Last Call (21 page)

I move to the side and motion for her to set her suitcase over in the corner of my living room. We will have to figure out the sleeping arrangements once everyone has come in. I do have an airbed two people can sleep on, then there’s room in my bed for one more person. I also have the couch and Royce’s twin bed. It will be snug; however, it will be fun and that’s all that matters.

“Mariah!” the excited voice of my next sister, Wendi, comes into the room. She is the second to youngest and I’m probably the closest to her. We are only eighteen months apart and were forced to share our bedroom much of our time living at home. This made us fight like sisters and bond the way sisters bond. “Oh, my God! It was the longest trip ever. I thought I was going to turn another year older before we got here. He drives like the old grandpa he is. And he refuses to stop to pee. They’re all lucky my bladder didn’t burst, causing a mess all over the backseat.”

Wendi lives near my parents and sees them often. After she got married, she began making babies. The woman is a baby-making machine and is currently cooking her fifth child right now. All of her kids are only a couple of years apart, at most. She looks very similar to me except with shorter brown hair and a waddle I’m sure will remain once she’s finally done having kids. The woman has been pregnant most of her adult life so far. However, if anyone looks cute pregnant, it’s my sister. She’s all baby and probably the most active pregnant woman I’ve seen.

“Well, I’m glad that didn’t happen,” I say to Wendi’s back as she waddles to the restroom.

Coming through the door next is my sister Jami, followed by my sister-in-law, Cyndi. They both are carrying a bag and grocery sacks, which I’m certain are full of high calorie snack food and booze. My mother is always prepared for a ladies’ weekend. She knows exactly what we love to do.

Jami gives me a one-arm hug with a radiant smile on her face. She is the only sister who looks different from the rest of us. We always tease her about whom her father is, saying our mother had sex with the mail man, because she doesn’t have the blue eyes, pasty white skin, or curvy figure the rest of us have. She was born with hazel eyes, golden skin, and a modest B breast size. She actually takes after the women on our dad’s side of the family, whereas the rest of us look like our mother and her siblings.

Cyndi has been in our family for ages. My brother met and married his high school sweetheart, and she’s been one of the girls since. She is the superwoman we all strive to be as a wife and mother. She is organized, clean, and the woman is the most creative person I know. She can turn a pile of shit into something useful if she tried. If I were stranded on a desert island, I’d hope to God Cyndi was stranded with me. That’s probably why she’s an elementary teacher; she needs to be all those attributes. Shit, the career itself was probably created for her.

On top of all that, she’s a nice gal who’s very helpful and accepts our loud, inappropriate family as her own. She is tall, has sandy-blonde hair, and is skinny. Even after three babies, the bitch is so skinny. My hips never went back in place after Royce, and I can only imagine how huge they’ll get if I ever have another baby. I will need to fasten a wide load sign to my ass and then turn to the side any time I need to walk through a doorway.

I hug Cyndi, and then take the baked goods from her hands. I cannot wait to tear into whatever she’s cooked up. It’s always very tasty and addicting.

Finally, in walks my mother, followed by my brother.

“Next time y’all get together for two damn days, find someone else to unload all your shit.” Brad walks to the middle of the living room and tosses the blankets, bags, and pillow that were in his hands and tucked under his arms onto the floor.

“Brad! I’ve got breakable stuff in my bag!” Jerrica yells as she walks to him and slaps him on the arm.

“Hey, if you’re going to complain about my help, then do it yourself next time.” He walks from the apartment and stands on my small balcony just off the living room. Pulling a cigarette from his pack, he fires it up and takes a much needed inhale.

My brother is a handsome man with short, salt and pepper hair and an enticing smile. His blue eyes are very kind, and I find him quite funny. He’s the typical brother who at thirty-three likes to light his farts and finds humor in anything disgusting. You have to hand it to him because he’s grown up in a house of loud, boisterous girls and is still in one piece.

“Where’s my grandson?” my mother announces as Royce comes barreling off the couch and straight into her arms. She wraps her arms around his body and kisses the top of his head. “How’s my big boy doing?”

“Good. Here, Grandma, you can stay in my room. I made it nice for you.” Royce takes her hand and leads her down the hall to his room. After a few minutes, he comes running back out of the room. “Where’s Grandma’s bag?”

My dad hands him a duffle bag and Royce puts the strap over his shoulder then walks back to his room. I can hear him chattering her ear off. It sounds like she’s getting a tour of his room.

All of us are chatting with one another as we start organizing the mess of bags and blankets. My dad and brother grab Royce and his overnight bag then, as fast as they arrived, they leave. My dad found a quiet hotel located on the beach for them to stay at for the weekend. Hopefully, he will take him fishing or at least on a boat.

We continue to get things in order as we prepare for a weekend of fun and relaxation. Lord knows I need to erase my mind from the tormenting thoughts of Jason and the fact he dumped me from his life without a single word.

J
ason

I’m riding in my private company jet, leaving Los Angeles and heading back to Miami. It was an impromptu business trip, but Kurt insisted I go check out the damage to Vixen’s Room before the repairs begin. I spent a week meeting with business associates and the insurance company. When it was all said and done, I was ready to be back home.

The trip didn’t offer the peace of mind I was hoping it would. After leaving Mariah last Saturday, I knew I needed some distance to clear my head. My life feels like it’s been turned upside down since I met her, and every available thought has her in it. I can’t escape them; therefore, I decided the loud thoughts could be silenced from some distance. It worked momentarily, yet now, as I’m traveling back to Miami, she’s been all over my mind again.

