Last Call (7 page)

“Jason,” I say with wavering breaths.

“Mariah.”

M
ariah

“
M
ommy!” Royce says as he comes running through the apartment.

I am sitting on the couch, nursing a pretty serious headache and sore body. I’ve been lying around all morning, trying to shake the headache and the other ache Jason left inside my body. I keep replaying the night over and over in my mind. The feel of his large hands clasping onto my hips, his body inside mine, and the bold way he commanded me to succumb to him. It feels like it was all a dream, yet I can still smell his cologne on my skin. I refused to shower. I want to live in Saturday night for as long as I can.

Shelby’s advice right before I walked to him is probably the best I’ve ever received. I did make it a night I will never forget, and turning twenty-six will top any other birthday I could ever have.

The reminiscing moment doesn’t last long as a little body flies at me. It’s all I can do to brace myself for the fall. I pull him into my arms and kiss the top of his head. He’s my little darling and the light of my life. When he looks up at me, his blue eyes twinkle with delight as his big dimples illuminate his perfect smile.

“Hi, buddy. Did you have a good time with Aunt Maggie?” I ask as I kiss his cheek.

“Yeah! We watched the car chase movie and Aunt Maggie said she was going to bone the bald guy. What’s that mean, Mommy?” I snap my glare to Maggie and give her the biggest death glare one could give.

Maggie shrugs, completely ignoring the daggers shooting from my eyes, then says, “It’s what your mama did last night, champ.”

What the hell?
I shout in my mind.

Maggie pulls her phone out of her pocket and checks her email, continuing to ignore me. Damn crazy woman!

Maggie Van Horn is the woman who raised Shelby and, apparently, taught her everything she knows. She’s in her late-forties, although she acts like a fucking twenty-one-year-old dumbass and, like Shelby, has absolutely no filter. I adore Maggie. She’s been a great deal of help with Royce, and I know she loves him like he was her own, but sometimes, I wonder what the hell is wrong with her; Shelby, too, for that matter. Something seriously crazy has got to be running in their family’s DNA.

Maggie is slightly taller than Shelby; however, she has the same curvy shape. She, too, is a tramp, but in her older years, she has tamed down quite a bit. Well, that’s what Shelby says. Don’t get me wrong. Maggie is gorgeous. She has stark blonde hair cut into a pixie style and loves her black eye makeup and vibrant red lipstick. I have never seen her without both plastered on her face. She deserves all the attention she gets from men, but I wonder, at her age, if she’s looking for something a little bit more.

“Mom!” Royce shouts to snap me out of my thoughts. “Who you boning? And why would Aunt Maggie want to bone someone?”

Mortified, I shake my thoughts and try to rein in my anger.

So what is the best answer for this question? I have always said I will be honest with my child. I’m not going to make up ludicrous names for the male and female anatomy. I vowed, when he asked me about sex, I would tell him exactly what it is and how to protect himself from disease-ridden bitches. This is technically a sex type of question, but he’s only six. How far should I go? I don’t ever remember having the talk with my own parents. I just remember my older sisters talking about it and my brother gagging in the process. Okay, here goes nothing. 

“Well, honey”—I clear my throat, trying to get my thoughts in order—“when a man and a woman… Well, I guess it doesn’t have to be a man and a woman.” Oh fuck, where is my brain going with this answer?

Royce is looking at me with curiosity, wanting to know what boning is, and I want to tell him. Jesus, this is harder than I thought.

“Sometimes, when people love…” F
UCK
! That’s not true, either. I don’t even know who his father is; so obviously, love is not always a factor.

“Come on, Mommy. I’m getting bored.” Royce starts messing with the strings of my tank top, snapping them and smiling at the noise they make.

I grasp his hands and look directly into his face. I’m going to tell him. The sex talk. We’re having it. Yep, we’re going to have it and it’s going to be now.

“Boning is another word for… p-p-p-poking someone with a chicken bone.” Bold face lie. Damn, I suck as a mother.

“Like when you get done eating a chicken leg, you just poke someone with the bone? Who’d you eat chicken with last night?” Royce is smiling with delight and so happy with the answer I’ve provided.

“Yep, just like that. I was with Aunt Shelby and Aunt Giselle,” I say, trying to get the disappointment out of my voice.

“Sweet, boning! I can’t wait until we have chicken again. I’m gonna bone everyone!” Royce hops off his lap and runs to his room.

“Poking someone with a chicken bone, huh?” Maggie says from the front door then busts out laughing. She bends forward, holding her sides while tears begin to prick her eyes. It’s not that funny, asshole. “That was the stupidest possible answer you could have given.”

“Well, you really left me no other choice, Maggie. Maybe you should watch your tongue around him, then I won’t have to think on the fly for an appropriate response. And what the hell? How’d you know about last night?” I snap back, holding my aching head in my hands.

“Who do you think? Shelby was announcing to the world that the seven year strike was finally over.”

Damn you, Shelby
. But, honestly, what did I expect? She’s always running her mouth about something; even things that are private to some become national news to her.

She is still laughing as I stand from the couch and walk to the fridge, cracking a Diet Coke open and chugging it down.

Fucking Maggie. All I can think about is my son announcing he is going to bone someone in the middle of a restaurant. I don’t think I will ever allow Royce to have chicken again. I want to avoid all conversations of boning from here on out.

Maggie comes to my side and kisses me on the cheek. “Don’t change, doll.” She walks from my apartment, laughing the entire way. All I can do is flop back on the couch and think back to my Saturday night.

