Page 56 of Strelitzias in Spring

“Oh, so you do remember that you have a mother. It’s been so long that I wasn’t sure if my child decided to emancipate himself.”

“I’m twenty-five; I’m already emancipated.” Unlike my science and math-minded aunts and uncles, my mother is a high school drama teacher and makes everything a production. CeCe and I are probably so close because she reminds me of my mother with her theatrics.

“Such a smartass. Are you ready for the game at the end of the month?”

“Fight, Mom, not a game.”

“Whatever it is. Are you ready? Are you nervous? How do you feel?”

“I’m good, as ready as I can be.”

“Have I mentioned how happy I am that you’re stopping your matches? I hate seeing black eyes on my baby.” I don’t correct her use of the term matches; after this next fight, I’m retiring.

“So you remind me every time we speak.”

“Watch your tone, Wolfric Magnus McCleery. Anyway, Celeste called me last night and let me know she, her boyfriend, and their friends were coming to the spectacle. I haven’t spoken to Aunt Donna or Aunt Fiona yet, but I assume your other cousins are coming, as well?”

I swallow against the wave of lust that just attacked my cock at the mention of my cousin’s friends. I could give two shits about the guys, and Ava is more like a cousin than anything else, but my mind stutters at the thought of the deceptively serene hellcat. Serena has seen me as an artist, never as a fighter, and I don’t know if I even like the idea of exposing her to that side of my life. It feels too intimate, too personal, and I balk at the idea that she’ll know every fucking facet of who I am.

I don’t want the knowledge that Serena has ridden my cock like a champ, has my artwork on her body, and will see me beat a man to a pulp to turn me on. But fuck me, it does. Shaking my head, I think,She’s not for me, before I ask my mom, “How’s Dad?”

“Okay, I see we’re not talking about Celeste or your other cousins. He bought a pickleball membership, said a few of the guys at the club were talking about playing pickleball, and, of course, he is easily influenced. Peer pressure works on him every damn time.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “Let him be; it’s better than drugs.” I glance up at the bar sign; Starbound Tavern is a hole-in-the-wall bar with great food, live music, and a decent beer list. I shouldn’t indulge with a fight so close, but after the shit Kelly pulled today, I need a beer.

“Listen, Ma, I’m about to get something to eat. Can I call you back tomorrow?”

“Oh sure, call me back because your mother is just going to wait by the phone for when you deign to grace me with your verbal presence.”

“Mom,” I huff out.

“Fine. I love you, get home safe. Call me in the morning, or else I’m showing up at your house.”

“Love you too, Mom.” I pocket my phone and open the door to the bar.

I’m not surprised that the place is busy tonight; less than an hour from the city and bordering the college town of West Helm, there are a lot of bankers, professors, and families who live in Millsbrook. I nod my head at the bartender, Lance, and take a seat at the far corner of the bar, away from anyone who may want to talk to me but in a good position to see anyone who comes into the bar.

All I need is one look at Kelly or Gage, and I’ll run out the back door, get my ass on my bike, and head back home.

“Hey man, good to see you. It’s been a while.”

“Hey, Lance. Training and clients are kicking my ass.”

He nods, setting down a menu as a formality, though I already know what I’m getting.

“I’ll do a Dog’s Run IPA and a burger, medium, American cheese, and extra pickles.”

“I’ll have the kitchen start on that, boss.”

Lance reaches down to grab a chilled glass and pours the beer expertly, leaving just enough foam at the top to give it a good head that doesn’t need to settle before I take a sip. When I’m driving or on the back of my bike, I rarely indulge in alcohol, and if I do, then only a single beer—not willing to put myself or anyone else at risk from overconsumption or drunk driving.

I lift the glass to take a sip when a horrifying black wig enters the room, attached to the head of a face I know entirely too well, one that looks shockingly similar to mine. Following is a woman with discount store lavender synthetic hair and three men. I watch as they make their way across the bar and settle into a booth, my cousin and Ava sitting facing the door, being as inconspicuous as two wig-wearing women can be while Dante and two other guys sit across from them.

A waiter approaches almost instantly, presumably asking for ID. My cousin and Ava have the good sense to shake their heads while Dante and the other guys hand over their IDs.

Dropping my beer back down, I push myself out of the barstool but stop as honey-blonde hair captures my attention from the corner of my eye. Turning, I see Serena enter, wearing jeans that should be illegal and a short black puffer jacket. Her short hair is artfully messy, like she styled it that way, and her skin fucking emits light, a beacon in a bar that prides itself on dimness.

My jaw hardens as a tall, slim-as-shit guy walks in after her and places his hand on the small of her back as though he has a right to touch her. I can’t hear their conversation, and I’m not a goddamn lip reader, but based on his free hand motioning toward the booths along the back wall, it’s obvious his intent. Serena’s smile is straining, and satisfaction ripples over my body when she discreetly steps out of his hold, one that I should punch myself in the face for feeling.

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