Page 47 of Ravaged
I hold up my hands, warding off the “You’re not too old to get told off” lecture that’s 2.3 seconds away. “I’m asking just in case I need to scrape up some bail money.”
She snorts, shifting her attention back to whatever she’s cooking. “I’m sure you can swing it.”
“What’re you cooking?” I cross over to her, peeping over her shoulder into the pot.
“Vegetable stew.”
“Is this a bad time to mention that vegetable stew usually doesn’t include chicken?” I jerk my chin toward the package of chicken sitting on the counter next to the stove.
“Is this a bad time to tell you to mind your business?”
“Nope.”
“Didn’t think so.” She snickers. “How’s the leg?”
It must’ve been killing her to wait this long to ask about it. Knowing her, she probably wanted to pounce on me about it as soon as she opened the door. The first week after my injury, I could barely get her out of my house. Don’t get me wrong. I adore my mother. But having her trying to ice and wrap my upper thigh so close to my dick hadn’t been a happy experience.
“Almost healed. Hopefully, I should be back playing in another two weeks.”
She side-eyes me. “Is that what your physical therapist says, or is that what you’re saying?”
Sighing, I lean a shoulder against the refrigerator. “Of course, he has to clear me, but two weeks.”
“I’m happy for you, Jordy.” She reaches over and squeezes my bicep. “I know you’ve been worried, and I’ve hated to see you like that. I’ll be there for your first game back.”
“Mom, you’re there for every home game,” I remind her, proud of that fact. She hasn’t missed a professional home game of mine since I started in the league.
“But even if it’s an away game, I’ll be there. That’s a promise. I’ve already given Laura a heads-up that she might have to find someone to cover my shifts if I need to fly to Boston at the drop of a hat on a Thursday or Saturday.”
It still amazes me that even though she lives in a huge McMansion in Castle Pines and I cover most of her expenses, Mom still insists on going to work. It’s my honor and pleasure to provide for her when she’s sacrificed over and over again for me. Yet she clocks in at that retail store in downtown Denver four to five days a week. I get it. She’s spent too many years being independent and busy, and rattling around doing nothing wouldn’t sit well with her.
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” I bend down and brush a kiss over her cheek. “But you called me over here for a reason, yeah? Not just to see the pretty face you gave me?”
Truthfully, I’m a replica of my father, although she did share her eyes with me. Another reason I love and will do anything for her. I was—am—a living reminder of the man she once loved who abandoned her with a three-year-old and never looked back. Yet she never punished me for that reminder. Never took her pain, her bitterness, out on me. She’s only loved me.
After twisting the burner to low, she covers the pot with a lid and turns to me. There’s no trace of humor in her eyes and zero sign of her customary wry smile. Dread drops into my chest like a stone, lodging there.
“What’s wrong?”
“Why don’t we go sit down?” She waves a hand toward the oak kitchen table and chairs, but I resist, shaking my head. Not only do I want her to just say it—stop prolonging the suspense—but this unease has my feet glued to the floor. “Jordan ...”
“Mom, just say it,” I rasp. “Is it Aunt Maggie? Aunt Delilah? Are they sick? Is that why they’re coming over?”
She flinches, pales. “God, no! No, Jordan.” Grasping my hand, she squeezes. “They’re fine. Your cousins, the family—everyone’s fine. I just have some ... news that I think you should sit down for. It’s probably going to come as a shock.”
“Shit, okay. That’s good.” The boulder pressing against my sternum shifts a little, and I can breathe a little easier. A little. Because that cautious watchfulness still hasn’t disappeared from Mom’s expression. “Christ, Mom, just tell me.”
“Watch your mouth,” she admonishes, but it lacks heat. “Fine. God, I don’t know where to start.”
She stalks over to the wooden butcher-block island in the middle of the kitchen and flattens her palms on it, staring down at the top. I wrangle the urge to press her, to growl at her to just say whatever it is. One, I’d never disrespect her. Two, it wouldn’t do me any good. Grace Ransom doesn’t do anything until she’s damn good and ready.
Seconds later, she lifts her head and meets my gaze.
“Your father called me.”
Ice stretches through me like frost spreading and crackling over a windshield. I’m cold. So fucking cold. Mom didn’t need to worry about me having to sit down. I can’t move.
At least, my body can’t.
