Page 73 of Compassion

“How about I get dinner started?” Jaye beats me to the punch of pulling my pants and boxers back up. “Feed you something tastier than cock?”

“Is there anything tastier than your cock?” she salaciously flirts, stealing a stroke over my now in place sweats.

“You,” I hungrily retort and drift my fingers away from the desk to graze her clothes-covered pussy. “In fact, why don’t I havemy dinnerwhile you decide what you want for yours?”

The mixture of a moan and whimper is promptly muffled out by my mouth latching itself back onto hers.

If you’ll excuse me. I have a little unfinished business to get through before we inevitably cave and order delivery. Huh. Maybe we’ll play that game where I see how many times, I can make her come on the stairs while waiting for it to get here. She really loves that one. And I’m grateful as fuck that I’m the only man she’ll ever play it with.

Chapter 16

Jaye

“Isn’t Daffy just as cute as a button?” Mom shoves her cellphone across the table my direction. “Just look at how precious she is with that big bow on her head.”

Is that big ass red thing to distract us from the fact she looks like a baby Elmer Fudd or that her nickname is almost as bad as her actual name, Daffodil. You heard me correct. She’s named after a flower while her mother is named after a color. Vyolet. Oh, the dad? Cedar. And the grandmother, who is in my mother’s cooking club? Ruby. Nope. Not making this shit up. Although, part of me wishes I was. I’m struggling with character names for my book.

“I can’t wait to have grandkids,” she coos, pulling the device back to her to stare at it further. “And to be the one to show offtheirpictures at cooking club.”

Yes. Cooking club. She’s not really the type to play Bridge – she prefers Spades – or knitting – needs her hands nimble and uninjured for surgery – however, her, Chris’s mother, Caroline, and a few other women they’ve collected from other social events, started their own cooking club. One woman hosts and cooks, the others eat and take the recipes they love. Always changing. It happens about once a month, and they pick the monthly type of cuisine out of a cookie jar. Yes. An actual cookie jar meant for storing cookies not paper. Have I gone? I actively try to find every excuse in the book tonotgo. You think my mom’s bad without an audience? Get her in front of those Golden Girls inspired personalities and suddenly, she’s one thick mustache away from becoming Belle’s father from Beauty & The Beast, open to the idea of letting me live locked away with a werewolf man for all of eternity as long as it means she gets grandkids. What? Of course, I know that wasn’t exactly how the story went. I was being dramatic for entertainment’s sake. No reason we both have to be bored to tears listening to stories about kids I’ll probably only see once a year at guilt-trip forced functions.

“Ruby mentioned that Vyolet and Cedar were looking into the private academy where you work yet couldn’t even get on the schedule for an appointment to tour it for four months,” Mom states in what can only be labeled as disbelief. “I didn’t realize your school was so prestigious.”

How could she miss that information that I’ve given to her every time we have an argument about what I do for a living?

“Do you think you could possibly get them in sooner?” She optimistically asks.

Picking out the green onions from the teriyaki chicken bowl she learned at club this week is done at the same time I answer, “No.”

“Why not?”

All of sudden, Dad’s bowl slides across the table to crash into mine. When I glance up in confusion, he points with his fork to relocate the little green irritants into his food rather than the tiny pile I started on my napkin.

“Because I don’t have that kind of pull, Mom.” I slowly begin to drop the round pieces into their new home. “And besides, Presley runs shit pretty fairly as opposed to favoritism among families, so if there’s no room on the schedule for a few months, that really means there’s no room on the schedule, not that she’s using it like a power play. There’s a reason some people start trying to get their kid enrolled before they’re even pregnant. Employees are the only exception to that and even then, you’re notguaranteeda spot, just more likely if you’re open to signing a longer employment contract.”

The huff that comes out of her is not only loud but aggressive. “Whatare you doing?”

She receives a questioning glance from me.

“With your food, Jaye.”

“Removing the green onions.”

“I can see that,” she snips in a snarky fashion and picks up her wine glass. “Why?”

“I don’t like them.”

“That’s new,” my mother insists on a small sip.

“It’s not.” Resuming clearing away the last two pieces is followed by me announcing, “I’ve never liked green onions or chives.”

Dad pulls his bowl back to himself. “I fucking love ‘em.”

He’s offered a smile that’s unfortunately cut short by a loud sigh from his wife. “If you don’t like them, why have you always eaten them?”

Valid question.

And for the first time I can recall, I’m okay being honest.

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