I look down, realizing that I'm sporting wood again, and adjust myself. Not what I need. What I need to be doing is looking for Mom. I find her in her bedroom, looking at herself in the mirror. She and Pops have separate rooms now. Great, just great. Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the craziest one of all?
“Hey, Mom?”
“Jackson, do you think I'm starting to sag around my neckline?” Mom asks as a way of greeting. Well, no Mom, I think you've got more plastic in you than your average Barbie doll, and that you can't even squint because you've more or less killed off your eye muscles with Botox. In fact, you barely look like a woman anymore.
Instead of saying that though, I ignore her question. She doesn't want my answer anyway. “Pops was saying he'd like to talk with you in a few. He's talking with Nathan now.”
“Yay,” Mom says sarcastically, her nose twitching. I'm surprised it can still do that. The amount of putty and plastic in there is probably what you'd see with repairing a minor fender bender on a car. “What's he want now, to discuss your little faux pas last night?”
So she's been sober enough to pick up the news. “Fuck all if I know. He just said to get you,” I say with a shrug.
Mom's eyes glance over to me, and I can see that she doesn't have them in. Or more precisely, she doesn't have in her colored contacts that she normally wears, the ones that give her the DeLaCoeur blue. Instead, I can see her normal muddy hazel eyes, and to be honest, it's refreshing. Hey Mom, nice to fucking see you for once. How long has it been? “You don't take that tone with me, Jackson Garfield DeLaCoeur. I am your mother,” she says coldly.
“As much as you wish you weren't,” I snap back, pushed to the limit. Seriously, when you grow up listening to your mother bitch at least once a week how giving birth to you ruined her figure, you kinda feel unwanted, you know? “I mean, I'm sorry I made your tits sag, but they're holding up... reasonably well. At least they stick out past your stomach.”
Okay, so I'm being a dick with the backhanded compliment, but she deserves it. Mom didn't even say anything to me on my last birthday. Probably because my birthday always reminds her that no matter how much Hennessy she sucks down, or no matter how much work she has done...fifty's just around the corner.
At the mention of her stomach, Mom touches her abdomen, checking that she's still flat there. I give her a little smirk. “I'll go see what Andrea's up to. You should go check on Pops soon, he might be wondering where you are.” I leave without waiting for her to reply.
Instead of finding Andrea though, I head back to my room, my head still trying to make sense of the look in Pops' eyes, and what he said to Nathan. What the hell am I supposed to do?
Chapter 3
Kat
Success! Oh, it was fucking sweet, too! The look on his face, the flash of the bulbs... and best of all, not a single soul knew who I was.
Don't get cocky, Katrina. Your work is just beginning.
I nod at the words from long ago and take off my dress. I strip everything off before sticking it all into a plastic bag for later disposal. It's going to suck throwing a thousand-dollar outfit into an incinerator, especially since that's more than I make in a month sometimes, but it's necessary. Peter DeLaCoeur's going to send his men after me, I know it. I can ghost, but only if I leave as few clues behind as I can.
I go back over to my dresser and open it up, grabbing my favorite black gi pants, and the sports bra I prefer for exercise. I get dressed quickly, then turn and walk across the big, empty space of this old warehouse until I reach the post in the middle of the floor. In exchange for teaching kids' martial arts classes twice a week, the owner of the boxing gym downstairs lets me crash here. Right now I'm buzzing on adrenaline, and I need to refocus.
The post is steel, but I've wrapped it in old, bald tires that provide just enough padding for me to use it as my own personal training dummy. My sparring gloves are an old castoff pair I rescued from the garbage downstairs, but they serve their purpose well enough, which is to prevent scrapes on my hands. I take them off their hook, and pull them on, sneering at the tires. Except they aren't tires any longer. They're Peter DeLaCoeur's fat, piggish face.
My first punch lands hard, but it jars my body. The first punch always has that effect. I can punch far above my weight, but my first punch always knocks me a little off balance. Still, it doesn't take long for my body to adjust. It's trained to compensate for the shocks, turning them into energy I roll with and use to power the next strike. Kicks come next, then knees, and elbows...this is just a light workout for me. I can't practice my deadlier techniques on this simple training dummy, but it's a good way to relieve some of my stress.