Page 77 of Filthy Rich

“Like a peeping Tom,” he says, “yes. I have, absolutely, and that’s how I know it was you.” He steps closer, his eyes narrowing. “In my twenty-six years of life, I have never once punched a woman, but that’s about to change if you aren’t out of here by the time I reach the count of ten.”

Mom turns toward me with the most disbelieving look on her face.

“One,” Jake says.

Mom snorts.

“Two.” Jake steps closer.

“You can’t punch me,” she says, spluttering. “I’m—I would charge you with assault, and that would be bad for your image.”

“Three,” Jake says. “I have plenty of money, and I bet my lawyers are better than my girlfriend’s homeless, unjustifiably proud mother’s.” His lips flatten.

“Unjustifiably?” My mom would fixate on that.

Jake’s mouth over-enunciates the word. “Four.”

Mom straightens as if she’s just now wondering whether he’s serious. “I don’t even have pants on.”

“You better hurry and grab them,” I say.

“Five.” Jake smiles. “This is going to be really fun.”

Mom practically leaps out of the room. Thankfully, I hear her rummaging around in my bedroom.

“Six,” Jake shouts.

Mom whimpers.

“Seven,” Jake says, not slowing down.

“Are you really going to hit her?” I ask.

“Do I look like someone who wouldn’t follow through?”

I shake my head slowly.

“Good,” he whispers. Then he raises his voice. “Eight, and tell your daughter to stop trying to distract me.”

Mom shoots out of the room, her eyes wide, but at least she’s wearing pants. Praise be. “I can’t find my purse.” She’s looking around frantically.

“Nine.”

Mom’s hands are shaking, and I should hate this, but for some reason, it makes me want to laugh. He’s really made Mom think he’ll hit her. “I’m—Tavie, do you see my purse?”

I hand it to her, and I point at the door.

“Ten.” Jake lunges at my mother, and she shoots out the door, stumbling over the threshold. She turns slowly, and rights herself. “Now that I’m outside of the house, let me tell you what I think about?—”

I slam the door in her face.

Jake’s smile grows until he’s beaming. “You slammed it.” He steps toward me. “So you’re not mad?”

I shrug. “She’ll be back. She’s like a cockroach.”

He laughs. “I can sense that.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “She isn’t perfect, but she’s really not that bad. Plenty of other mothers were worse.”

---