Page 11 of The Jackpot Screwer
“Okay, I’m done,” Carter said with an air of finality. “I’ll call you later, Lollipop.”
As Mrs. Callahan scratched under her armpit, I was too distracted to carry on being mad with him and gave him a sympathetic smile.
“Hey, Carter,” Mrs. Callahan called. “You ever need more advice, just hit me up at the gas station. I can always spare time for the young men of Dayton Valley.” She winked at his disappearing back and then smiled at me. “So, honey, tell me. Why’s he calling you Lollipop?”
I whimpered and wondered whether it would be unprofessional to run and leave Lilah to deal with her.
“I think I know,” she replied, finally deciding to go back to the treatment room. “Seeing as my husband Daniel used to call me Queen Fellatio.”
“Lilah, I need you now!”
When I walked into my folk’s living room, the last thing I expected to see was my dad sat at an easel, painting. He’d never painted anything in his life, not even a fence post. Anything like that needing doing at home he got decorators in.
“What the hell is going on?” I asked, looking him up and down. “And what the hell are you wearing?”
“If you don’t know son,” he replied, tilting his head to check out his masterpiece, “then that fancy education of yours was a waste of time. And if you must know it’s a smock.”
“What the hell is a smock?”
Dad rolled his eyes. “This, you idiot. It’s to stop me from getting paint on my clothes. I got vermillion on my shirt yesterday and your mom pitched a real fit.”
I didn’t even pretend to know what vermillion was. My main concern was that he was wearing what looked like a maternity dress.
Shit – I wondered if maybe Bronte could borrow it when she got bigger?
“What do you want anyway?” Dad asked, always the genial parent glad to see his first-born home. “You’re interrupting me while I’m channeling my inner Bob Ross.”
I sighed heavily and flopped down onto his armchair which he’d had so long it was pretty much grooved to the shape of his ass. Mom kept trying to get rid of it, even getting a charity who collected furniture to come pick it up at one time. Somehow Dad found out where it had gone and went to their warehouse and actually paid to get it back.
“Spit it out, son,” he said, turning to face me. “I have the ethereal glow to do yet and I need to get it just right. I’m struggling getting it to look... well, ethereal.”
As he frowned, I second guessed my choice of Henry Maples as my confidante. Maybe Mom would be better, if I could persuade her to keep her mouth closed. Within seconds though I’d rethought the idea, knowing it would never happen and that Dad was my best option.
“You have to promise not to tell Mom,” I said leaning forward and narrowing my eyes on him. “I mean it, Dad, she can’t find this out, yet.”
“I don’t keep secrets from your mom, you should know that.”
“Shit, you sound as damn pussy whipped as Hunter. Apparently, he doesn’t keep secrets from Ellie either.”
“Good,” Dad said with a nod of his head. “Glad to hear he’s treating my baby girl properly. Now come on, spit it out.”
The sneaky shit thought I’d tell him without him promising.
“You have to swear, Dad. If you do, I’ll tell you.”
He sighed heavily and rushed out, “Promisenottotellyourmom.”
“Damn, Dad.” I grabbed his arm and grinned. “You really are scared of Mom. You played college ball and she’s half your size. You could take her down easily.”
Dad’s eyes widened as he pointed a finger at me. “Do not let that woman fool you. She’s scarier than you can possibly know. You and Ellie have only ever seen her sweet side.”
I began to laugh; he looked genuinely scared. “Mom is all sugar. There’s not one tiny bit of sour in her.”
“You’ve never eaten her last Pop Tart.”
“Mom doesn’t eat Pop Tarts,” I argued. “Too much refined sugar.”
“Not now, but in college she did. I suffered for a whole three days because of it.”
