Page 109 of Almost Beautiful (Beautiful 3)

“GET THE FUCK OFF MY PORCH!”

He turned around and descended a few steps, hesitated, then kept going. Once he was at his truck, he opened the door and shook his head. “When it all finally goes down, don’t come crying to me. I tried.”

I slammed the door, adrenaline pouring through my veins. The bolt lock slowly clicked under the direction of my shaking fingers, but that was all I could manage besides making my way to the couch and whistling for Toto. He jumped into my lap, and with each stroke of his hair, my heartbeat slowed.

If I told Travis what had just happened—after what Brandon had already pulled at the gym—Travis would definitely be arrested within hours for assault. Keeping it from him wasn’t an easier option.

I swore at Brandon, under my breath, for forcing that choice on me, and at the same time I already knew my decision. I couldn’t lie to Travis, and I’d have to trust him not to lose his shit. And, I’d have to trust myself to be able to talk him into staying home.

“Daddy is going to have to quit his job,” I said, glad I’d been frugal with my winnings from the Sig Tau poker game.

Mid-stroke through Toto’s hair, a gentle knock came from the other side of the door.

I let my head fall back. I wasn’t opening the door again. “Go away!”

The next set of knocking was just as timid as the first, and much lower than it would be if it were Brandon. I stood, my mind weighing scenarios of who it could be. What if it was a kid or someone else from the apartment complex who needed help? I peered through the peep hole and closed my eyes tight, letting my forehead thump against the door.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I whispered.

“Abby? I’m sorry it’s late. I got lost, and then I went to the wrong apartment a few times.” She knocked again, this time less patient. “I know you’re in there, I just saw you verbally rip the balls off that meat head.”

My hands wouldn’t work. I just stood there, staring at the door, expressionless. Usually, I could figure out a solution or plan an escape, but there was nothing. Just … silence. Between worrying about America, dealing with Brandon, and now this, my system had decided to all but shut down. It was just too much for one day.

“Abigail Hope Abernathy! Open this door!”

I scrambled to twist the bolt lock open, and yanked on the knob, staring at the small, tired, worn, twenty-six years older version of myself.

“Sorry, Mom.” I gestured to the living room. “Come in.”

She smiled for a half a second before her face fell. She had aged at an exponential rate since I’d seen her. The caramel strands of her hair were frizzed and mixed with wiry grays. The lines on each side of her mouth were deep, her cheeks sagging, skin creped and yellowing, just like her hollow eyes.

She brushed past me.

I stared out at the parking lot before slamming the door behind her, wishing I was still dealing with Brandon instead. Even Mick at the door would’ve been better than my mother sitting on my couch, sipping straight vodka through the straw she’d put inside the worn, plastic water bottle she was using to conceal it.

I pointed at her. “Don’t throw up.”

She chuckled and settled back against the cushions. “I’m at least five more of these away from that.”

“I’ve heard that before,” I said, sitting on the recliner.

My mom wasn’t always a bad mother, but she was never a good one. The house was never quite clean, the breakfast not always on the table before school. She didn’t always come home at night, and she wasn’t always sober.

As unpredictable as she was when Mick was winning, it was no secret that Bonnie Abernathy was always one drink away from falling off the map if her husband’s luck ran out.

When I turned thirteen, it did.

Mom didn’t stick around long after the money disappeared. Any small slice of normalcy I’d had until that point was replaced by late nights in smoky hotel rooms and mobsters’ basements watching my father sweat over his shitty poker hands and then talk his way out of being pummeled or worse when he couldn’t come up with cash.

The Mafia who ran Vegas were a particularly brutal bunch, but most of them had a soft spot for kids. So, I was Mick’s human shield.

He’d say he was all I had left. That he was just trying to make ends meet, to put dinner on the table. That Bonnie had left in the middle of the night without warning, and he had to try to figure out a way to keep our tiny family off the street.

Those convincing pleas worked for years, but he lost more than just money when, without warning, Mom picked me up for school one day and drove through the night until we reached her new home in Wichita, Kansas.

Mick had lost his last bastion.

“How did you find me?” I asked.