Page 8 of Dark & Deceitful

I snort as a lopsided smile briefly transforms my face into something other than worry. “I’ll take that under advisement.” Or I won’t. Because I’ve never had a boyfriend, let alone the desire to share multiple men. I wouldn’t know the first thing to do with one penis, let alone multiple. Bleck.

She goes on. “One of the men could have been your father.”

“I know.” That’s how all of Mom’s stories go—sharing far too much information about her sexual freedoms and finishing it with how one of those men could have been my father. A free spirit to the core, Mom has never lived by social norms. I’ve been homeschooled all my life, never to make any real friends apart from those we met on our many adventures. Since the day I was born in the bathroom stall at a rock concert, I think it was Bon Jovi, or was it Kiss? I can’t remember. It’s been us against the world. Or that’s what Mom has always said.

“Do you think there will be peace when I die?” she whispers to herself or one of the many invisible friends she’s made as of late. They talk for hours sometimes. The spirits, she calls them. We don’t believe in Christianity or God. Not in the traditional, holy, worship-me-or-you’ll-go-to-Hell sense. Mom’s a scholar of the world, and she’s taught me much about worldly religions, new and old. When she dies, finishing her pilgrimage of life, my hope is she’s reborn again—following the cycle of samsara.

Leaving her to talk to her visitors in private, I carefully set Mom’s hand back on the edge of the bed, on top of her crocheted blanket. Not knowing if she’ll be alive when I return, I peck her forehead, and she hums as if she knows I’m there.

“I love you. You can go whenever you’re ready.”

Mom hums once more as I depart and turns her head slightly to whisper to her spirits once more, this time in Gaelic, a language she picked up from her time in Scotland, years before I was born.

Outside her room, I stop to breathe as a young, blonde nurse I see every day walks by to check on us. “How are you, Kali?”

“As good as I can be. She’s busy.” I nod toward Mom’s closed door.

“Talking to the Viking?”

I shrug. “No? Maybe?”

Nurse Christy smiles warmly and pats me on the shoulder. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks.”

In the hospice wing, I make my way to the small kitchen and sitting room they have for visiting family—something plucked right out of the nineteen-eighties with its paneled walls, brown carpet, and ugly couches. If I’m not with my mom, I’m here, taking a break and eating whatever they have in stock because I have no money for food, gas, or… well, anything. The nurses have been kind enough to leave extras for me—a hot meal here,an extra sandwich there. Each is left with a sticky note and my name on it. It's pity food for the girl with the dying mom, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Peeling the purple note from a sub in the fridge, I unwrap the foot-long and carry it, along with a bottle of water, over to the couch to eat. The television is on in the corner, playing the Soaps with closed captioning to keep the volume down.

Margaret and Deacon sure hate each other in today’s episode.

A door opens and closes. There’s a masculine clearing of a throat.

I freeze at the sound and crane my neck to see who’s here. A man with dark hair, the most startling gray eyes, and the kindest smile lifts his chin at me just inside the door. I forget to blink, much less say hello. I simply stare, wide-eyed and dumbstruck, becauseholy hotness. He’s wearing a vest. It’s black leather with patches all over.

His smile widens, showing off a row of pearly whites as his head tilts to the side, watching me watch him, as if he doesn’t have a single care in the world. That makes one of us. Lucky guy.

The door behind him opens, and my mouth falls open as a boy, no,man, much closer to my age than the other, steps around the other gentleman—same hair color, same eyes, same height, similar build. Oh, wow… there are two of them. Father and son?

The newcomer doesn’t notice my awe because he doesn’t even notice me as he addresses his brother… Friend?

“Pops, why you standin’ here?”

Ah.

His father.

Makes sense.

Pops, the man in question, tilts his chin at me, and that’s when the spell breaks, and I jerk around, face-forward, cheeksblazing as hot as the sun. Hunching forward to look as small as humanly possible, I take enormous bites of my sub to get it eaten before they get a chance to talk to me. Because what would I say? What do you say to those visiting the hospice wing? The only other people I’ve encountered in this room were two elderly women saying goodbye to their husbands, and they sobbed. We didn’t talk.

The opposite side of the couch dips, and a wave of nerves crashes through me.

“I’m Sunshine,” the older man introduces.

I say nothing and stuff more of the sub into my mouth.

What kind of name is Sunshine?

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