Page 7 of Sexting the Don

She lifts her eyes to me for only a moment before returning her attention to the mess at her feet. A small pile of glass lays on the kitchen floor, amber liquid pooling around it. I crane my neck to spot the label, and sure enough, it’s Jimmy’s brand of whiskey.

I hurry over. “Mom, what happened? Please don’t tell me he hit you or anything like that.”

Mom shakes her head weakly. I can tell right away that whatever went down between her and Jimmy has taken the fight out of her, at least for the night.

“No, you know your father doesn’t hit me, as angry as he gets. We were just having an argument, and I tried to get his attention, take the bottle out of his hand, and he yanked it. The thing fell on the ground and …splat.”

“Let me get it, Mom.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but it’s clear she doesn’t have the energy. I gently take the broom and dustpan from her hands and go to work. The smell of whiskey is thick in the air, almost intolerably so. Growing up with a father like Jimmy, alcohol never seemed all that appealing to me. I could count the number of drinks I’ve had on two hands and still have fingers left over.

“How was work?”

My mind flashes back to Jimmy sitting at the table across from me and then to Enzo Martelli. How the hell am I supposed to tell Mom any of that?

“It was fine. Pretty slow, so they let me go early.”

Mom eases into the chair at our small kitchen table, letting out a sigh. She’s weary—not just physically, but mentally. And I’d bet anything that Jimmy hasn’t told her the extent of what’s going on with his debts.

No need to add to her worries, not yet anyway.

“He didn’t hit me,” she repeats.

“I know. I believe you.” I brush the rest of the glass into the dustpan and fetch a paper grocery bag from the cupboard to dump the glass into. “But I bet he yelled, grabbed you, called you every nasty name in the book.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“It’s always bad, Mom. You don’t need to lie to me.”

I grab the roll of paper towels from next to the sink, ripping off a wad and placing them under the faucet. As I do, I notice that the kitchen’s still a mess from dinner. Mom hasn’t had a chance to clean up.

“You’re working early tomorrow, right, sweetheart?” she asks.

“Yep, bright and early. And I know you are, too.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve been pulling early shifts for as long as I can remember.” Her eyes light up like something just occurred to her. “You’re working with Natalie Winters tomorrow, right?”

Mom’s thrilled that I’ve been rubbing elbows with up-and-coming Hollywood royalty. I never have much gossip in my line of work, but that doesn’t stop Mom from asking now and then.

“Sure am.”

“God, she’s so pretty. And talented. What was that last movie she was in, the one with that guy from Euphoria?”

“Hearts on Fire?” I reply. “The one where he’s off at war?”

“That’s the one.” Mom places her hand on her chest, shaking her head. “She was so lovely. Hard to believe she’s not a bigger star.”

I drop down to my knees and start wiping the floor with the paper towels, making sure to get every last little granule of glass and drop of whiskey.

“She’s right on the verge.” I push myself off the floor and head over to the garbage can. “She’s got a lot of talent. It’s only a matter of time.”

Mom smiles. “And when she does make it, she’s going to take you right up there with her. Trust me, that’s how things work in this town.”

I laugh nervously. “Hey, if she can hook me up with a high-profile client or two, I won’t complain.”

Once the glass is all cleaned up, I give the air a spritz with an air freshener to clear the smell of cheap alcohol from the room.

Mom turns her attention to the rest of the mess in the kitchen—plates in the sink and a counter that desperately needs a wipe down.

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