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Graham is a man of action anyway. His actions scream louder than any words he will say. He’s proven it time and time again both in and out of the pit. My pit crew chief is a lover of all things about a woman. He hasn’t met a taco he’d turn down. Present him with a sausage and after he stopped laughing out loud, he’d leave that sausage where it stood.
His words not mine.
He winks at me. We share a knowing look before we each nod towards Hope. Graham stands a half foot taller than Hope’s five-foot four frame. I’ve got him by a few inches. Mr. “Dark Ambition” flares his nostrils then widens his eyes before waggling his eyebrows. Leave it to Graham to be the comic relief in an awkward situation.
The “dark ambition” name is one that stems from his family. When he explains it, he says his brother gave him that nickname because he’s the darkest of his siblings. I don’t believe that’s the real reason. Yes, he’s darker than is sister and brother. I’m thinking someone discovered his proclivity to walking on the wild side or stepping into the dark side of bedroom antics.
Shaking my head, I slide through the space between the two of them then down the hall to the stairs that will take me to the main floor of the house. I hear movement behind me. As I reach the top landing,
“Ugh Jax! Why couldn’t you put on some clothes before opening the doors?”
I chuckle as I keep moving towards my destination.
“Hope, you chose to use a key that was given to you solely for the purposes of emergency use. You know, things like the house is on fire or I’m locked out. Or ...”
“You’re playing the role of dumbass, drunken Jax who can’t recall important dates or family functions?”
Hope is the only person in the world who calls me Jax. She refuses to call me by the nickname everyone in the racing world calls me. It’s as if she feels it’s beneath her or something. I laugh at it, but it irritates others. Others like Graham.
I’ve made it to my destination, the kitchen, where preparations for breakfast are being made. Snagging a glass and some fresh-squeezed orange juice, I stand at the island then look back at Graham and Hope. It’s then that I notice she’s in a soft pink flowy dress with a floral design along the side of the skirt. She has on a single chain necklace with four hearts and the word love in the center. It’s the one she wears daily. The other necklace is one that runs the length of her torso. She also has on heels.
Hope isn’t the type to put on a heel just to show off the skill she has in wearing them. She’s the one to put them on because the function demands it. If she’s in heels, something important is happening. Her usual choice of clothing is a gray pullover, vest, and print leggings. Those have become her staples during the soccer season. It’s the standard soccer mom uniform.
Graham is in a pastel blue suit with large, black buttons. Beneath the suit jacket is a crisp, white button-down shirt. He’s left the top three buttons open. His sneakers match his suit perfectly.
Seeing the two of them standing in the doorway waiting for me to clue into their unspoken point doesn’t help. It takes another beat for my alcohol-riddle brain to catch up.
“Fuck me!”
The words echo around the room as I really take it in. the kitchen is full of food. There’s a hell of a lot more here than I’d ever be able to consume.
“Not interested,” Graham announces.
“Neither am I,” Hope agrees.
I rush by them and make it to the stairs just as my front door opens. Taking the steps two at a time, I am a hungover track star as I race to prevent my mother’s birthday guests from seeing my bare ass. As I reach the doors to my bedroom, I hear my mother’s voice.
“Please tell me I’m going senile in my old age or something. I’m hoping that wasn’t my naked son I just saw running up those stairs.”
“You’re early. The team is still prepping things for everyone. We weren’t expecting you to arrive for another hour,” Hope says.
Her voice has gone up an octave as she tries to direct Mrs. Jeannine Shaw from her line of questioning.
“Nice try, My Darling Dear. Know that I know my son much better than most. I came early because I had a feeling it was going to take some extra encouragement to get that child of mine ready to celebrate me. I didn’t want to leave anything to chance. Am I to assume he’s up there showering and preparing to greet the guests for my party?”
“It shouldn’t take him long, Mrs. Shaw,” Graham offers.
“Graham, you know I love you like you’re one of my own but I’m going to ask you to stop blowing smoke up my ass. If I know him, he probably just woke up. It’s the reason I shifted the time of this event. I wanted to make sure to give him plenty of time to detox and make himself presentable.”
Mother Dearest speaks a little louder. I know it’s solely for my benefit. She wants to make sure I hear her. I’m quite sure anyone on the grounds heard. I should probably get the hell out of here. My balcony has a trellis. I could easily climb down it and escape all of this.
I might sound like the worst person alive, but most don’t know what it means to be her son. Yes, I’m the one who set this surprise in motion. It doesn’t mean I have to stick around for it. I shouldn’t be held accountable for my big ideas when I’m under the influence. I tend to get a little ambitious and overly giving when I’ve been drinking. Those spirits take over and my own spirit shifts into overdrive.
I’m sure my mother would love nothing more than to tell the story of the time her lovely son promised her an amazing breakfast full of all her favorites but didn’t decide to attend himself. She’d delight in telling everyone she knows how I ran away from a day of celebrating her just to fall into yet another bottle.
That would make her day.
“You changed the time? What time is it set to start?” Hope questions.
