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I guess you can tell which part of me is in control today.
I rub my palms against my jeans. There’s no way in hell I’m going to admit I’m nervous—or that I’m sweating. Screw that.
“This might be the worst damn idea you’ve had in your life, Blue,” I gripe.
Great, now she has me talking to myself.
I walk to the front door, frowning when I see my mother’s truck in front of Doe’s vehicle. I open the door to the shelter, thinking I need to get the hell out of here before my mother finds out I’m even here. The thought of that is almost enough to make me turn around. The thought of making Doe beg for my cock again is enough to keep me where I’m at.
I don’t think I was truly prepared for what I walked into. I expected to see Doe with her long curly hair falling in waves down her back. Maybe she would be wearing those tight blue jeans that like to flaunt the curves of her ass. She favors light, gauzy shirts that do nothing to hide the heavy swell of her breasts, and I’ve come to expect that, too. Sadly, that’s not what I see before me at all. Instead, I walk in on a scene that will probably burn in my memory.
“Mom! What are you doing?” I almost bellow.
Mom’s standing in front of the counter wearing a blue apron that reads, “Adopt a pet”, in big, bold, red lettering. I wish I could say her elbow-length, bright yellow, vinyl gloves and safety goggles are the most outlandish thing I see, but they’re not. She’s holding two dogs—a male and a female. I know this because they’ve clearly just finished having sex. Doe’s mom and mine are trying to pull the pair apart as they are clearly knotted in post-coital bliss—or rather hell—from what it looks like. Both dogs are going crazy. They’re howling, growling, and crying so loudly that I figure this building must be firmly built because I didn’t hear anything outside. I swear though, the female dog seems to be hissing like a cat and trying to scratch.
Both dogs are tiny. Mutts, from the look of it, and probably part Chihuahua. The female has longer white hair, while the male is black and white with short hair. Mom has a big ass scratch down the side of her face, and she looks like she’s in the middle of a world war.
“For God’s sake, what does it look like I’m doing, Blue?” she yells, her voice strained and high pitched.
“Drop the damn dogs before they kill you!”
“I have to get them separated! Miffy isn’t spayed yet, and Seymour isn’t neutered! I mixed the cages up! Meddie will kill us!”
“Mom, let them go! It’s too late, anyway. If you don’t stop, you’re going to get hurt or hurt them.”
“Son of a motherless goat,” Mom huffs, letting the damn dogs go as she does.
Seymour growls at Mom, all while still being knotted up inside of Miffy. Then, as if to tell Mom a big screw you, he bites into Miffy’s neck, acting as if he’s mounting her again. Miffy bucks and rubs against Seymour. We all just stand and watch—me while trying to control my laughter. The same can’t be said for Leddie and Mom. They’re both staring at the dogs like they want to clobber them over the head with a broom. The dogs manage to hobble—still tied to one another—into the corner. They must have been knotted for a while because they break apart after a minute. Seymour acts as if he wants to go for another round, but Miffy swishes her tail in his face. She also sounds as if she’s trying to hiss again and tries to scratch out at him when he advances. She runs off after that. Seymour just watches her go, confused.
“Welcome to the club, Seymour,” I mutter.
“Now you’ve done it,” Mom snaps.
“Done what?” Bloody hell, why is it every time I get around anything that has to do with Meadow, chaos ensues?
“You knocked up Miffy!” Mom says.
For a second, I’m frozen, stunned, and unable to move.
“The fuck I did,” I growl.
“Blue Moon Lucas! I know you did not just say the F word in front of your Momma!”
I rub my hand over my face and hold my head down. Shit.
“It slipped,” I mumble.
“You’re not so big that I can’t scrub your mouth out with soap, boy.”
“Uh, I kind of think he is, Ida Sue,” Leddie interrupts.
“Oh my God! Do you see what you’ve done now, Blue?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me,” I respond.
That was the wrong thing to say since I can literally see Mom’s eyes narrow on me. When my twin brother, Black, and I were little, and she got that look on her face, we ran. It didn’t do any good. I swear my mother could throw a shoe that would somehow follow you down the hall, turn the corner to your room, and nail you in the back of the head. She never missed. Green insists that’s where he got his baseball skill. He inherited Mom’s shoe-throwing abilities but harnessed it into his chosen sport instead.
