Teach Me Like That (LMLT Book 2) (5 page)

I put it all out there, and she walked away.
That
has never happened before.

The girls are happy enough with the ear damaging kid bop station on the way back to my condo. I watch them like a hawk when they bounce into my personal space. They don’t come here often because it’s not really suited for children.

My tastes are simple but expensive, and nothing in my condo is childproofed. I don’t have children, so there’s no real point.

Both girls pull off their light jackets and toss them to the floor. My house is always spotless, but I just don’t have the energy to argue with them about where they should be hung up. As far as I’m concerned, they can stay on the floor until they pick them back up to leave.

Anastyn grabs the remote from the coffee table and pulls up Netflix on the TV like she’s some technology guru savant or something. It took me quite a while and several Google searches before I had it down, and even now if I’m gone for long periods of time, I may have to refresh my memory with a quick online search.

I sigh in relief as they begin to watch some animated cartoon. It doesn’t seem violent like the cartoons I watched as a kid. This show seems to be about animals living under the ocean and their fantastical adventures. There’s no TNT or acts of violence with the polar bear and penguin on the screen. I have to say that their underwater suits are beyond fathomable.

I’d hoped they would’ve worn themselves out between school and acting all chaotic in the restaurant before Lexi arrived. I realize I’m one unlucky bastard when Anastyn holds up the remote, and the TV goes silent. There is no telling what’s going to happen next. I dart my eyes across the room at the cleverly disguised fire extinguisher, wondering if I’m going to need it this evening.

“Are you going to tell us what’s going on with Easton, or is everyone going to keep treating us like babies?” Anastyn asks.

Lennox’s head nods up and down as she looks over at me. It’s possible she’s been thinking the same thing Anastyn has been. For all I know, they could’ve had a meeting about it. Normally I wouldn’t believe they’d be capable of that level of organization, but I’ve seen some crazy things today. I remember how sneaky Kadin and I were when we were younger; all that plotting and conniving doesn’t seem to have skipped a generation.

I shrug, trying to seem nonchalant when I actually feel like I’m being led blindfolded into a snake pit. “He doesn’t feel well,” I explain truthfully. “Your mom and dad took him to the doctor. I’m sure everything is fine.”

“His doctor’s appointment was this morning. Mom should’ve picked us up from school this afternoon.” Anastyn is calling me out like I’m giving false evidence on a witness stand.

“My doctor appointments never last that long. Not even when I had step throat,” Lennox says quickly.

“Strep throat,” Anastyn corrects her, then looks back at me as if she’s been waiting for an answer for hours rather than seconds.

“I don’t know any more than what I’ve told you,” I answer. I’m beginning to sweat under her six-year-old scrutiny.

I’ve heard horror stories about how parents do things that scar children for life, never having any intention of it. I’ve read posts on social media about how so many people are sitting back and attacking parents for how they raise their children, when they overeducate them or undereducate them about the goings on in the world. I’m between a rock and a hard place. Not only do I not have any information, but I'm also concerned with what I say because I don’t want to start a ripple effect.

“Is it because Easton doesn’t belong to daddy?” Lennox chimes in.

What the fuck?

I look back to Anastyn, who is shaking her head back and forth and slapping her hand on her forehead like a sixty-year-old who just watched a Wayans’ Brother movie for the first time, embarrassment and frustration wrapped in one tiny little package. The slump of her shoulders even portrays her concern for the
younger
generation.

“I’m only going to explain this one more time,” Anastyn says raising her eyes to her younger sister. “Just because Nikki’s little brother went to live with his real dad doesn’t mean that is what is happening to Easton.”

Lennox looks like she’s considering what Anastyn just told her, but she turns back to me for clarification. “So Mommy didn’t have an affair? Nikki’s mom did, and now her baby brother doesn’t live there anymore. What’s an affair?” Lennox asks with wide innocent eyes.

I shake my head, feeling as if the walls are closing in around me.

“I told you, Lennox. You’ve got to start listening to me. It’s one of those things from the donut shop with chocolate on top. It’s filled with cream. Mom always says she’s being a good girl and never has one.” Anastyn beams proudly after her explanation.

An éclair? Is that what the hell they are thinking?

A tear begins to form in the corner of Lennox’s eye, just as her lip begins to quiver. “If mom eats one of those donuts, then Easton will go live with another daddy?”

Before I can break down their conversation into manageable parts, a light knock echoes at the front door. Without a backward glance, I jump up from my chair and pull the door open. Relief washes over me when my eyes land on my mom standing in the hallway.

“Thank God you’re here!” I say with more enthusiasm than I should after three hours of parenting duty.

She reaches up and cups my cheek lovingly; then turns into a crazy woman when she slaps it twice, a little too hard to be mistaken for affection. She hates that I complain about the kids, and it’s her only way to get me back.

I follow her into the living room. The girls have already begun arguing with each other.

Mom smiles. “Don’t you just want a houseful of angels like them?”

“Hell no,” I grumble softly. “This is a house of sin, not a playpen,” I say with my arms swept wide for dramatics.

She huffs indignantly because she knows better. I’ve never come out and told my mother that I sleep around quite regularly. I’ve never mentioned that I don’t bring women to my condo because it makes things incredibly messy. I’ve never told her these things, but she knows. She listens without listening. She’s sneaky like that.

“Any news?” I ask on a whisper so the girls can’t hear.

“Nothing yet. They’re still running tests, but they have admitted him. I’m taking the girls to their house, but London and Kadin will be at the hospital all night.”

“Do you need me to take them to school again in the morning?” My offer is hopeful, but Lexi Carter is the stuff dreams are made of, plus I want to help my brother out.

