Page 34 of Run For Me (Until You’re Mine Duet #1)

Chapter Thirty-Four

Him

I blast my playlist as I drive, a heavy mix of Lorna Shore, Chelsea Grin, Oceano, and The Art Is Murder.

Music helps me keep a clear head, which is necessary when dealing with the woman who birthed me.

Had we not shared the same disdain for the human population, the precise shade of ocean blue eyes, and a prominent cupid’s bow in our top lips, I’d think I was adopted—though, I think cursed would be a better word to use, as my parents are hell.

The only thing I am grateful for is that they stopped at me.

Had they had another, I can’t imagine what would be worse. Someone who acts just like them, or someone who hates them as much as I do, that I would then feel obligated to take under my wing. The less responsibility I have, the better.

Focusing on the music, I try to clear my head but can’t shake the annoyance over having to push the time with Sailor.

For the first time in a long time, I was excited about something.

It’s just my luck that my mother would fuck that up.

Whatever she needs better be quick, because I refuse to cancel completely on Sailor.

But I know it won’t be quick, because I know her.

She has plenty of people she could call for help, people who would drop to their knees and beg for her to breathe in their direction.

Yet, she called me. Meaning, she’s up to something.

It’s not that I fear my mother, I don’t think I fear anything. I just know what she’s capable of, and I know if I piss her off, I’ll lose my life. It may not be the best, but I don’t mind it, and I’d prefer to see my thirties, if I can help it.

If Mother wants me here, I have to be here.

She’s fucking crazy—another thing we have in common, I suppose—and had I not seen it with my own two eyes, I wouldn’t believe it.

She looks too sweet to be cunning, but she uses that to her advantage.

People think she’s just another dumb blonde with blue eyes and big boobs.

Far from it. Who thought giving that woman good looks and brains was a good idea?

The devil, that’s who.

I lower the volume on the radio when I turn into her neighborhood, knowing that’s just the fuel she needs to give me a hard time.

Pulling up in front of the house, I notice it’s just as it always is.

Like you could pull it off a movie set. Her house, and all the others on this block, look fake.

The grass is a little too green, and I swear there isn’t a speck of dirt in the streets or on the houses.

It’s disgusting. Of course, in a different sense of the word.

I park in the driveway, in front of the three-car garage. Once my car is off, I get out and head inside. My shoe is halfway off—since no shoes are allowed in the house—when I see what my mother needs help with.

“Motherfucker,” I grunt, toeing my shoes off with more force than necessary. As harshly as I can in socks on hardwood flooring, I storm to the back parlor, where I’m sure my mother is hiding. “Mother!”

“Took you long enough,” she snaps, meeting me at the door. Her cell is clutched in her hand, and other than her white knuckles, everything else about her is put together. Not a hair out of place; not a wrinkle in her white blouse or tan chinos.

“Really? That’s what you have to say to me right now?”

“I told you it was emergent,” she spits out.

“Yeah, murder usually is.”

“I did not murder him!” she snaps. “He fell down the stairs.” I cross my arms over my chest, pinning her with a glare. She blows out a sharp breath, throwing her hands up. “Okay! I killed the guy. Sue me.”

“What exactly do you expect me to do?”

Now she glares at me, raising a brow. “You’re going to handle it.”

“By doing what, exactly? The guy is as big as a fucking building.”

“That’s not really my problem, now, is it?”

“I’m not the one who killed him,” I argue. “And you have other people to call. Why me? Call Travis or Bert, for fuck’s sake.”

Her perfectly manicured eyebrow rises, and she purses her lips. “Not him,” she says, ignoring everything I said except the first part.

How did I know… how did I know this is what would happen?

One mistake. I made one fucking mistake when I was sixteen, and she’ll never let me live it down.

It doesn’t matter that she’s killed dozens of people and been the reason hundreds of others have lost their lives.

No, that doesn’t matter at all. All that matters is that I killed one person, seven years ago.

