Page 26 of Never Date A Player
My mom looks excitedly at Fred and says, “That won’t be a problem. We have a My Republic concert at ten.”
I choke on an ice chip from my water. “Mom, that’s like, a young band—for people my age.”
She rolls her eyes. “Gen, you don’t listen to music for people your age.”
So I sometimes stop on the easy listening station. Her point?
“Fred and I aren’t fuddy-duddies. We enjoy current stuff.”
My jaw drops. “Are you trying to tell me something?” My mom thinks I act too old for my age and my best friend feels I betrayed her. I can’t handle any more truths today.
She smiles and pats my hand, returning her attention to the drink menu. “Darling, you are perfect the way you are, even if your music choices are boring.”
And this is why I dread my mother’s appearance tonight. Boring isn’t in her repertoire. Anything can happen, and it’s sure to embarrass me.
“A little closer, honey,” my mom orders as I pose, my bicep quivering beneath a tray laden with drinks while Mom gets in a candid shot. The bartender smiles for the camera and adds another beverage to my load as I look on, and, per Mom’s orders, hold up my knockers.
Jesus. I glance to make sure no one’s looking.
The three patrons sitting in Mont Belle Lounge snicker behind their hands at my mother and the display she’s putting on. If Cali were watching, she’d be laughing her ass off right now—only she’s mad at me, so maybe not. I wish I could edit out half of our last conversation. It came out all wrong and I feel like a terrible friend. I couldn’t help what happened with Eric, but I could have handled telling Cali better. I hate that I hurt her.
“Okay, Mom, I gotta return to work.”
Chantell raises her eyebrows, her mouth a straight line of disbelief.
“It’s going to turn into a mad rush soon.” A little white lie is necessary during times of parental embarrassment.
My mom hands Fred the camera. “All right. We need to leave for our concert anyway.” She stalks over and pushes in the sides of my breasts, yanking in strategic places until my cleavage reaches my chin.
I gape at her. “Are you finished feeling me up?”
She puckers her lips and assesses her work. “Better. Work those tips.” She winks and smacks a kiss on my cheek. Fred grins at her, as if she’s charming. I don’t get it, but somehow they’ve made the relationship work and my mom seems happier than I’ve ever seen her.
“Mom, flashing cleavage isn’t how I’d like to earn tips.”
“I’m kidding.” She waves her hand. “You know I’ve got your expenses covered. Enjoy yourself, that’s all.”
Now that she brings it up… I’ve only hedged around the issue before, have never flat-out asked. I’ve been too scared to hear the truth. “How, Mom? How do you have it covered?”
Her gaze goes blank. “I just do, silly.”
I glance behind her at Fred and lower my voice. “From him? Mom, he’s nice compared to the others, but I don’t want him paying my way. It’s not right.”
She taps my shoulder lightly. “Of course Fred doesn’t pay for you. Why would you think that?”
Is she kidding? Does she think I’m clueless? She has no means of financial support, no wealthy family backing her. How else does she pay our bills?
Fred steps forward. “We better get going, Chantell. Great outfit, Gen. You look beautiful.” He smiles in a fatherly manner, his gaze never straying to my mother-enhanced boobs. I don’t think the notion even crosses his mind.
They leave, my mom’s final response not really an answer to my question, which doesn’t surprise me. It’s consistent with her answers to my questions about my father.
Shortly thereafter, as I’m pondering all this, Drake Peterson enters the lounge. He takes in the empty tables, and unlike Fred, makes a full perusal of the breasts I didn’t get a chance to tuck back in. “Looks slow,” he says. “How do you feel about helping me with a group of colleagues I’m entertaining in one of the suites upstairs? We could use a waitress, and I promise great tips.”
I don’t trust this guy, hooter gazing notwithstanding. Then again, I’ve designated a lot of men as not-to-be-trusted. I’m not the best judge of character. And he’s my boss’s boss—or something like that. Can I even say no?
“I’m the only one here tonight.”
He gestures to the empty tables, his mouth curling up on one side. “The lounge will survive without you for a few minutes.” He hands me a key card. “I’ll have Maryanne cover for you. Come up in thirty,” he says, and walks away.
