Page 93 of Choices

Kicking down the stand, I swing my leg clear and punch my feet into the concrete, surveying the manicured lawn with flowers arranged in circular beds. I know it’s not me gardening, and it sure as fuck isn’t Claire.

A neighbor across the street glares at me, clinging to her kid’s shoulders, afraid to let go, like I’m going to snatch him and straphim to my bike or something. “Afternoon.” I salute, and she hurries him inside.

“Our house” my ass.

Flicking through my keys, I walk up the couple steps to the front door and push the key in the lock, letting myself inside. A vanilla scent hits me in the face, irritating the back of my throat before I even get the door shut. The floorboards flex under my weight as I walk through the hallway and into the living room. Bleak white walls decorated with pictures of fashion icons and cityscapes give the place an impersonal touch. Looking around for a place to sit, I decide I’m better off standing.

You’d never know a kid lived here. Every piece of furniture is cream and immaculate, not a cushion out of place.

Striding through to the kitchen, I pull open the fridge and grimace. Fruit juice and lettuce fill every shelf. The sound of a car pulling up draws my eyes to the window as Claire pulls into the drive next to my bike. She climbs out and waltzes up to the house.

Her heels announce her entry, clicking across the wood floors. “Liam?”

“In here,” I call out, leaning my ass against the countertop.

Dumping her purse on the island opposite me, she unwinds a flowery scarf from her neck and brushes her hands down the front of her shirt.

“Where’s Rocco?” I ask, frowning.

“You said we needed to talk. I thought it would be better to do it without him here.” Going to the fridge, she pulls out a bottle of water and hands it to me.

“Water?” I scoff.

“I don’t keep beer in the house.”

“You need to put some real food in the fridge,” I inform her.

“That is real food. We like it, and you’re never here, so…” She quirks a brow.

“Rocco needs more than one food group.”

“Are you here to lecture me on what I feed our son or is there something else you needed to talk to me about?”

“No. I came to talk to you about a couple things.”

“What are they?” She looks tired. Bags sit under her eyes, and she’s not wearing as much makeup as usual.

“This morning at the club, why did you address Michael by name?”

“Address him? Why are you talking like that?” She purses her lips.

“Like what? Fucking English? Just answer the damn question.” I push off the counter and stand to my full height, bearing down on her.

Hitching a shoulder, she turns away and pulls a clip from her hair, shaking her head and running her fingers through it. “I was startled to see him. It just came out.”

“Do you know him personally?” My tone is ice-cold. I watch her closely, scrutinizing her response.

“What?” She balks, spinning to face me. Placing a hand on her chest, she shakes her head. “No, of course not. What are you accusing me of?”

Loosening my posture, I relax back against the counter. “Calm the fuck down. I was just asking a question.” Anyone would think she’s done something criminal and is about to face a firing squad. She’s not fooling anyone.

“Do you want to tell me what all that was about this morning?” She fidgets with her hands nervously.

“It was nothing to worry about.” I uncap the water and take a swig, my mouth dry as fuck from last night’s binge drinking. A dull headache sits over my eyes.

“Didn’t seem like nothing. Michael was bleeding, and that man was missing a hand.” She covers her mouth as if it revolts her to the point of puking. I’m not buying it.

“Like I said, it’s nothing for you to worry about.”

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