Page 1 of Ruthless Passion

1

JOSEPHINE

Thunderous thumps from my 8-year-old son, Jett, leaping down the last few steps snag my attention as he lands like a superhero. We're already behind schedule this morning and have to get out of the house before rush hour traffic gets worse. At least his shoes match, laces are tied, and clothes are mostly presentable.

"Freeze." I call out to him from the kitchen doorway. My eyes start at the top of his curly blonde which dangles around his chin. Perfectly loose curls, silky and clean. My mom-scan moves from his face to his frosty blue eyes above his crooked smile with one missing tooth. That's when I spot it. Well, smell it.

"Whatever that is, trash it," I tell him, scrunching my nose with disgust.

"But Uncle Collin said I could wear his lucky socks. I have gym today, Mom. Big Mickey is QB. I'm his wide receiver, like Uncle Collin. His socks make me faster. You should have seen me play last week. 14 carries, 22 yards, and 3 touchdowns. I'm not wearing them all day, only for the game after school. Please," he begs with those gorgeous pools of Carolina blues.

I catch another whiff of the foul-smelling garments and shake my head. "You have to put those things in like a HAZMAT container. Why haven't you washed them?"

Jett pulls the offensive pair of tube socks, which should be white but are more yellow, out of his pocket. After a quick dash into the kitchen, he pops in and out of the laundry room and comes to a stop in front of me. There's a smile of triumph across his peach-hued face as he holds up the pair in a Ziplock bag, carelessly wrapped in fabric softener sheets.

"Sniff," he commands. I scrunch my face and gingerly move my nose toward it.

"It's not putrid, but at least you won't knock out the rest of your fourth-grade class, and I won't pass out on the drive to school. Do you have everything else?" I ask, fully aware I don't have the energy to argue him down or deal with his emotions if I throw the socks in the trash.

"Yup, I'm good to go." He bounds through the door with his curls bouncing like a shampoo commercial.

If only I could get my hair to be as healthy and vibrant. Nope, my Plain Jane brunette ringlets tangle and mangle with a single drop of moisture. So, of course, I douse my hair in water and product to slick it back into a presentable messy bun for the day. After making sure I look like a functioning adult, I grab my bag, and keys, and dash out house behind Jett.

The drive from the house to Jett's school is normally full of questions or tales of dread about what the cafeteria plans to serve for lunch. However, this morning's drive is shattered when a familiar number flashes across my phone screen. If I don't answer it to preserve my sanity, the man behind the number will ensure I’m miserable for the rest of the day.

"Morning, Duke," I chirp, answering the call through the car's system. "You're on speaker."

"Listen, I don't care about that. I need to change the arrangement," Duke blurts. The aggravation in his voice is palpable.

"You've already changed the visitation schedule twice. I don't know what else you want me to do, Duke. Every other weekend was the schedule you picked?—"

Duke cuts me off. "Listen to me, you little weasel of a cunt."

My eyes dart over to Jett, who has his earbuds in, and I'm hoping he can't hear the way his father speaks to me.

"You TRAPPED me into this shit after you lied to me. You're lucky I've been trying to work with you this long," he bellows into the car.

I take a deep breath, wondering how I can talk him down to ease the tension until I get Jett to school and out of the car. "Duke, I never lied. I got pregnant. I was 15."

"You broke the rules. You were never supposed to get pregnant. And for fuck's sake, you were never supposed to keep the bloody shit. You know what? Forget changing the arrangement. I don't know why I thought you'd be a reasonable fucking human being for once. I'm trying to do the right thing. I have a job prospect to coach for the UFL, and neither one of you are going to stand in my way. I want to terminate my rights."

My heart stops as I glance at Jett, who still appears to be listening to his phone through his earbuds.

"Duke, I'm in the car right now and can't talk about this. Please give me twenty minutes to drop Jett at school and I’ll call you right back." My nose stings from tears building behind my eyes. Why do I want to cry? It’s a godsend for him to want to be out of Jett's life, out of mine; to no longer be a man called his father.

"No. I'm willing to give you fifteen grand to be done with all of this shit. I already have the papers drawn up. We can meet at the family court tomorrow morning because I'm done. I shouldn't have to be a father to a kid I never wanted, with a woman who doesn't know how to fucking listen."

Jett's angry. His grinding teeth and clenched jaw draw my gaze, revealing he's not ignoring the conversation. The rage building inside of him engulfs the car's interior with tension so high it wouldn't surprise me if the windows shatter. I should have waited to answer the phone, but I didn't know this was how this discussion would go.

Jett's sharp voice shouts at the radio, "Well, this kid never wanted a father like you."

Jett reaches over to the steering wheel and pushes the button to end the call, then folds his arms across his chest.

"He's such a shit," Jett huffs. His reddened face turns away from me, not wanting me to see the welling of tears in his eyes.

"Language," I admonish him, even though the situation calls for many four-letter words. He snaps his head toward me and I sigh; disciplining his language is unnecessary. "You're right. He is a shit, but you're only eight and shouldn't use words like that."

He uses his sleeve to wipe his eyes. "I'm almost nine. And don't you tell me that sometimes a good cuss word is the only word that fits? Well, it fits him. All he does is yell and tell me to cut my hair. I like my hair, and he shouldn't call you names. He makes me so angry."

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