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Clarissa
Tossing my favorite Lush ‘Sleepy’ bath bomb in, I mentally unplug from another week of teaching youths about ancient books the world has mostly forgotten about. Students are a lot more outspoken and opinionated than they used to be in my school years. The web has given them false confidence that theirs is the only opinion that matters. I catch hell from the girls who I can see openly scrutinizing the way I dress and apply my makeup, and the guys, well, the guys are still guys. Some of them little Troys, great genetic makeup but infuriatingly cocky. It seems to be a daily pissing contest amongst the little Troys I teach on who can get the biggest reaction from me. I like my men bold, but the operative word is men, not little jockstraps with a recurring Proactiv monthly charge who have barely hit their second growth spurt.
I cringe at the thought that only years ago, I’d taken one of those at that inexperienced age between my legs and enjoyed every second of it.
Troy had acted like no boy. But was he really so different? The only conclusion I can draw is no. He was not. During my morning coffee on the porch yesterday, I’d caught him escorting a girl out on her walk of shame. She looked melancholy as he bid her goodbye. He might be capable of fathering as he claims, but he’s still a wildly sought-after college senior, apparently still getting where the getting is good. And I can’t exactly blame those women, Troy is ridiculously appealing, with his athletic build and natural swagger. I’m sure to women of all ages and types, Troy’s that guy. The guy others want to be, and the one women fawn over. He had wooed me after all, and I’d been raised by a womanizer. Even with my grudge, I must admit there’s definitely a sort of charm, a charisma about him.
Too bad I hate his guts.
I’m about ten minutes into my soak when Dante’s conversational voice distracts me from my read, so I gather myself from the tub and unplug the water. It’s when I hear the gruff voice in reply that my whole body goes on high alert. Troy is in my house. I angrily towel off, dressing with my hair still soaked.
How dare he go back on our agreement so soon?!
I can already tell this arrangement isn’t going to work. Throwing open the door, hair dripping, I march into the kitchen where Dante stands dictating his day off to Troy while he washes his hands in my sink.
Troy’s gaze trails up my frame, his eyes resting briefly on my pert nipples through my tank, before his smile fades as he sees my repulsion to his attention.
“Troy cut our grass, Mommy,” Dante says uneasily, reading my temperament. “I wanted to give him some of the lemonade I made. He told me you wouldn’t like it if he came in unannounced, but he did something nice,” Dante explains as if I’m a four-year-old while I have a silent standoff with his father.
In response, I glare at our intruder, unable to hide my aversion to our new neighbor. I’ve been able to keep him away for nearly six years, and suddenly he’s everywhere.
“Mom-my, he’s not in trouble. He did the yard. It was nice of him.” Troy’s hair is disheveled and in need of a cut. Sweat runs down his throat, his skin darker from his stint in the sun. He’s shirtless, his rippling muscles jarringly defined from the light workout. He stands satisfied with his son’s protection as his neon blue eyes burn into mine.
I once read if you stare down a dog long enough, you prove your dominance if the dog is the first to look away.
I lift a brow in challenge, refusing to blink.
Troy’s thick lips turn up before he drops his gaze to the floor.
That’s right, Fido. Now, go lick your ass.
“He, uh, insisted,” Troy says as Dante tugs me into the kitchen by my hand.
“Don’t be mad. I’ll make some for you too, Mommy.”
Because my son is nervous, guilt wins, and I try to reel in my anger. “Okay, baby. That was nice of you to offer.”
“Mommy, you’re supposed to say thank you,” Dante scolds, widening his eyes in expectancy. He’s trying to impress Troy, and nothing about that sits well with me. Troy turns, arms crossed accentuating his broad chest, weighing me carefully. He’s so imposing in our kitchen, the space too intimate.
I pull my hand from Dante and excuse myself. “I’m going to finish getting dressed. Can’t wait to taste it. Thank you for cutting the grass, Troy.”
He slowly nods, unsure if I’m plotting his death. I am.
“You’re welcome.”
I walk away knowing revenge is a dish best served cold and chuckle when I hear Troy’s sputtering after he takes a drink of Dante’s lemonade.
“This…is,” cough, cough, “well, this tastes great, little man.”
“I know. Mommy, yours is on the counter!”
Checkmate, Fido.
“Thank you,” I shout through my grin. Point Mom, thanks to little man.
The next morning I’m scrambling around the house as my son watches me at a standstill from the door.
“Don’t just stand there, son, we’re late!”