“I’ve got them. Did you girls have fun?” Mom says as she walks further into the room.

They agree they did as she helps them into their light jackets.

“Uncle Kegan got turned down when he tried to ask our teacher out on a date,” Anastyn informs my mother.

My mother gives me a knowing smirk, fully reading into my offer to take the girls to school again. See? I told you she’s sneaky.

I realize now why Lexi shifted her eyes to the girls during our conversation earlier. She’s around children all day, so she knows just how much information they’re not supposed to hear is actually retained.

I close my eyes briefly and try to go over our entire conversation in my head again, praying I didn’t use some of my more vibrant words as we discussed my plans for us. I’m fairly certain I didn’t, but if I did, Kadin will be sure to let me know if they start using their increased vocabulary around the house or at school.

I shuffle my mom and the girls out of the condo as quickly as I can. I’ve had a long ass day, and since my plans of spending some time inside a gorgeous kindergarten teacher have been thwarted, all I want to do is drink a beer and hit the bed.

Lexi

I held out after I got home Thursday evening. I didn’t drink the bottle of wine I was certain I’d chug the second I got home. The last thing I needed after having such a shitty day dealing with Amelia was waking up late because I didn’t hear my alarm during my drunken blackout.

That, however, didn’t keep me from putting away at least a bottle and a half last night, but Fridays were practically made for drinking. Since Jillian was busy, I had to drink alone, and I’ve never been one to police myself very well.

The pounding in my head matches the god-awful noise banging around my room. The beeping of machinery, crashes, and men yelling are not how I wanted to wake up this morning, especially not after barely making it up the stairs last night in my drunken stupor.

I hold a pillow over my head and lower my breathing. If I can just hold it there long enough to pass out from minor asphyxiation, then I’ll get the much-needed rest I crave so dearly. It doesn’t help one bit, other than to nearly make me vomit from my deathly rank breath. Plus, my bladder is near bursting.

As slowly as I can, I sit up on the edge of the bed. The urgency to urinate makes me want to move faster, but I won’t give into it. I’d rather pee on myself than puke. I know most people wouldn’t, but vomiting is the worst kind of sickness I could ever suffer with.

With a balanced equation of calm, for my head and stomach, as well as using the quickest movements not to upset the first one, I make my way to the restroom. My head swims as I take care of business. It’s very possible that I’m still a little drunk.

I strip down and grab a shower. Feeling somewhat human again, I get dressed and head downstairs for some much-needed coffee.

The noise from next door is deafening. It’s ten times louder down here than it was upstairs on the far side of the house.

I pull some pain reliever out of the cabinet and take it with a huge sip of water. Looking out the small window over the kitchen sink, I can see several men walking around. Each one is wearing a hard hat and bright yellow vest. My eyes land on the tiny clock on the window sill. The little hands tell me it’s just after seven in the morning.

That can’t be right.

I look over my shoulder, and the digital readout on the microwave verifies the ungodly hour. I only got just over five hours of sleep last night. Not close to being enough, especially after drinking so much.

I normally wouldn’t complain. These men have a job to do, and I know it’s only temporary. Eventually, the project will be done, the new family will move in, and I can be bitter about their dog shitting in my yard. For some reason this morning it’s rubbing me the wrong way.

I pace in the living room as I wait for the coffee to finish brewing. Back and forth. Back and forth. With each step, I grow increasingly agitated. This would be different if I hadn’t drank so much last night. I can’t get in my car and park somewhere quiet because I’m not certain of my blood alcohol content, and drinking and driving is not something I’d ever do.

I go back to the small window in the kitchen. Watching a plastic bag roll into my yard like a tumbleweed on a western movie is the final straw. I don’t care that I’m in a tank top with no bra and yoga pants. I couldn’t care less that the only pair of shoes near the front door is my mismatched
Monsters, Inc.
house shoes. Jillian and I found these at the mall and couldn’t decide which one we wanted, so we took one of each. It’s like our version of friendship necklaces.

I hold my head high as I trudge across my perfectly manicured yard and into the demolition zone next door. I loved the man that used to live here. He was quiet and kept to himself. He never caused any problems or disturbances. I never even saw him outside very often. I’m well aware that he also kept to himself so much that he was deceased in his home for several days before anyone was the wiser, but this is a peaceful neighborhood, and it needs to stay that way.

Mike and Sully have never made me feel ridiculous before, but I’m regretting being too lazy to walk to the hall closet to grab a pair of flip flops. There’s just something about the flash of lime green and electric blue on my feet that makes me not want to take myself seriously. If I’m feeling that way internally how do I get any of the men over here to take me seriously?

Catcalls and whistling begin the second I come into view of the guys working. “Animals,” I mutter. Their unwanted attention fuels my anger as I look for someone who even seems like he may be in charge.

I cross in front of a large piece of equipment and stand with my hands on my hips. I make sure my resting bitch face is on full display. They may doubt me because of my shoes, but no one will question my intent from the look plastered on my face.

“Mister!” I yell at the man in the driver’s seat of the machinery.

The machine silences quicker than I’d anticipated it would, leaving me yelling into the now quiet job site.

Familiarity tingles just below the surface, which is ridiculous. All men in hard hats and sunglasses look the same, and most of them have beards.

Did I seriously just stereotype construction workers?

“Don’t ever walk in front of a bulldozer, unless you’re looking to get plowed.”

I gasp at the familiar voice, just as the man pulls his sunglasses off his face.

If there was any doubt in my mind that his comment is laced with sexual innuendo, it is washed away by the annoyingly handsome smirk on his face.