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“What's his name?”
I drop my head to my hands. “Jesus Christ.”
“Funny, I was under the impression he died.”
“Please stop.”
A napkin snaps in my direction. “Tell me!”
“His name is Jackson, alright?”
“Oscar Jackson?”
I blink, gaping at my mother, partly in horror, partly in confusion. “How the fuck do you know that?”
That bastard napkin comes flying towards me again. “Language!”
Batting her away, I repeat my question. “How the hell do you know who Jackson is?”
“I subscribe to the UCSV Newsroom,” she tells me, way too nonchalant for my liking. “Someone there is very fond of the baseball team.”
Yeah. I know. Made that comment once or twice myself, perhaps a touch snarkier.
“He’s cute, Lu.”
I hum a nondescript reply.
“The long hair though?”
“It grows on you.”
Ma whistles, loud and teasing. “I need to meet this boy. Must be pretty special if he has you blushing like that.”
An accurate observation; I think I've blushed more in the past few weeks than I have in my entire life.
“What about you?” I counter, praying she lets me turn the conversation back on her. It's not that I don't want to tell her about Jackson. I do, I really do, because I have a feeling she would adore him. Actually, I have a feeling most mothers would weep with joy if Jackson was the boy their child brought home. I just don't want to talk about him when I can still feel his hands on my ass and his cock down my throat. “Any special man in your life?”
Luckily, my attempt is successful, and my mother’s amused snort tells me all I need to know.
“What about the guy buying all your paintings?”
“Theanonymousguy buying all my paintings,” Ma corrects. “I wouldn't even knowhewas aheif his assistant didn't refer to him as'sir'all the time.”
“That's kind of creepy.”
“He's paying me,” Ma says, deadpan as he proves I am, in fact, my mother’s daughter. “I don't care.”
25
LUNA
I don't knowhow I ended up here.
I tried to avoid them, I really did. I made it two whole days without so much as a glimpse of my old friends. But one trip to my favorite coffee shop and I got cornered, and subsequently dragged out for the night.
A club is the last place I want to be. I would much rather be curled up on my mom's lumpy couch gorging on leftovers, maybe with a movie in the background and Jackson on FaceTime.
But either I'm weak or Eva and Bea are exceptionally manipulative because here I am, shotting tequila in a tight dress after providing entirely too small of an argument.
