, along with a steam shower. Working out at work keeps me from getting comfortable or overdoing it, as I can get lost in my workouts at home. For Mom, I’m willing to adapt the rest of my day to offset this change by adding another workout this evening in my home gym.

“You know it is. Just like you know it’s not one of my favorites, so thank you for eating it for me. Even though it’s not one of those perfectly prepared meals you usually eat.” Mom knows about the biohacking diet and my workouts and attempts to support them even if at least once every six months she tries to, as she says, make me see sense.

“I remember you weren’t happy with it. I thought I cancelled it on the delivery list. How was your therapy session today?”

“It went well. I’m getting better at holding things heavier than three pounds. From the way Patricia acted you would have thought I power lifted something.”

“I like Patricia. How are you doing with her?”

“Good, I like her too. Very sweet young woman, if a tad pushy.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s a part of her job description. She mentioned she thinks it’s a good idea if you had someone living in instead of Eliza coming in at night. What do you think? Sweet tea?”

I take out Mom’s meal from the toaster oven, put it on a plate and place it in front of her. “Water, please, the tea is keeping me up. I thought about it. I’m not sure. Patricia mentioned the poor girl doesn’t have a home, she goes from house to house working with her clients. Can you imagine that, not having a home to go to? I do have the guest room that never gets used, aside from your old room you only use during festival season.”

My home is off Capital of Texas, hanging off the side of a hill, and is a long drive I’m not up for during the late nights and early mornings of festival season. “Sounds tough, to go from one place to another without having your own place. Maybe you can freshen up the room and help her decorate it, so she feels more comfortable. You had fun redoing the living room, at least with her picking the paint you won’t go through five different shades of it.”

“My son, the comedian. It was only two different shades. Hmm...if she manages to make it through all those hoops and checks of yours, it might be nice to have someone around the house.”

“The background checks are for your safety. I’m not going to apologize for them. We’ll see.”

After dinner we watch her favorite television show. I get a call on one of my clubs that has me leaving earlier than I would like, but Mom understands and gives me a hug as I promise I’ll call tomorrow.

2

Olivia

“I’m telling you, you won’t get a better gig than working for Rourke Vega. The guy adores his mom, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make her happy. He’s paying me twice my normal rate because I was a recommendation by his mom’s doctor. He straight up said he wanted to make it impossible for me to say no. You could set your terms, he won’t blink an eye at anything you ask for. And she’s not even his real mom, she’s his stepmom, but she’s been in his life since he was only five. All the ways he cares about her are adorable, but then there’s the man himself. Good lord, he is as five-alarm-fire hot as they say he is. The first time I met him I wanted to lick his freaking face. I had no idea why.

“The chiseled cheekbones, nose and jaw give him this hard look, but he has that dimple in his chin. And I swear his mouth looks so soft and kissable. I wanted to climb him like the mountain he is. You would be so lucky to get the job.” She does the dreamy sigh thing I have never heard from her in the five years I’ve known her.

I want to laugh but since Patricia, a forty-eight-year-old grandma, never goes gaga over a guy, I’m almost a little worried about how hot she thinks the guy she’s sending me to work for is. Fighting to cover my discomfort, I force a gasp. “Patricia, you slut. Is there any of him left or have you eaten all of him with your eyes?”

“Girl, wait until you meet him. Even you with your eh, eh, when it comes to men, you will go gaga over him.”

“I don’t know. I kind of hate Rourke Vega. I don’t know if I can work for the man. Let alone go gaga over the guy.” I shrug as I lie back against the headboard of the bed.

“What? Why? I never knew you’d met him.”

“I haven’t met him.”

“How can you hate the guy if you’ve never met him?”

With a sigh, I list his sins—yes, I kept count. “On account of the man is almost singlehandedly to blame for making Austin the hipster mecca, changing it from this nice, cool, quirky college town to douche central, with Whole Foods everywhere and Ferraris clogging up Mo-Pac and I-35. The guy owns a Bugatti Veyron and Chiron that he doesn’t even drive, seriously? And the racing in Austin is all him.