Page 101 of Whiskey Throttle
BABS
Sunday stretches into Wednesday, and still, nothing has happened. Not a single word from Dominic despite the multitude of voicemails I’ve left and text messages I’ve sent. His silence is his trademark. He only calls when he needs something. That’s dwindled to never now.
It’s always me reaching out to him. That has been the case for years now. I hate it. Yet I respect his need for space and independence. I needed to know if we would have any sort of relationship.
I still hold out hope that Violette will come back home. One day, anyway. But sitting in this large estate with more rooms than a boutique hotel, I’m lonely and a bit aimless. All things I shared with Hollister.
In the complete silence of my son, Hollister has more than made up for it with a litany of missed calls that have turned into emotional voicemails and long text messages full of his regrets, guilt, and glimmers of hope.
I listen to them all. Read every word. My vision usually blurs, and my gut swims with guilt for being so selfish. If Hollister were older and not my son’s best friend, I’d return his calls. Not let the silence grow like an unwanted weed in a beautiful garden.
But neither of those things is reality, so I relisten and reread, cherishing every moment we shared. When I was free and open to thinking about myself. To be in the moment, living life to its fullest. But now, I deserve the silence and the sadness. Putting one young man over another.
Making the wrong choice out of selfish need and desire. I broke the boy I swore to protect by falling for someone who could never be with me.
My tea grows cold beside me. The open book in my lap has been on the same page for the last several minutes as my thoughts drift. The sun hangs low in the sky. Casting golden slats through the plantation shutters across the hand-painted silk wallpaper. The clock on the mantle chimes softly in the quiet room until a different sound interrupts it.
A rumble.
Deep and familiar. An engine growls up the street, revving louder as it gets closer. Intentionally obnoxious. The rumble grows louder. Hope springs into my chest. Unable to remember the last time, Dominic was at my home.
My heart pounds, and the ache in my heart loosens a fraction. I set the book next to my tea, stand, and walk to the window. The silk curtains are cool against my fingers as I pull them back, revealing the sprawling front lawn. The black motorcycle roars past the front gate and up the driveway, the rider hidden behind a tinted helmet visor. But I know it’s him.
Then another rider on a red bike. The rumbling engine turns into a duel of vibrations felt through the windows of my home.
My breath stops.
Hollister is here.
Both of them are here. I’m scared and nervous. Why are they here? Why are they together? Will this be another confrontation like the one at the hospital?
I can’t keep them apart like their friends did. Of course, I have the staff to keep me safe, but who will protect them from each other? Swirling worries keep my excitement suppressed. My gaze tracks them as they take off their helmets, leaving them with their bikes. I study every motion and action, but with their backs to me as they talk, I can’t tell much.
My heart is pounding so hard that my hand covers my chest. Dragging in several calming breaths and waiting in anticipation. If Dominic came alone, I wouldn’t be as concerned. But the two of them together are explosive. They turn toward the house, eating up the stamped concrete with long strides. I move back from the window, out of view, to collect myself.
The doorbell I expect to chime doesn’t. Instead, he stomps through the front door with a casualness that speaks to him living here. As if he feels welcome and entitled enough to come in and not wait for the staff to open the door for him. It’s a small action. Probably insignificant to him, yet it means a lot to me. He views my home as his. Something he’s never done before.
“Mom?”
Mom.
Not mother.
Not Babs when in front of others. No, this time, he said Mom. I heard it, and everything about this is giving me hope, which will break my heart if this goes the same way as it did on Sunday. I can’t make out the words of my staff member, but his low murmur precedes the heavy footsteps stomping my way. It’s the best sound I’ve heard in years. I turn toward them, and when they appear, my smile falls.
“Oh no.”
The hand at my chest moves to my throat. Fingers twisting with my pearls. Hollister’s gaze tracks my movement, and he frowns. His necklace is tucked away with my memories of this weekend, not to see the light of day for a long time.
“What happened? Was there another accident?”
They step further into the room, shifting the energy instantly. Light and dark. Grumpy and dolden. The dichotomy between the two is vast. Night and day.
Dominic’s eyes scan the space like a security sweep. Memorizing the position of the windows, the chairs, and the exits. It’s not just a habit. It’s defense. Survival. He doesn’t look at me yet.
Hollister does.
His gaze collides with mine, brimming with emotion so unfiltered it cuts deep. He’s holding back and standing behind Dominic like a silent wall of remorse and restraint. His hands curled into fists. Like he’s afraid to breathe the wrong way. Afraid to speak before he’s allowed.
