Page 4 of Saints & Sailors

At once she blanched. “Oh heavens, no. He bumped his head, is all. He’s going to need some stitches.”

“Ahem.” Richard cleared his throat, anger lacing his gray eyes as his attention flickered from my mother to me, and back. “Can you give us a minute?”

“Certainly,” Kirsten replied as she soon stepped out of the area, closing the curtain behind her.

Richard faced me, unloading his full wrath. Really, he could’ve at least pretended to be concerned for my wellbeing.

“Have you any idea what you’ve put us through tonight?” he demanded to know. “What fines I’m going to have to pay? Your blood alcohol level was through the roof, and let’s not even start on the substance you took.”

I wanted to mention he was wrong: you didn’t take weed, you smoked it.

But I was in too much pain to contemplate it or care. “Not so loud.”

His brows rose as he took a step back. He chuckled, sarcasm coating his face. “Unbelievable.” He looked to my mother. “Speak up, Madeline, we’re all ears.”

My mother choked a little as she came closer to me. “Saylor, honey, what were you thinking?”

“I was just having a little fun,” I tried to reason. I was going to give the cruiser right back.

My mother shook her head. “It’s not enough. Rich can only do so much.”

He snorted. “Like she cares!”

I didn’t.

It was hard to care about anything when I felt nothing most of the time. All I wanted was a good night’s sleep, something neither of them were being considerate about.

“Have you anything to say for yourself?” Richard gripped the railing to my bed, and I was half afraid he’d shake it. I was already wound up as it was.

I gave a nonchalant shrug to his inquiry. “Nope.”

“Speak. Now. Madeline,” Richard uttered as he began to pace.

I looked to my mother, seeing new tears forming in her eyes.

She hiccupped and wiped at her face.

We lived in Los Angeles. This kind of thing was not that bizarre. Once, on the news, I heard about a guy who married a fuckin’ mannequin.

I had just taken a little joy ride.

It wasn’t a surprise my mother was upset. She never got me to begin with. My mother taught pottery for a living, and she’d once tried getting me to channel my rebellion into art.

It never stuck.

Now her gentle potter’s hands were shaking as she attempted to hold herself.

“T-Things are serious,” she spoke lowly.

I looked between them, growing more impatient and in desperate need of rest. “Am I off the hook or not?”

Richard’s nostrils flared. “That’s beside the point.” He went over to my mother, caressing her arms. “Keep going, I’m with you.”

“Maybe…” my mother started to say, only seeming to rile Richard up in the process.

“She is going toward the goddamn gutter and we cannot stop her,” he practically hissed. “You made the right call.”

The right call?