Page 79 of Whiskey Throttle
My pulse spikes. My mind wrestles with the pros and cons. Debating whether to prioritize my dignity and respect over his need to stay connected and accessible to anyone who might need him. His needs and emergencies take precedence over mine. But at what cost to my son? This could further harm our relationship, pushing it from barely tolerable to completely broken. It feels like I'm blowing up another meaningful relationship over a trail of lies and tears.
But if I don't go after Hollister and don't give him his phone, it could be even worse. He wouldn't be able to communicate with his friend’s family members. Do I protect the remnants of a mother-son relationship, or do I protect Hollister's need to stay connected to someone who might be saving his friend's life right now?
The choice is obvious.
I just hope both Dominic and Hollister forgive me. I call the driver to turn the car around. Wave the phone in the air so he can see it in his rearview mirror. He slows down to make a U-turn, going back the way we came. Every foot causes my pulse to spike. Slivers of doubt pierce my decision, even though I know it's the right one.
It's the right thing to do. I chant in my head, ignoring the fluttering of my gut.
Once we are pulled back under the awning, I nod and wave him off from opening my door. I get out of the car, walk inside, and continue the chant. If I find Hollister first, all will not be lost. If Dominic sees, I'll be forced to come clean without much planning. This could potentially come between Hollister and my son, destroying both relationships.
The opposite of what I want.
I catch my reflection in the glass doors. Mascara smudged. Hair is a mess. His necklace is still around my neck. Not only do I look like his lover, I look like his secret.
The shame.
The guilt.
The impossible truth of it all lodges in my mind. But I shake it off, because Hollister needs that phone. He needs to be able to get in touch with people who care for his friend. Steeling my nerves, I raise my chin and grip the phone tightly.
I move down the hallway, past the vending machines and an empty waiting room. Eyeing the signs, looking for the ICU. Or trauma. Or surgery. I don't know which. I just follow the murmur of voices, the way I suspect Hollister might have gone.
It's when the wall to my left ends, a mostly full waiting room with people slumped over in exhaustion. I spot the back of Hollister, standing, talking with another young man. His arms were covered in tattoos, not similar to Hollister's but full on both sides. He's bigger, imposing, and gazing straight at me.
It's with a sixth sense that my son's eyes flicker from his phone to me. The registering of shock takes only a second before his leather boots hit the floor. Dressed in all black, he descends on me like a dark tornado of rage and disgust. Sizing me up over a few rows of crowded chairs while I'm rooted to the floor. The scent of antiseptic stings my nose.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
It cuts through the quiet like a steel blade. The red tip, heated by so much fury, burns with accusation. My lungs hold the breath in them. The words die on my tongue.
Dominic's growl gets everyone's attention. Another guy with dark hair, shaved on one side, jumps to his feet. He's slender built, wrapped in black leather, and full of curiosity. Hollister, standing with his back to me, whirls around. His eyes widen for a split second. The look of panic on his face says everything.
This was a colossal mistake. I should have kept the phone and made other arrangements somehow.
Dominic.
Cloaked in darkness and fury.
Descends on me.
The harshness cutting his face is one I've seen far too many times as a mother. It's contempt, disgust, and everything he hates about me. Open and unabashed for everyone to see. The slow simmer he keeps it maintained under is about to blow, all over these poor people. Casualties to the war that rages on between us.
I swallow hard, lift my chin, ready to go another round with him, if necessary.
“Don't you dare talk to her like that, Dom.”
What I don't expect is Hollister yanking my son back and using his body to shield me from the verbal assault coming my way. I've never had a man do this for me. Certainly not Dominic's father. No. He would either leave me to suffer Dominic's fury head-on or never be home.
I'm briefly stunned.
Caught off guard by the swift actions of such a young guy who acts more like a man than most men twice his age.
“The fuck you say to me?” His voice rises, shaking at the end. Trying to contain his emotions. “This doesn't involve you, Hollister, so get the fuck out of the way.”
Oh, he hasn't put two and two together yet. I edge around the side of Hollister, ready to take control of the situation.
“Dominic,” I start with the calmest tone I possess to placate my beautiful, broken son.
