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To get more from my muse,I reply back—in my head, of course, because I’m not a lunatic.Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t have that, so you don’t know what that means. Throw a pity party for yourself and don’t invite me.
That shuts him up.
Good.
Hope he chokes to death on the sentimental bollocks that he wears like a charm.
I’m about to leave the studio to execute my next diabolical plan that may or may not include a certain goth Barbie when my phone vibrates on the work table.
Now, I won’t be winning a Son of the Year award anytime soon, but I don’t usually ignore Mum’s calls.
I pick up the video call with a grin. “Morning to the most beautiful queen.”
Mum laughs, her face radiating. Bran and I inherited the shape of her eyes, while Glyn has her facial structure.
Astrid C. King, as per her paintings’ signature, is the reason all three of us have artistic genes, though I have the strongest, mixed with a dash of chaos.
She soon narrows her eyes. “Why are you buttering me up first thing in the morning? Are you hiding something?”
“Just the fact that you’re the best mum ever, maybe?”
She laughs again.
It’s easy to deal with my parents because I just unleash my inner boy who actually appreciates them.
Mum is a tad better than Dad, though. He, for some reason, still holds a grudge that I pushed Bran and called Glyn unnecessary when we were kids.
So I veered to pretending that I love them to death and that seems to work wonders.
“Stop it, seriously.” She sobers up. “We haven’t spoken in a while.”
“A while being two days.”
“Still too much. All three of you are living far away from home and I just miss you.”
“We miss you, too, but Bran and I have been away from home for over five years now.”
“Still doesn’t get easier.” She sighs with enough drama to rival soap opera actors.
And my mum isn’t even the dramatic type.
“We were never meant to stay,” I say while staring at my collection of clay statues that lie around like ghostly puppets.
“Drive that knife deeper, would you?”
“I wouldn’t dare knife my own mother.” I grin. “We’ll visit soon.”
That’s literally the whole point behind her terrible act.
As expected, her expression lights up. “Bring Bran and Glyn. Kill, too.”
“Only if Killian gets to be brought chopped to pieces and shoved in a freezer.”
“Landon!” She gasps, her eyes chastising me all the way to Sunday.
“What? It’s no secret that I don’t like the twat.”
“Your sister loves him.”