“How do you expect me to take care of someone who is twice my size?” I say through gritted teeth, trying everything I can not to make this situation worse than it already is by committing another murder. “I have somewhere to be in—“ I check my watch. “—two hours.”

She steps closer, lowering her voice. “That isn’t my problem. You know what the expectations are. This is part of your life.”

“No, it isn’t.” I shake my head. “I already told you I haven’t made that decision yet.”

“How long do you think you’ll get?” she asks with a bitter laugh. “I won’t give you forever.”

“So, you’ll just kill me if I decide I don’t want to be part of this mafia-wanna-be lifestyle?”

She steps close to me, lowering her voice.

“Killing would be too easy. What I’ll have done to you will be much worse.

No son of mine is going to be on the outside of what I’ve built.

It’s best you accept that before it’s too late.

” She moves past me, disappearing up the stairs.

I clench my hands, ready to put my fist through the wall, but my anger never does any good.

Instead, I step onto the back deck, pull my phone from my pocket and make some calls.

I’m not in the business of cleaning up bodies, so I don’t have someone on fucking speed dial. But I know people who know people, and thankfully my mother has money. And money always talks.

This is a test. I know that. She wants to make sure I know how to handle this sort of situation while also making me guilty of it, so she has shit on me. I’m not stupid, I’m just fucking stuck.

I swear, this bitch is going to die by my hand one of these days.

It’s a solid hour before I get a call from someone who can help me.

Someone who is going to charge a rush fee, which isn’t my goddamn problem.

I give him the address, then head inside to find my mother to let her know someone will be here to take care of whoever the fuck is lying bloody and dead on her floor by the kitchen, and I’ll see her later. Hopefully not for another five years.

“You are not leaving me alone in this house with a strange man!”

“You’re fucking joking?”

“Of course I’m not joking!” She has the audacity to bring her hand up by her throat, looking aghast, as if I just insulted her very being.

“He’s dead. What is he going to do?” I ask.

“Not him,” she seethes. “The one coming to dispose of him.”

“Where are your bodyguards?” I ask.

I swear I see steam coming out of ears. “You know I have no such thing.”

“Well, maybe it’s time, Mother. You aren’t getting any younger.”

“You will stay here until the mess is cleaned up,” she says firmly.

“I told you I have somewhere to be,” I growl.

“You will see this through, or you know what will happen.”

I take a step toward her, pointing my finger in her face, ready to show her exactly why she shouldn’t fuck with me.

She doesn’t flinch. Not even a flutter of her eyelashes.

This woman is brutal. Made of the toughest shit.

If she weren’t such a bitch, we’d make a great team. But she can’t be trusted.

“One of these days, you’re going to learn exactly who the fuck you raised.”

Her lips turn up into a dark smile. “I’m glad you think so.”

“You underestimate me.”

“Perhaps.” She shrugs, giving me a bored look.

I raise my fist, ready to punch her straight in the face, but she still doesn’t flinch. She’s lucky my phone rings, distracting me. I have no issues punching a woman if they deserve it, and trust me, this hag deserves it.

“You’re going to regret this,” I say, turning on my heel and storming out. I answer my phone. “What?”

“Fifteen minutes out.”

“Yeah, thanks for the heads up.”

I end the call, shove my feet into my shoes, and go to my car. I can’t stand to be in the same house as her, breathing the same fucking air. It’s toxic.

I wait until the very last minute to call Sailor, and it pisses me off even more that I’m being forced to make this call.

“I understand.”

It’s all she says.

I try to be apologetic without coming across as a pussy, which just makes me seem like more of an asshole.

Like I don’t care. Probably a good thing, since I don’t want her to know I care, but I also don’t want her to hate me.

I don’t want her to give up on this, on us.

On whatever it is we’re doing. I want another chance.

Telling her I’m sorry is on the tip of my tongue, because I am sorry. But I don’t say those words.

“I’ll text you later.”

“Yeah, okay. Bye.”

I wait for her to end the call. She doesn’t. I sigh heavily and end it myself, knowing there’s nothing left to say. Then I bang my head on the steering wheel until it’s bruised.