It’s six-thirty in the morning, and I need to get my ass out the door. If I’m late again, I think my boss will lynch me, which I don’t understand since I’m just a processor, a data entry specialist, and the work is not going anywhere. I am meeting or exceeding all of my productivity levels, and I’ve been the top processor for the last six months. I think he can lay off my back a little. The jackass says it’s for my own good, but what the fuck does he know? He’s single with no responsibility. All he does is sit at home, play video games, and probably jerk off to robot porn. Get a fucking life, dude.

I sling my purse and Royce’s school bag over my shoulder then carry him to the car. Monday morning came too soon for both of us, and it’s been challenging leaving the house.

A quick three minutes later, I’m backing out of the parking space and in route to Royce’s school. The poor kid has to get up so early and go to before and after school care so I can work to pay our bills. I feel like he spends too much time away from the house, although I don’t think I’m the only parent with the same issues. We have no other choice.

Royce is moaning and grumbling in the back seat. He’s been whiney all morning, and it’s starting to grate on my nerves. “Mommy…” Royce whimpers from the backseat. “My tummy hurts.”

I roll my eyes. Not cool for a parent to do, but sometimes, my child is overdramatic. “You’re probably just hungry, buddy. Eat the blueberry muffin I packed you. You’ll feel better.”

I hear the rustling of his backpack then I hear a big moan and crying. When I look in the rearview mirror, I see the most pitiful look coming from his eyes. He leans forward at the perfect time, the warm ooze of his projectile vomit hitting the back of my seat and my head.

A
WWWW
! My kid puked on me! The smell! Oh, Lord, save me from the smell! It’s putrid and sour and it’s all over my fucking head, dripping down the back of my shirt. Gross! Gross! Gross! Holy fuck, this is so disgusting!

I quickly pull my car over before the second wave comes from his mouth. Luckily, I’ve got cat-like reflexes and am able to dump my lunch from a plastic grocery sack and hold it under his mouth, catching most of it. The back of my head is covered in vomit along with my son, my car, and now my hand. This is not the way to start my week.

Finally, Royce finishes his bout and begins to cry. I comfort him as best as I can while being covered in puke and trying not to puke myself.

“Mommy, I throwed up.”

“Yeah, I know, baby.” I turn around and head back home. Mr. Weber is going to be pissed, but there is no way I can come into work, not with a sick kid.

After my shower and Royce’s bath, I lay him down on the couch, and he soon falls asleep. I grab the designated puke bowl and a large bath towel and lay it on the floor beside his head. I’ve got to clean my car. It’s supposed to be pretty hot today, and I can’t leave the vomit fermenting in the hot Miami sun.

I pull a bucket, dish soap, and old rags from under my sink. Then I snatch my car keys off the table and lock the door behind me. Hopefully, he doesn’t wake up when I’m cleaning up this mess.

I open the car door and immediately fall to my knees. The smell is horrid! Gagging, I try to get my wits about me so I can get this cleaned up. I take a few deep breaths and will away the urge to vomit. Once slightly recovered, I move to the backseat and the gagging starts all over again. Dammit, why can’t I stop?

I turn my body away and start to walk in circles, taking big gasping breathes.
I can do this. It’s just a little puke. I can do this
. I chant over and over as I wear a path in the concrete. I’m sure my neighbors think I’m cracked out, but I need to get this gagging under control. Finally, I decide to rip my tank top off and use it as a mask. I’m in my bra, a pair of shorts, and flip-flops. I don’t freaking care who sees me, either. I can’t clean up this mess without my face being covered.

I tie the cotton around my face, leaving only my eyes visible, then move to the backseat. Puke is everywhere. How the hell can so much vomit come from someone so small? Did his food not digest overnight? He’s eaten nothing today, yet it’s splattered all over the back seat.

I get my bucket of soapy, hot water and submerge my rag. Then I start to scrub. If anything will get the vomit smell out of the car, it will be Dawn dish soap. I’ve used that bad boy to clean up not only my kid’s vomit, but my own and Shelby’s and Giselle’s. I scrub and wipe, thanking the inventor of leather car seats. Once I’m finished, I crack all the windows and head back up the stairs.

Now, I need to call Mr. Weber and break the news. I hope he’s in a good mood because I can’t afford to lose my job. I pull out my phone and dial his number. The phone rings twice before his snarky voice is on the other line.

“Hi, Mr. Weber, this is Mariah Huxley. My son got sick this morning, and I won’t be able to make it into work.”

I can hear him clear his throat on the other end. “Well, Mariah, that will make it your seventh unexcused absence in the last nine months.”

“Yeah, I know. But I don’t have anyone else to take care of my kid when he’s sick. We had a rough winter with his asthma, but you already know that. I just wanted to let you know I can’t come in today.” I walk to the table and sit. I’ve got a horrible feeling in my gut. However, I try my best to give Mr. Weber the benefit of the doubt.

“Well, company policy states the seventh unexcused absence within a calendar year is grounds for termination. I will have to talk with HR to see if you’re able to keep your job. I do recall having a conversation with you about this a few months ago.” I can envision his smug face, and I mentally punch him as I listen to him scolding me. “We have to see what they say. They may request I re-staff your position.” His breathing sounds Darth Vader-ish when he’s speaking through the phone. “I will call you this afternoon and let you know what they say.” The phone goes quiet and my gut aches with worry.