Page 59 of Fiery Romance

I snarl at him, “And iftheytold you to jump off a cliff, would you do that too?”

“If I wanted to,” he mumbles.

“Speak up, soldier!”

He lifts his head. “I saidif I wanted to!”

My eyes are about to pop out of my face. I feel like that tea pot Anya used to treasure. It had some kind of mechanism that made it scream in high alto when it was boiling.

Right now, I’m hitting the highest note in the universe.

I squeeze my eyes shut and take deep, harsh breaths. Anything I say from this point on is probably going to break my kid. I know when I’m inching close to the line and right now, the line is in my rear view mirror.

“I’m taking you to the warehouse.”

He whips his head around. “Why?”

“You’re going to clean the gym equipment, sweep the offices, take out the trash and do whatever other chore the janitors can cook up. And then, when you’re home, you’re going to clean all over again.”

His face goes pale and he shoots up like an arrow. “That’s not fair.”

“No, that’s more than fair,” I snap. “You want to do adult things, Abe? Well, welcome to the world of adulthood. It’s doing hard work that no one thanks you for and making sacrifices even when you don’t feel like it.”

“It wasn’t even that big of a deal! It was just one smoke!”

“And it’s just one school play, but with this type of behavior, maybe you don’t deserve to perform!”

He turns his face away and stares an angry hole into the window. “I hate you.”

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

How could three little words hurt like hell? I glance down at my torso, surprised there’s no blood pouring. Surprised there’s not a severed limb or a gruesome hacked off knee cap.

When I feel tears stinging at my eyes, I know it’s time for me to focus on driving and not on this bomb of a conversation.

I’ll go to the warehouse with my freshly-suspended son.

I’ll leave him in the care of a janitor.

And then I’m leaving an imprint of my fist in that freaking punching bag.

* * *

Genevieve keeps showingup like one of those unwanted ghosts at a haunted house.

I frown as she traipses into my office, looking extremely out of place in her all-pink outfit, hair coiffed on top of her head and naked mole rat of a cat walking on a leash behind her.

“What are you doing here?” I ask in a strained tone.

She gestures to a tall, thin man who looks like a funeral director. I wonder if Genevieve met him while planning for her husband’s funeral. A funeral that—probably to her dismay—has yet to come.

“Mr. Bolton, we are officially filing a petition for custody.” He shoves a document at me, eyes smug behind his over-priced designer glasses.

It’s only years of training, mental fortitude, and a strong grip on my temper that keep me from grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back until he bleats like a goat.

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