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“Language,” I warn, another area where I’m failing. He’s got his Grandpa’s sailor’s mouth.
“It’s like…sometimes I feel different; I’m not like the other kids,” he confesses, tears forming in his eyes as he looks at me.
“Oh, baby,” I whisper, running my fingers through his hair, the sinking feeling in my stomach intensifies. I did good coming back here after years on the run. He needs my parents and his uncles. He needs his father too, echoes through my head.
“I know it hurts you to talk about my father, but I want to know,” he says determined, his eyes getting a glassy shine to them. I hate to keep things from him; we tell the truth in our house. We talk about our feelings; we hash things out. But I’ve kept his father’s memory locked in my heart all these years. I’m afraid what will happen if I let him out. Iggy feels and loves so deeply, I don’t want to be the one to break his heart.
I run my fingers through his long hair one last time, and he leans his head against the headrest. Our glances clash.
“You are not weird, baby; you are strong, and your friends are lucky to have you in their lives. I’m lucky to have you.”
He shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitches into a shy smile while he takes a deep shuddering breath. “I kind of liked hurting those guys, Mom,” his soft Southern twang shines through his changing voice.
“Kid,” I start. “I taught you everything I know. But you shouldn’t use your close combat skills to hurt, only to protect.”
Iggy gives me a half smile shaking his hair out of his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he rasps, getting out, and slamming the door shut.
My phone buzzes and I scan my mom’s incoming text.
Mom:Get back to the shop Paxton May, after you drop the baby off.
I frown scanning the text. She never uses my full name, only when I’ve messed up, so this wouldn’t be the first time.
“Darn it,” I say under my breath, thinking about what I could have done other than missing last Monday’s meeting because I took Iggy to a dirt bike rally.
I put the car in drive but stop when I hear a knock on the window. I push it down and Ig leans in. “I know you don’t want to tell me who my father is, but I deserve some answers.”
A flush creeps up my neck. “I do, baby, and I promise to tell you all you need to know this weekend. I promise.” The kid is right, he has a right to know who the man is who gave him half of his DNA, the part I hope stays dormant for the foreseeable future.
He cocks his head to the side, those eyes looking right through me, and there is his father again. “See you tonight.”
“Later, kiddo,” I say, watching him walk over to his waiting friends.
I take a sip from my coffee when someone taps the window again. “What now,” I huff under my breath. Pushing the blacked-out window down, I look straight in the face of Iggy’s principal. Kyle seems like a nice guy in his blue dress shirt and navy slacks, but he’s a fucking bastard. I went to high school with him, and he didn’t grow out of his creep, douche phase.
“Hi, Paxxie,” he says, using the nickname only reserved for one man. Leaning into the window he flashes me a fake smile. Everything about the guy is an act; I know he still screws around even if he’s been married a day out of high school to the head cheerleader.
“How are you?” he asks, blatantly checking me out while he runs a pointy tongue over his bottom lip.
“I’m good, principal,” I try to keep the ice from my voice.
“Kyle, please, Paxxie.”
“Paxton, Kyle, remember,” I grit out. He ignores the murderous look I hope I have in my eyes.
“I do,” his fake, sugary accent thick. “I can still recall you wearing those running track shorts and tiny tank tops back in high school,” he says, his eyes going straight for my boobs.
“What do you want, Kyle?” I huff, thinking about how the fucker tried to cop a feel at the last parent teacher conference. I kicked him in the junk, and he threatened to fail Iggy in math even though he’s at the top of his class. I need to find dirt on the son of a bitch; this can’t be the first time he’s tried to take advantage of a single mom.
“We should talk about what happened with Ignatius last week,” he continues, still staring at my boobs while I shoot daggers his way.
“He’s a sweet kid, and he can’t stand back when someone is being picked on. I taught him to fight for those who need help.”
He flashes me a grin which doesn’t reach his eyes and taps the hood of my car saying hello to a couple of women who eye him up and down. He plays the church-going, nice guy part to a T, and other moms eat his act right up.
“You want to talk about it over a cup of coffee in my office later today?” he asks. I want to punch him and wipe the smug smile from his face, but I can’t. Iggy needs a break from all the running we did the last couple of years.
“I can’t. I have work, sorry,” I murmur, showing him my badge, and trying to fake a smile. “I’d like to talk about it at the parent’s teacher night in two weeks.”
