Lisa Jackson - Born To Die

“Uh. . ’cuz it’s home.”

“You moved out. I didn’t want you to, but you insisted last summer,” she reminded him. “I thought you’d be at work.”

“They turned off the gas at my place. There’s no heat. Guess they, um, didn’t get the check in time. But that’s bogus, ’cuz I mailed it yesterday. It’s not my fault that one of my roommates didn’t get the money to me.”

“And your job?” she asked with extreme patience.

Hesitation. “Lou didn’t need me at the station today.”

“Is that right?” Jeremy had been pumping gas at Corky’s Gas and Go for nearly nine months, while he “decided” if he wanted to go to school. “Jer?” she said when he didn’t immediately answer. “Just tell me you didn’t lose your job.”

“Okay. I won’t.” He was defensive. Short.

Damn it all to hell. If only Joe were still alive. Jeremy’s father, another cop, had been great in a crisis. That is, until he was killed in the line of duty when his son was too young to really remember his father. So Pescoli had become mother and father to her boy, until she’d made the mistake of marrying Luke, who had tried to step in and had only made a worse mess of things.

“Wait for me. I’ll be home soon. And before I get there, would you please make sure Cisco’s had his dinner?”

“We’re outta dog food.”

“Then get some.”

“I, uh, don’t have any money.”

“Fabulous.”

“I gotta go. Heidi’s texting me.”

“Jeremy! Wait—” But the phone was suddenly dead in her hand. She hadn’t even had a chance to warn him off Heidi Brewster again. God, she’d hoped that teen romance had died a quick death last year.

Looked like her prayers hadn’t been answered.

But then, that wasn’t a big surprise.

Maybe she’d made a mistake by not moving in with her boyfriend, but she hadn’t thought it would be wise. Just because a man could turn her inside out in the bedroom was no reason to bring him home and slap the name tag STEPFATHER on him. As much as she thought she was in love with him, she’d decided not to go to that next level. Yet.

There was a good chance she was a commitment-o-phobe, or whatever you wanted to call it, but she’d been married twice and that might just be enough.

For a while.

Until her kids were raised.

Or until she was more comfortable with the situation.

You might lose him, that nagging inner voice warned, and she scoffed. Then it wasn’t meant to be.

She stopped at a small convenience store at the next crossroads, bought a small bag of dog food, a gallon of milk, and two Snickers candy bars to stuff into her glove box, along with the pack of Marlboros.

Just in case.

Then she hit the road again.

Twenty minutes later she was walking through the door from the garage of her little cottage. Cisco, her terrier of undeterminable lineage, shot off the couch, sped across the living room floor, and yapping excitedly, began doing pirouettes at her feet.

“Hey, I’m glad to see you, too.” After placing her groceries on the counter, she leaned over, patted Cisco’s scruffy head, scratched his ears, then straightened and walked through the dining area to the living room, where all six feet two inches of her son were sprawled, his feet hanging over the end of her couch. “I’m not so sure I can say the same about you.”

“Nice, Mom,” he said, not bothering to glance up as he stared at the television, where some reality show was playing out.

“Tell me about work.”

“Nothin’ much to tell.”

God, he looked like his father. Dark hair, intense eyes, sharp cheekbones, and two days’ worth of beard stubble darkening a hard, masculine jaw, a darker spot on his chin, where he’d managed to grow a soul patch. “Did you get fired?”

He finally looked up, glaring at her as if she were an idiot. “Just got my hours cut back, that’s all.”

“That’ll make it tough paying the rent or the gas bill.”

He lifted a shoulder. She wanted to spell it all out to him, about the consequences of his slacker lifestyle, but Jeremy had always been a kid who learned by experience rather than example. The cutting off of the gas and the cost of reconnecting would be a good object lesson.

She patted him on the shoulder. “I am glad to see you, you know. I just wish it was that you came over to see me, rather than because you were freezing your butt off at your apartment.”

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I know.”

“I’m going to check on your sister.” Another pat. “Could you please feed Cisco? There’s dog food in the grocery sack.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t move.

“I’m talking about in this century.”

“Very funny,” he said. But he did manage a slow grin, and it was a heart-stopper. Again, just like his father. No wonder Heidi Brewster hadn’t shaken loose.

Jeremy actually climbed to his feet and said, “Come on, runt,” to the dog as Pescoli made her way down the short hallway and rapped on Bianca’s door before stepping inside the mess. Whereas Jeremy’s old bedroom downstairs had posters of basketball players and rock bands, Bianca’s room was a study in all things girl, from a canopy bed that she’d decorated with Christmas lights to a makeup desk and lighted mirror, where at least ten brushes of varying sizes stood in a jar next to baskets of lipstick, eye shadow, and God only knew what else. The walls were a shocking pink, a color she loved.

Bianca was curled on the bed, a silvery duvet tucked around her, a Pepsi One bottle on her nightstand, next to a pile of teen and fashion magazines that had spilled onto the bed beside her. While her laptop was playing some movie, she was texting on her cell phone.

“So what happened?” Pescoli asked as her daughter glanced up from her cell phone to offer a quick, aren’t-I-just-so-cute smile. Red-blond curls framed a face where freckles were barely visible across the bridge of her small nose and large hazel eyes. While her brother was the spitting image of Joe Strand, Bianca resembled her own father, Luke Pescoli. Fortunately — well, at least up until recently — Bianca seemed a lot smarter than her father.

Time would tell on that one.

“What do you mean?” Bianca asked innocently.

“Don’t play dumb. You know what I’m talking about. Why did you cut class? If you were sick, you could have gone to the office and they would have called me.”

Bianca rolled her eyes. “You can’t always come, because of your job. And Chris said he’d give me a ride.”

“You mean his brother, Gene, did.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yeah. Big-time. Chris doesn’t have a license, and it’s a miracle that his brother still does.” Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe he doesn’t.”

Bianca avoided her gaze. Not answering. Which was telling.

“Come on, Bianca, be smarter than this. If Gene Schultz had gotten into another accident or—”

“He didn’t, okay?” Bianca snapped.

Pescoli pushed some of the magazines to one side and sat near the foot of her bed. “You can’t cut class.”

“Jer did it all the time.”

“Case in point.” She shook her head. “His options now are limited. Don’t make that mistake.” Seeing that this was getting her nowhere, she said, “So, why did you come home?”

Bianca sighed. “I was just tired.”

“That’s not an excuse to—”

“And I felt weird. I don’t know. Like maybe I was getting the flu. Kara White and Shannon Anderssen both have it, and I think Monty Elvstead, and they’re all in my Spanish class. So I came home. Big deal.” She glared at her mother. “I couldn’t call you. You’re always working, and I wasn’t going to, like, sit in that outer room and have weird Mrs. Compton, the vice principal, look at me all day.”