Born to Die - Lisa Jackson [14]
“We’re outta dog food.”
“Then get some.”
“I, uh, don’t have any money.”
“Fabulous.”
“I gotta go. Heidi’s texting me.”
“Jeremy! Wait—” But the phone was suddenly dead in her hand. She hadn’t even had a chance to warn him off Heidi Brewster again. God, she’d hoped that teen romance had died a quick death last year.
Looked like her prayers hadn’t been answered.
But then, that wasn’t a big surprise.
Maybe she’d made a mistake by not moving in with her boyfriend, but she hadn’t thought it would be wise. Just because a man could turn her inside out in the bedroom was no reason to bring him home and slap the name tag STEPFATHER on him. As much as she thought she was in love with him, she’d decided not to go to that next level. Yet.
There was a good chance she was a commitment-o-phobe, or whatever you wanted to call it, but she’d been married twice and that might just be enough.
For a while.
Until her kids were raised.
Or until she was more comfortable with the situation.
You might lose him, that nagging inner voice warned, and she scoffed. Then it wasn’t meant to be.
She stopped at a small convenience store at the next crossroads, bought a small bag of dog food, a gallon of milk, and two Snickers candy bars to stuff into her glove box, along with the pack of Marlboros.
Just in case.
Then she hit the road again.
Twenty minutes later she was walking through the door from the garage of her little cottage. Cisco, her terrier of undeterminable lineage, shot off the couch, sped across the living room floor, and yapping excitedly, began doing pirouettes at her feet.
“Hey, I’m glad to see you, too.” After placing her groceries on the counter, she leaned over, patted Cisco’s scruffy head, scratched his ears, then straightened and walked through the dining area to the living room, where all six feet two inches of her son were sprawled, his feet hanging over the end of her couch. “I’m not so sure I can say the same about you.”
“Nice, Mom,” he said, not bothering to glance up as he stared at the television, where some reality show was playing out.
“Tell me about work.”
“Nothin’ much to tell.”
God, he looked like his father. Dark hair, intense eyes, sharp cheekbones, and two days’ worth of beard stubble darkening a hard, masculine jaw, a darker spot on his chin, where he’d managed to grow a soul patch. “Did you get fired?”
He finally looked up, glaring at her as if she were an idiot. “Just got my hours cut back, that’s all.”
“That’ll make it tough paying the rent or the gas bill.”
He lifted a shoulder. She wanted to spell it all out to him, about the consequences of his slacker lifestyle, but Jeremy had always been a kid who learned by experience rather than example. The cutting off of the gas and the cost of reconnecting would be a good object lesson.
She patted him on the shoulder. “I am glad to see you, you know. I just wish it was that you came over to see me, rather than because you were freezing your butt off at your apartment.”
“Yeah,” he said finally. “I know.”
“I’m going to check on your sister.” Another pat. “Could you please feed Cisco? There’s dog food in the grocery sack.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t move.
“I’m talking about in this century.”
“Very funny,” he said. But he did manage a slow grin, and it was a heart-stopper. Again, just like his father. No wonder Heidi Brewster hadn’t shaken loose.
Jeremy actually climbed to his feet and said, “Come on, runt,” to the dog as Pescoli made her way down the short hallway and rapped on Bianca’s door before stepping inside the mess. Whereas Jeremy’s old bedroom downstairs had posters of basketball players and rock bands, Bianca’s room was a study in all things girl, from a canopy bed that she’d decorated with Christmas lights to a makeup desk and lighted mirror, where at least ten brushes of varying sizes stood in a jar next to baskets of lipstick, eye shadow, and God only knew what else. The walls were a shocking pink, a color she loved.
Bianca was curled on the bed, a silvery duvet tucked around her, a Pepsi One bottle on her nightstand,