I haven’t spoken to her in a week, and to my surprise, I miss it. I’ve never missed anyone, yet that’s because I never allowed myself to get close to anyone. Mariah is the only person I’ve really been around who knows small fragments about me, but she hasn’t even scratched the surface of who I really am. She doesn’t know what I went through as a kid and why I choose to keep my distance from creating real, thoughtful relationships.

I know my money has a factor with all of my past relationships, and I’m sure it has to do with the wall I’ve created to keep everyone out. I don’t really know any other way to live. I survived this long on my own, and I’m afraid, if I allow Mariah and her son in my life, it will kill me when she’s ready to leave.

After meeting Mariah, I know I do want to have at least one person in my life. However, there’s no way someone like her could ever be happy with me. Not the real me. I’m broken, and I’m not certain I even have the capacity to love someone who isn’t myself. I’m uncertain whether I even love myself, for that matter. Sure, the public’s perception of me is that I do, but it’s not the real me. 

My lonely mind constantly wanders, toying with idea of making Mariah my friend. I want a genuine friend, someone I can confide in, but is that her? Trusting someone almost seems impossible for me, yet when I see her, I see a friend. I see someone special. Maybe that’s why I spent all those nights dreaming about her and why I went to the lengths I did to get the angel tattooed on my arm. Maybe my subconscious mind was telling me this woman is that one person who can be my friend.

Will Mariah be that person? I’m using the term friend because I don’t think I will ever be capable of loving anyone or accepting their love, for that matter. I don’t know if I really want someone to love—well, not the way that can leave me abandoned and alone with only the destruction of my soul left behind.

My head begins to ache from all the toggling back and forth between my wishful thinking and the normalcy of keeping my life only mine.

After my plane lands, I exit the airport area then find my car parked in the underground garage. I open the back hatch to put my luggage in the car when I notice a small, blue bag with robots on the outside. I forgot I put Royce’s bag in the back before I took them home last Saturday night.

I reach in the SUV and pull the backpack from the car. It’s dusty on the bottom from the sand and is filled with his sand toys. When I unzip it, I look at the football inside then smile as I remember the day the three of us spent at the beach. And it’s then, I realize, I miss them.

I miss Mariah, but I miss her son, too. I only met him the one time, but he was a perfect, little boy, and I was so happy I could make his day at the beach a fun one. Maybe it really is time to go out on a limb and invite Mariah to simply be my friend.

I climb into the driver’s seat of my car and leave the airport. When I make it to the street, I realize my car is heading to her apartment. For the first time ever, I don’t allow my protective self to overrule my desire. I don’t think about how stupid it will be to show up at her house, especially after I haven’t seen or talked to her in a week. I only think about wanting to see her and maybe watch that superhero movie Royce was so sure I needed to see. I don’t stop myself. I simply keep the invading thoughts of this being a bad idea away as I pull into her parking lot and find my way up the stairs.

As I raise my fist to the door and knock, I can hear a lot of noise from behind the wood, so I start to back away from the door, not wanting to interrupt. Well, that is, until the door opens and four women who look similar to Mariah surround me. Oh, shit, this is not good.

J
ason

I
am completely knocked off kilter when I look at the Mariah look-a-likes staring back at me. Though she’s never told me, I can plainly see these women are all related in one way or another. Shit! I’m about to walk into the hornets’ nest. Maybe I can hand over Royce’s backpack before Mariah sees I’m at the door.

Holding the bag up, I say, “This was left in my car. I’m just returning it.” I turn to exit as one of the girls takes the backpack from my hand; however, before I can get the hell out of there, the taller, tan one stops me in my tracks.

“How did you get my nephew’s backpack?”

With all the women standing there with accusatory looks, I feel like I will be gutted if I even utter a word. I am very good with women, but this is a little overwhelming because it is not expected. It’s like a bunch of angry Mariahs, triggered into attack mode. I can barely handle my Mariah; however, times four… Yeah, no one is getting out alive.

I run my hands over my hair and try to decide, if I’m going to get out of here with my balls intact, I need to start putting on the charm.

I swallow a big gulp and muster up the public persona of Jason Cain. It’s a side that can speak to anyone, especially woman, and then charm them into doing whatever I want.

“I brought them home from the beach last Saturday and forgot to grab it when I dropped them off.” I smile my signature smile and look them over with my eyes. Not inappropriately, just not breaking eye contact with any of them.

“O
H MY
G
OD
!” the short, pregnant one shouts. “Are you her boyfriend?”

Again, not prepared at all for a conversation like this, as the combination of being travel-worn and my emotional state over Mariah are fogging my ability to function. I’ve only decided to make Mariah a friend on the way over here, and now I’m getting labeled as her boyfriend. Maybe this was a bad idea. Yeah, I need to get the hell out of here.

“I can’t freaking believe she has a boyfriend and didn’t bother to share it with us,” the pregnant one continues.

The next thing I know, several hands are dragging me over the threshold, trapping me inside as the door slams behind us. I quickly assess my surroundings, looking for a possible escape route, and its then I see the balcony doors to my left. I know I’m on the second floor, but there has to be a bush or something I can jump into.

I scan the apartment some more, looking for Mariah, but she’s nowhere to be found. I’m not sure what the hell to do, but I know it has to involve a stiff drink and an escape route.

“Hi, I’m Jerrica, Mariah’s oldest sister. And you are?” One of the women holds her hand out.

As I process in my mind how to break free of the estrogen-filled prison, I switch on the charm in an attempt to win the room over, getting into full charming mode the minute I touch her hand.