Page 72 of Pucking One Night Stand

Outside, the air’s warm. Still. The sky’s dipped into that deep navy blue where stars are just starting to poke through. The lot’shalf empty, with only a few cars scattered. My truck waits near the edge under a flickering streetlamp.

I dig into my pocket for the fob and hit unlock. The headlights flash twice.

I walk to it, yank the door open, toss the bag into the passenger seat, and climb in.

The engine growls to life.

I pull out across the parking lot toward the security booth. The guard gives me a nod. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just hits the button and lifts the barrier.

I drive out, my tires rolling over the curb as I turn onto Frank Sinatra Drive.

I don’t turn on the radio. I don’t think. Just drive. Toward Mom’s place. Toward Bill.

Away from everything I just lost.

The strip’s lit up like it thinks it’s got something to celebrate. Neon flickers off the chrome of my truck as I crawl through traffic. People laugh on the sidewalks, their drinks sloshing, and someone takes a selfie in front of the Bellagio fountains like life’s just fucking perfect.

The casinos blink like idiots. Every horn blast feels personal. A guy stumbles across the crosswalk in front of me and flips me off like I’m the asshole. Which let's face it... I am.

I grip the wheel tighter and bite down on the urge to floor it.

I hang a right onto Paradise Road. It's quieter here. The noise dies off, but not the thoughts. Here, there are neat lawns, hedges clipped to military precision, and every porch is lit up like it’s screaming out to be seen. There, just up ahead, is Mom’s house. Lights glow warm behind the curtains.

I pull up to the curb behind Brody’s bike and Mariana’s car and kill the engine.

Yesterday, I thought I’d bring flowers for Mom. A pack of cigars for Bill. Instead, all I’m bringing is this wreck of a mood and a face like someone ran me over with my truck.

Paint on a smile for Mom. Just for a couple of hours.

I glance at myself in the rearview. Try to fake it.

I look like a jackass who's just gone twelve rounds in a world title bout and lost!

I get out, lock the truck with a press of the fob, the lights blink once, and walk up the pathway beside the driveway.

The house smells...weird. Mom’s cooking. Something is definitely not right.

What’s new?

The curtain twitches as I reach for the doorbell, and the door opens.

Bill stands there, his arms folded, his face unreadable. “Oh, my. What happened to you?” He holds out his hand.

I grip it. “Don't ask.”

His nod is tight, but his mouth twists into a false smile. We hug, quick and solid. “Come in, Blake. Your mom’s nearly finished cooking.” He tilts his head toward the ceiling. “God help us all.” He stares at my face for a second, and I actually pull something close to a smile, but, Jesus, my jaw hurts.

I also wonder if they know. If Brody’s told Mariana, if Mariana’s told Mom. About Cassy. The baby. All of it.

Probably.

I follow Bill into the hallway but veer off toward the kitchen. I want to see her.

The second I walk in, though, I regret it. The smell hits first, overripe pears, scorched eggplant, something definitely fish-based, and garlic that could knock over a linebacker.

Mom’s plating something up, her brow furrowed in concentration. The dish looks like it also got into a bar fight and lost. In fact, it looks worse than me.

She turns around, ladle in hand, and her eyes light up. Whatever’s in the ladle sloshes, murky, and full of lumps that seem to move a little too much for comfort.