Page 69 of Slay the Gay Away, Daddy

I take a heavy step forward. “And I ought to get your husband’s rocks off.”

She blinks at me, and her fingers uncurl as a small smile forms on her face. “Credit where credit is due. That was a good one.”

I nod. “I thought so too.”

“I hate you at times,” she adds, “but I think I’m coming around.” She whirls around and heads toward her bedroom on the other side of the foyer. Looking over her shoulder, she adds, “This isn’t over, Darren. I’ll get you again, and when I do, it’s going to be exquisite.”

“Bring it on,” I goad, sliding my hand into Miles’ and leading him out of the living room and upstairs, because I’m bored of Mal now. I pause on the first step, feeling a twinge of something I’ve never felt before. Well, something I’ve never felt toward Mal before, at least.

Guilt. Maybe a hint of regret. Groaning at myself for somehow falling victim to the charm and charisma of Mallory fucking Brooks, I tell Miles to head upstairs, and I make my way to her bedroom. The door is open, and she’s grabbing a book from her bookshelf when I come to a stop in her doorway. I knock gently, and when she looks up at me, she seems surprised.

“What is it this time?” she asks, though not unkindly. “Did you come to set every article of clothing I own on fire?”

I shake my head and stare down at my feet. “No. Someone should, but I don’t have any plans to destroy anymore of your disastrous denim skirts.” I peek up in time to catch Mal rolling her eyes and plopping down on bed. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

She looks up at me and cocks a brow. “You’re sorry?”

“Yeah. For the pictures. I think I went too far,” I say. She pats the empty space beside her, and I narrow my eyes. “I am not fucking you, Mallory Brooks.”

She makes a sound like she’s going to vomit, and I don’t think it’s an act. She looks like she might actually throw up at any second. “For God’s sake, eww, Darren. What the hell?”

“You were beckoning me over like a woman of the night on a lonely street corner.” I aim an accusatory finger at her. “I am here, I am queer, and I’ll fucking tear you asunder if you ever try to sleep with me again.”

She’s got a glass of ice water on her bedside table, beside the picture I left her earlier. I guess she hasn’t seen it, because if so, you would be weeping tears of extreme emotional fulfillment, not—

“Don’t you dare throw that ice cube at me, you motherfu—”

It smacks me right between my newly narrowed eyes.

“Sorry . . . you were saying?”

I dramatically wipe residual water from my face and stare at my fingers. “I’m wet,” I growl. “Who are you to get me wet?”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s fromReal Housewives of New York City. You may be able to impress Miles with recycled quotes, but the second you brought a television into this home, you dug your own grave.” She pauses, raising an amused eyebrow. “Did you just say ‘asunder’?”

“A-fucking-sunder,” I confirm. “And I’m not embarrassed. I know I probably should be, but I’m not, so there. I’m taking back my power.”

“The power of boring me half to death,” she says, chuckling. “Come here. I want to talk to you.”

Slowly, I shuffle over, my feet hardly leaving the ground as I make my way to her. I sit at the very edge of the bed, leaving as much space as possible between us. “You went a little overboard this time, but I kind of enjoyed the theatrics of it. You’re ridiculous and obnoxious, but . . .”

“But . . .?”

“But you’re family,” she says quietly, placing her hand on top of mine. “Miles’ family. My family. You always have been. Granted, I may not have always enjoyed the fact that you’re a part of this family, but it’s just that. A fact. You’re outrageous, and absolutely unhinged, but I like the chaos that follows you around. It keeps my life interesting, and my life has been pretty stagnant for a while. That’s why I didn’t call either of you out for your late-night rendezvouses upstairs. You give Miles something I never have. You make him happy. He’s practically giddy around you. I’ve never seen him as happy as he is now.” Her grip tightens around my hand. “He’s come alive over the last few months, and it’s completely changed the dynamic of our home. I like that.” She swallows, staring down at her hand on top of mine. “If you ever repeat this, I’ll put powdered glass in your mouthwash, but I love having you here.” She mumbles something else under her breath that I can’t make out.

“You sound like you’re talking with a mouthful of marbles right now. I didn’t understand a word you just said.”

“I said,” she says, sighing, “I guess I love you a little?”

I don’t know why it sounds like a question. I’m a very lovable individual. Still, it feels really good to hear it coming from her.

“I guess I kind of love you too,” I agree, quickly adding, “in our own way. You’re like the mother I never wanted.”

“I think you mean ‘never had’.”

I shake my head. “I said what I said. I didn’t want you in my life.” I pause when I see the hurt on her face, but I’m not done with my statement, so she can give that look to someone who cares. “But you’re in it. You’ve always been in it. Annoying to no end, but that’s just your charm.” I scoot a few inches closer, as does she. When we meet in the middle, we lean back against the headboard, and I rest my head on her shoulder. She weaves our fingers together and squeezes. Darting my eyes up, I catch her eyeing me. “You’ve been more of a mom to me than my own mother. My mom let me down a lot.”

“I know,” she says, looking more empathetic than I've ever seen her. “I know she did.”

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