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She gulped down her vodka. “I didn’t ask to be a mother. I hate what that kid did to my body.”
“You’re fucking sick.” I started to move away.
“Speaking of which, my lawyers have gone over the prenup. I want it torn up. This house is mine.”
“Over my fucking dead body.”
“It might be over your jailed body.” She laughed.
“It’s your word against mine,” I said.
“The hospital has a record of my injuries.”
“You’re not getting this house.” I thumped the bench then charged off before I punched a hole in the wall.
Britney came up behind me.
I turned sharply. “What do you want?”
She touched my arm. “Marry me, and it will all go away.”
I held my arms wide. “Why would you want to marry someone who’s completely uninterested?”
“I’ll take what I can get. I’ll do threesomes. Anything kinky. And we’ll be fabulously rich.”
My stomach churned. “I’m not that guy anymore.”
“You can fuck Miranda too. I’ll turn a blind eye.”
I shook my head.
“Just one night a week with you would be enough for me.” Her eyes softened, and in a rare moment, they shone with a hint of vulnerability.
My body and soul craved only one girl, and she was too good for me. I had nothing to give her but trouble, especially if Tamara kept her game up. I imagined the police inquiries, and just the implication of me screwing my stepmother was enough to bury me in shit.
“I’ve got to go and practice,” I said, turning my back to Britney.
I entered my music room, removed the dust cover from my drumkit, and sat down. Instead of warming up slowly and properly, I smashed the skins as though exorcising a demon.
Manuel came running in and watched with his mouth wide open, as though seeing something rare.
“Hey,” I said, putting down my drumsticks. “I hear you’re quite the little dancer.”
He bit his lip and shrugged.
“Do you want a go?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said, brightening and reminding me of Brent again.
I stepped away from the kit and adjusted the seat.
Manuel jumped on and banged the drum, creating nothing but noise.
“Here, let me show you something.” I leaned over him and held his little hands while balancing the sticks in mine. I played a simple pattern, hitting one drum only.
“Let me do that,” he said.
I positioned the sticks properly in his hands, and instead of going nuts, as kids were known to on drumkits, he stuck to what I’d shown him, proving he was a natural.
