Whipped (Hitched, #2)

She blushes, then grits her teeth. Her body must be betraying her. I like having this effect. She holds her hand out. "So, do you accept the rules?"

I shake it firmly, and the blush returns to her cheeks. Women love a strong handshake. "I accept."

"Good." She shimmies out of the room, her jeans tight, and I'm glad "don't look at my ass" wasn't one of her rules. When she returns, she passes me a key. I make sure to touch her hand gently as I take it. The moment lasts longer than passing a key should. She shrugs. "Bring your stuff in whenever."

"Sure. I'll see you later." I squeeze by her, letting my palm rest on her back, and walk out of the apartment. I don't tell her all my stuff was in my backpack.

***

Not all of Vegas is like the Strip. There are places where the doors are falling off their hinges and the windows are full of holes. Places like the one I grew up in. Places like the one Kevin is growing up in now.

"Hey, my man Kev. How you doing?" I walk down his street, carrying a brown bag of food in my hands.

"Hey, Lach. Check this out." He smiles at me, his dark curly hair a mess, and does an ollie on his skateboard. The board is missing half its paint, and the wheels have fallen off before.

"Nice. Try pulling your knees up even higher." I step on the board and, still holding the bag of groceries, demonstrate the technique.

"Okay. I can do that." He tries again, almost going twice as high. "Thank, Lach."

We grin at each other. Kevin ran into me a few years ago. Then he attempted to run away with my wallet.

I caught him right away, and instead of calling the cops on an eleven-year-old, I found his mother. She worked double shifts, and the father had disappeared long ago. She blamed herself for the boy’s slipping grades and recent criminal endeavors. I told her I wouldn't press charges, and she told me she'd get the boy straightened out. A week later, I dropped by to see how they were doing and offered them some groceries. A week after that, I dropped by again.

It's become a habit. I walk up the porch and ring the doorbell. The lock clicks, and Kevin's mother, Mary, opens the door. Her hair's all black, recently dyed. She adjusts her glasses and waves me in, a genuine smile on her broad dark face. "You know you can just come in, Lach. Family doesn't—"

"Family doesn't knock. I know."

"And you are family, my boy. Don't you forget it." She pulls me into a hug. Her hands are rough and covered in lines. Dark circles hang under her eyes. She's still searching for the beauty regime that'll make her look ten years younger. But, the way I see it, she wears the trophies of hard work. She should be proud.

I kick my shoes off by the door and tilt my head at the brown bag at my hands. "These are for you."

"Oh, thank you, dear." She grabs the bag from me and drops it on the kitchen counter—a sad excuse for what was once some type of white linoleum but is now more yellowed than anything, but always scrubbed spotless, like everything in Mary's rundown apartment. Clean, but old and on its last leg. She ruffles through the contents. "Awww. Organic chicken. I told you not to spend the big bucks on us."

My phone buzzes. A text from Darrel. He's my manager, soon to be my old manager. I ignore it. "Can I help with dinner?"

"You've done enough for us, my boy."

I pull the bag toward me and pull out the kale and carrots. "You can repay me with the pleasure of your company."

She shakes her head, smiling. "Let me cut the carrots."

We divide up the vegetables, and I throw the chicken in the oven. Kevin runs in, skateboard in hand, half-ripped shoes on, his nose tilted up. "What's cooking?"

Wrong move, kiddo.

Mary turns on him, hands on her hips. "Kevin McAllister. What are the rules of this house?"

His shoulders droop. "No running."

Mary waves a spatula at him. "And?"

"No shoes inside." He smiles apologetically and walks back to the door, kicking off his shoes and dropping his board.

Marry lowers the Spatula of Order and Justice and mixes the green onion sauce. "Good job."

When the dinner is finished, she asks me to eat with them and, after some nagging from Kevin, I agree. The organic chicken with sauce is delicious. The company is even better. Kevin's math grade went from a C-minus to a B-plus. Mary's boss finally paid the overtime he owed her. The prick. He manages Bill's Burgers four blocks away and still insists on high-heeled waitresses. Though Mary barely mentions it, I know her feet hurt every day.

I finish my meal with a sip of green tea—Mary doesn't keep soda or alcohol in the house—and Kevin asks about my work. "You found a place for the center yet?"

I smile. "You know the Spacey Mall that closed down?"

Kevin smacks his fork down on the table. The excitement in his face reminds me of why I'm changing careers. "Oh man, that place is huge." He's right. I examined the location yesterday. It's one of those malls you could get lost in.

"I could modify it," I say. "Or maybe even tear it down and start new."