“Nice to meet you, Miss Saints,” my father says, his expression difficult to read. The wrinkles around his eyes don't change nor does his stiff stance. He doesn't embrace me or even throw out a smile, but he's standing here and that's all that counts. After all the crap I've pulled, I wouldn't be surprised if he were to disown me. Four kids. Four different mothers. A total screwup. “Your mother's in the living room with Lydia,” he says and then hesitates, like there's something he wants to ask but is afraid to. After a moment, he shakes his head, gives the bodyguards a strange look and then leads us out the back door and down a white gravel pathway in the backyard.
The foliage is nice, the grass green, a beautiful facade of luxury and greenery plastered over a Goddamn desert. I ignore it and hold Lola's hand, moving slowly and watching her for any sign of weakness. Bringing her here was selfish, I know that. I should have left her back at the mansion to sleep. Fuck, Ronnie, get yourself together, asshole.
Our bodyguards trail behind us, like shadows, blotting out the brightness of the sun. I kind of wish I'd told 'em to fuck off and took my chances. I have a feeling this Stephen/America bullshit is over, at least for the most part. No more snipers, no more ruined concerts, no more bloodshed. But, hey, I guess if some crazy ass fangirls hop the fence and try to rape me, these guys can hold them off. Huh. I shake my head and run my fingers through my hair, dragging it away from my face.
My dad opens the back door of the house and leads the way into the breakfast nook and kitchen area, the cream colored granite of the countertops shimmering in the sun. As usual, everything's immaculate and homey, like a page torn from Better Homes and Gardens. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Even when I was a little kid, like real real little, and my parents lived two blocks away from Turner's trailer park, everything was still nice like this. My mom put everything she had into turning that shit hole into a proper home, and it paid off. I never knew we were poor until we weren't anymore.
“Ronnie,” my dad says, glancing back at the guards and gritting his teeth. I peer over my shoulder with a grimace. “Lydia hasn't been in the best place since you left her with us. She's getting better, but I think it'd be wise to introduce as little trauma as possible. Do you think your friends would mind hanging out in the kitchen for a while?”
“Yeah,” I say, and one of the two men nods, stepping back near the door like he's invisible in his perfect suit and sunglasses. Jesus Christ. Where did Milo get these guys? They're nothing at all like Brayden Ryker's men – rough, wicked normal, unassuming. Our new dudes might be plain in the face, but they've got that polished Hollywood look that bugs me. Whatever. No time to deal with that right now. “They'll wait here.” I turn back and nod my chin. My dad sighs, like he's regretting the decision to let me come over, and leads Lola and me into the living room.
As soon as I see Lydia, my throat gets tight and I feel my world collapsing in on itself.
She's sitting on the rug in a blue and white striped dress, playing with some of my old Hot Wheels die-cast cars. My mom sits beside her on the floor, fingering a string of pearls around her neck. She looks up when we walk in and tears fill her brown eyes.
“Ronnie,” she whispers, drawing Lydia's attention around. As soon as she sees me, her face breaks into a smile. A smile. My knees go weak, and I suddenly find myself crouching on the hardwood floor, unable to take another step. My breath rushes out of me, and I have to close my eyes as my mother rises to her feet and moves towards me. I manage to stand up in time to see Lydia climbing to her feet and following after, wrapping her hand in my mother's dress. “It's so good to see you, son,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to my cheek. I put my arms around her, trying to keep it together as I look down and see my daughter staring up at me, green eyes shining.
“I have cars,” she tells me with confidence, lifting up a red Volkswagen Beetle for my inspection. I pull away from my mother and bend down, reaching out a hand to take the toy from her small fingers. “I have fifteen cars,” she adds, dropping her hands to her sides and looking up at Lola.
“Hey there, squirt,” Lola says, reaching out a hand and placing it atop Lydia's red curls. For a second there, I feel like everything's going to work out. Shoulda known better, right? If it's not one thing, it's another. “Good to see ya again.”
“Hello there,” my mom says, looking down at Lydia with a protective gleam in her eye that I'm not sure I like. It reminds me of the one she used to get when she felt someone was bullying me or being unfair. A motherly sort of gleam. I want my mom to play grandma, not take over my duties entirely. I have a feeling she's going to fucking freak when I tell her I want to take Lydia. I bite my lower lip and hand Lydia her car. “I don't believe we've met?” I don't like the implication in her question, like Lola's just another girl. My mom might be aware of my philandering ways, but the only woman she's ever met via yours truly was Asuka.