Page 95 of A Little Moore Action
“Liz isn’t… well, she isn’t…”
“She isn’t what, Mom?”
“She isn’t your father’s.” The words come fast and hot, like a shotgun blast.
They slam me back into the couch. “Holy fucking shit.”
“Yes.” She nods. “Holy fucking shit.” Then, having purged herself of secrets, the proud and beautiful Emily Moore stands. And starts to straighten up my mess.
“Uh, Mom.” I shift on the couch, prepared to get up. “You don’t need to clean, Mom.”
“I know.” She shifts her glassy eyes around the apartment. “But I want to.”
I’m not such a complete douchebag that I’d just sit back and watch my mom pick up my room. “Uh, okay, then. I’ll help.”
Fifteen minutes later, the curtains are open, the trash has been taken out, and Mom’s forced two glasses of water down my throat. Well, not really. She simply suggested them, and I obliged. It’s not too late to be a momma’s boy, right?
Mom moves toward my bedroom. “Time for a shower.”
I run a hand through my admittedly greasy hair with a smirk. “I know it’s been a while, Mom. But I can shower all by myself these days.”
“I always loved your jokes.” She looks sort of sad when she says this, so I deflect the best way I know how.
“Of course you do.” I flex for effect. “Because I’m awesome.” The smell of my raised arm makes my eyes cross.
Her laugh sounds breathless and rusty, but to me, it sounds like magic.
“Yes, you are.” She walks into my bedroom and heads for the closet. She pulls out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt that reads “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t want to come,” proving where my sense of humor comes from. “You’re also going to finally have a chat with your brother.”
Well, shit.
Bell
“Did you get everything I sent?”My pen taps louder and harder the longer we talk.
“Yes.” Thomas’s calm voice is as infuriating as ever. “But I wish you’d reconsider.”
The Houston skyline glows orange-red from the morning sun. I wanted to get to the office first thing to make sure all the information was sent to New York correctly and on time.
“You need to focus on more important things, T-money.”
His sigh sounds exasperated. “You know what’s scary?”
“What’s that?”
“I’m getting used to your nicknames.”
An unladylike bark of laughter escapes. In the past few days, Thomas and I have struck up an unlikely friendship. It probably helps that it was mostly over emails and phone calls so I didn’t have to see his annoyingly superior facial expressions.
“Mom says Chase agreed to talk to me.”
The sound of his name is enough to wipe the smile from my face. “That’s good.” I clear my throat to stop the emotion from coming up. “I’ve got to go, Chuckles.”
Another sigh. This time sad. The man can run through the whole emotional dictionary on sighs alone. “Thanks for everything, Bell.”
Ten minutes after we hang up, I’m still staring at the skyline. Déjà vucreeps in, but I shake it off. I may be back in the same spot I was before Chase Moore’s call and New York, but I’mnotthe same person.
As if to make me prove it, Leslie saunters in. “This is bullshit, you know.”
