Page 170 of Boss of Me

“Look at Gunner’s face. Does he look like he’s having a nice day?” It’s a rhetorical question, and Maverick doesn’t wait for an answer as he prowls over to Mom. “How can you sit there trying to pressure him into taking Laurene back? Have you been living under a rock since July? Do you not realize he’s in love with someone else? Or are you pretending otherwise because you don’t approve?”

Mom’s face takes on a look of haughty condescension. “Marlowe clearly wasn’t right for your brother. He and Laurene are more compatible?—”

“Says who?”

Mom narrows her eyes, resenting the challenge. “I’m his mother. I know what’s best for him.”

A sneer twists Maverick’s mouth. “The only reason you love Laurene is because she reminds you of yourself—a spoiled, shallow, stuck-up blonde who thinks the whole world revolves around her.”

Mom gasps, affronted.

“Maverick,” I warn.

“No. I’m tired of biting my tongue. She needs to hear the truth.” He glares at our scandalized mother. “Do you have any idea what it’s like growing up with a mom who hates you? Who regrets your very existence? Who blames you for every sin your father ever committed? Do you know how sadistic you have to be to tell a nine-year-old boy that a trust fund and a pretty face are all he’ll ever be good for?”

Mom stares at him in horrified denial. “I . . . I . . .”

“Oh yes, Mommy Dearest. That was one of the kinder gems you bestowed upon me and Gunner. Unshockingly, your toxicity did a real number on us. While I avoided any serious entanglements, Gunner forced himself to stay in soul-sucking relationships long after they ran their course. He needed to prove you wrong, and on some subconscious level, he wanted to please you. Why else would he evenconsidermarrying a woman who shares your worst flaws?”

Mom glances at me to gauge my reaction, her delicate jaw trembling.

“He’ll never admit it, not even to himself. But it’s true.” A streak of dark ruthlessness burns in Maverick’s ice-blue eyes. “Do you know why you’re still able to hold your head up in high society?”

“That’s enough, Mav,” I growl.

He ignores me, laser-focused on our mother’s increasingly pale face. “How scandalized would those Highland Park blue bloods be if they found out you fucked Harlan Pierce when he was barely legal?”

She lets out a strangled cry.

Dad loudly interjects, “Now, son?—”

“Stay out of this,” Maverick snarls without taking his eyes off Mom. “It’s bad enough that you hooked up with our worst enemy—the bullying asshole who slandered our names every fucking chance he got. You betrayed your own sons. And then in an ironic twist of karmic payback,yougot betrayed. See, Mother, your little boy toy secretly recorded your hotel tryst and threatened to leak the tape. He wanted to humiliate you. Ruin you. And he would have if Gunner hadn’t stopped him.”

Whatever blood remains in Mom’s face drains out. Even Dad looks shocked.

“Gunner never told you because he wanted to spare your feelings and preserve your dignity.” Maverick smirks. “You’re lucky. I wouldn’t have been as merciful.”

Mom looks at me wildly, her chin quivering. “I never knew . . .”

I can only stare at her, rigid with frustration. I didn’t want her to find out, and definitely not like this. But my brother has obviously reached his breaking point, and like a runaway freight train rushing at full throttle, he can’t be stopped.

“You owe him, Mother. You owe him your undying gratitude for burying your scandalous secret and protecting your precious virtue. You owe him for safeguarding your status as the apple of your parents’ eye.” Maverick pins her with a look sharp enough to flay the skin off her body. “Instead of rejecting the woman he loves, you should be using every manipulative trick in your arsenal to convince him to go after Marlowe. Because if you can’t see that he’s completely lost without her, then you’re an even worse mother than you’ve already proved yourself to be.”

In the stunned silence that follows, I exchange grim looks with my father.

Half a second later, Mom bursts into tears.

Hardening his jaw, Maverick pushes the brim of his Stetson low over his eyes and then stalks back into the house, slamming the screen door behind him.

Dad tucks a handkerchief into Mom’s hand and awkwardly pats her shoulder. When she sobs louder, he sends me a sympathetic look before beating a hasty retreat.

Leaning back against the railing, I watch silently as Mom sits there sobbing uncontrollably. Though I make no attempt to offer comfort, I can’t help feeling sorry for her. Few mothers could withstand the ruthless evisceration Maverick just served up cold on a platter.

When her sobs subside to an occasional hiccup, I ask quietly, “Are you okay?”

She sniffles pathetically and dabs at her streaming eyes with the sodden handkerchief. When I move to sit beside her, she reaches for my hand, grasping it like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” she says in a cracked voice, uttering those words for the first time in my life. “I am so sorry, Gunner. For everything.”