Page 33 of Shifting Fate
Dallon
“Do we have to?” I whined, pouting out my bottom lip. I laid on my back, upside down, on Tashi’s queen-sized bed, my head hanging off the end as I watched my sister parade around her room in nothing more than a pair of skinny jeans and a sports bra.
She flipped through her closet—which, for the record, had far less clothes than mine—and finally decided on a green babydoll tee with Yoshi on the front. She pulled it over her head, slapped on some deodorant, and called it good. That was Tashi for you.
“Yes, we have to,” she said. “It’s Mom’s birthday. We can’t miss it.”
I kicked one leg over my opposite knee. “You know she’s just gonna bitch, right? It’s all she ever does. ‘Dallon, do you really need to wear that much makeup?’ or ‘Dallon, what in heaven’s name did you do to your hair?’ or even better, ‘Dallon, you look like a hooker in those heels. For pity’s sake, take them off!’” I pitched my voice high and nasally in my best Mom-voice. “Well, I just happen to like these heels, thank you very much.”
Tashi giggled. “Yeah? Well maybe if someone didn’t dress like a cheap whore whenever we go to visit, then maybe she wouldn’t bitch? Hmm?”
I planted a hand over my heart with a gasp. “Ouch. But then she’d start complaining about you, sister dearest, and we couldn’t have that. I’m your big brother, so I gotta take the criticism to save your skanky ass.”
She squealed and tossed a throw pillow at my head. “Slut.”
“Bitch.”
“I love you too,” she singsonged. “Sorry, but we’re going. End of story.” Then she sighed. “We don’t have to stay long, I promise, but we have to make an effort. They’re ourparents,Dal.”
“Not by blood, they aren’t,” I snipped back. “Last I checked, they were blue-blooded human, through-and-through. Our real parents didn’t want us—which is, technically, worse, now that I think about it.”
I’d made peace with that fact a long time ago. According to my records, I was two-and-a-half when my mother dumped me off at the fire station in nothing more than a soiled diaper and a grubby onesie. Talk about Mom-of-the-Year.
I’d been shuffled into the foster system shortly after, but I guess I was just as dramatic as a baby as I was a grown-ass man and, like a dog from the pound, I kept getting returned. Then I met Mom and Dad and the rest was history, but loving parents they were not.
Tashi got lucky—at leasthermother hadn’t wanted to give her up, but she could barely afford the children she already had. Plus, she was a cute kid. All Koreans are cute, if you ask me, so it was a shoe-in that Tashi get adopted right off the bat.
“I guess,” I finally agreed. “At least let me do your makeup.”
“Deal.”
We spent the hour-long drive arguing over what music to listen to. By the time we decided on a mutually-liked band, we were pulling into the drive. Tashi killed the engine and turned in her seat to look at me, and I knew it was coming.
“Yeah, yeah. Behave myself, blah-de-blah-blah.” I waved a hand in the air.
“Two hours, max,” she promised. “I know how twitchy you get.”
“Thanks, Tash.” Two hours seemed like an eternity, but it was better than half the day. We fist-bumped and went inside.
Mom greeted us at the door wearing black slacks and a sequined top which was, ironically, also black. It was “slimming” she said. Wonder what she’d think if she ever found out her kids could shape-shift into big hairy beasts who shed worse than a German shepherd in the summer?
She would have an entire cow.
“There’s my girl,” she crooned, drawing Tashi into a quick embrace. “And Dallon, why are you smiling like that?” She frowned, but I simply laughed and waved it off.
I gave her the obligatory two-second hug. She held me out at arm’s length and looked me up and down, all the way from my knee-high leather boots with a killer heel, to the faux snakeskin leggings and an equally flashy top. Of course, my makeup was impeccable—had to piss them off somehow, right?
“You’re looking…” She paused. “Good. Come in, would you? Jerry has steaks broiling in the oven. You like yours rare, yes?” She eyed me.
I grinned. “Damn straight.”
“Language.”
“Darn straight,” I supplied.
She pursed her lips, then shook her head. Her salt-and-pepper gray hair was styled in short bob that totally didn’t go with her facial features. Dad’s head was shaved. Seemed some things never changed.
We squeezed around the kitchen table that was quite obviously made for two—another reminder that our parents didn’t really make room for us in their lives—and made small-talk until dinner.
