Page 23 of Over You
Ricky rolled his eyes so hard his entire head followed suit.
I tried to replay the events from yesterday, but the last thing I could recall was running out of the massage room. Before that, it had been a typical day of bullshit, aside from the fact that a woman who claimed to be my mother had called my personal phone.
I tapped a finger on my knee. “Oh. And from now on, you need to ask me before handing out my number to women claiming to be my mom.”
He leaned over the steering wheel, checking for traffic before he floored the accelerator and pulled onto the highway. “I thought I was doing you a favor.”
“A favor.” I snorted.
Ricky Swathe only did things that benefited his bottom line. I knew exactly why he had done it. The headline,Spencer Hailstorm Reunited with Long-Lost Motherwould do wonders for sales. Up the interviews. Blah-fucking-blah. That woman had called, and all he heard was the ca-ching of cash flow, not giving a crap how it would flare up my abandonment issues. “Yeah. That was no favor.”
“Come on, Spencer. She sounded like a nice lady.”
I focused my attention on the palm trees whizzing by. “Yeah. Real nice leaving a baby in a truckstop bathroom.”
“People screw up. Everyone deserves a second chance.” He laughed and turned on his blinker. “Or three or four.Youshould know that.”
My head whipped around. I shot what felt like an I-want-to-stab-you-in-the-face glare at him. “How about you just worry about the music, and I’ll worry about my life.”
The engine revved when he merged onto the interstate. “Well, buddy.” He reached over the console to place a hand on my shoulder, his sight aimed at the road. “Those two are one and the same, now aren’t they?”
Ricky droppedme at the front of my house, warning me the label could drop me if I didn’t get my act together. They could. But they wouldn’t due to that whole cut off your nose to spite your face bullshit. And besides, the guys at Deviant Fault would be chomping at the bit if Devil’s Side let me go.
The air-conditioned air hit my face like a gale-force wind. My footfalls echoed into the ceiling as I crossed the windowed room that housed my Porsche and Lamborghinis.
Like clockwork, I snagged a bottle of liquor when I passed the bar, not even bothering to read the label before I uncorked it on my way to the living room. Turned out, it was aged whiskey when I placed it to my dry lips.
I fell onto the couch, cradling the drink while telling myself this was better than doing a line. Then, out of habit, I dialed my voicemail, listening to saved messages from Georgia:
March 2nd.Beep. “Hey, babe. It’s me. Just calling to tell you, I love you.”
April 5th.Beep. “I loooove you. Miss you. Can’t wait to see you.”
May, 17th.“Spence, you won’t believe what I just saw. Oh my god. Where are you? Call me back!”
I played through every single one, and then I came to the one that twisted my insides.
June 22nd.“I just realized tomorrow would have been my due date. Can you come home?”
June 23rdhad been the breaking point in my life. In her life. In our lives. And dammit, every time I allowed myself to think about it, another piece of me died.
The blue haze of the fading dusk eventually morphed into nightfall, shrouding the living room in darkness. The bottle of liquor ended up empty. I went in search of something else to numb the pain of memories, and then I passed out on the couch, knowing that while seventy-five percent of the population knew my name, at the end of the day, when I needed someone, I was alone.
_____
Two daysafter I streaked down Rodeo drive, I sat in first class on flight DL85 waiting to take off to London. The jet engines whirred to life, buzzing and humming while passengers ambled through, intermittently bumping into my chair.
Leo and Nash sat in pods on either side of me. Sunglasses in place and drinks in hand. Well, Leo had opted for green tea. . .
Nash leaned over the plastic divider between our seats. “That’s a MILF.” He swatted the stupid manbun the label insisted I wear. “Check her out, dude.”
I gave the woman with an hourglass figure a fleeting glance. “Yeah, man. Total MILF.”
Nash frowned. His brown eyebrows pinched together in a look of constipation or confusion—the two had to be one and the same. “Have you ever wondered if you’ve accidentally screwed your mom?”
“What?” My lip curled at the disgusting thought. “No. You’re sick as shit.”
“Hey. Neither one of us knows who our moms are. It could happen.”
