Page 44 of Fighting the Odds

I drop my bookbag to the floor and dart across the room, catching her just before her face hits the tile floor. Her glass crashes to the ground, shattering, and I can smell the fragrant mixture of leather, tobacco and caramel of the bourbon she’s drinking.

“Wesley, sweetheart, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at school?” she asks, her words slurred. I help her up and over to the living room, easing her down into a chair.

“School’s out, Mom. Why wouldn’t I be home?”

“Nonsense. It’s only eleven in the morning.”

I shake my head, breathing deeply. “No, it's almost four thirty. How many drinks have you had today?”

She just waves me off as she tries to sit up, but loses her balance again, falling back into the chair.

“Why are you asking such a silly question? I’m a grown woman,” she mumbles, only spurring my rage for my father. He’s the reason she drinks like she does.

“Millie. Millie,” I call loudly, before our sweet, robust maid rounds the corner.

“Yes, Mr. Wesley?”

“There’s some spilled liquid and broken glass by the steps. Could you clean it up, please? Then, when you’re done, bring my mom something to eat in her room.”

She looks at me, sadness in her eyes. Millie sees what mother has become thanks to my father’s infidelity. “Yes, sir. Do you need any help getting her back to her room?”

“Both of you need to stop talking like I’m not in the room and an invalid. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” With those words, my mother pushes up from the chair and manages to stumble out of the room, barely missing the broken glass as she heads back up the stairs.

“You’re a good son, Mr. Wesley,” Millie tells me before heading off to clean up the mess.

Millie’s words hit me hard, crashing into my chest, knocking the breath out of me. If I were a good son, I’d beg my mom to leave my shithole of a father, and stop drinking herself into an early grave.

One day I’m not going to be here to catch her when she falls, and that’s what worries me. My biggest fear is coming home and finding her in a broken heap at the bottom of the stairs, lying in a pool of blood and liquor.

Would my father be sad? Or would he just rush out into the next whore’s arms?

I grab my discarded bookbag, snatching it up by the strap and head upstairs to my bedroom. Anger boils under my skin and I need to burn off some tension before I fuck someone or something up.

I’ve just stepped into my bedroom, tossing my keys on top of my dresser, when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and look at the message on the screen, noticing that I also have a missed call from the same number. As I read, the bigger my smile gets.

Unknown: This is Rico with Tiger Tails. I called and left a message but took a hunch this was a cellphone. I wanted to discuss the details of your request today prior to this weekend. Please message or call me back at this number.

I fist pump before collecting myself. It’s time for another bitch to go down and I plan to make it happen. Okay, I need to think about how I’m going to handle this.

I breathe in deep, hold it for a second, then blow it out. I do this three times just like… No, I can’t let my mind drift to her. She’s a skank and the sole reason I am the way I am now and why my mom drinks. I need to find a new way to calm myself when I get carried away that wasn’t taught to me by… her.

Me: Yes I can text or call. I’m interested in booking a private dance with Lilac. It would be myself and possibly one more and as soon as possible. I’ve heard she’s a great dancer.

It’s not even a minute later when the phone rings. The number I just messaged flashing across the screen. I inhale, then click the little green phone.

“Hello.” I deepen my voice to sound older.

“Yes, is this Wes?” The voice coming through the line is gruff. Almost as if he’s annoyed to speak with me.

“It is, Wes Cox. I’m so glad to hear from you.” I lay it on thick in my most convincing voice. Honestly, I couldn’t care less about seeing this bitch dance. I just want to confront her.

“Lilac is available Saturday night. I can reserve a thirty-minute slot with her from ten to ten thirty. It will be three hundred and fifty for the time. If there’s two of you, it will need to be upped to four hundred, and that does not include her tip. There will be no touching of Lilac unless she personally agrees to it. Money will need to be paid in advance prior to the dance.”

Damn, bitch must put on a damn good show to be that expensive, but since daddy dearest is paying, money’s no object.

“No problem. Cash okay, or do you prefer credit card?”

“Cash. It will need to be paid to our doorman, and he’ll direct you to the room.” His voice is curt, but I don’t fucking care. It’s like he’s having a pissing competition on the phone with me over this bitch. Makes me wonder if he’s fucking her, too.

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