I glance at the large nine-foot Christmas tree that I put together about an hour ago standing tall in the corner of the room from my recliner. I wasn’t expecting this to take so long. “What exactly are you doing?”
She straightens from the bent over position she’s in, eliminating the view I had of her ass. “You can’t just go hanging ornaments on the grouped branches. You have to fluff. There is an art to this.”
“Says the person that had a tabletop tree?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re such a cynical person. I haven’t always had a tabletop tree. My mother actually did like Christmas. Decorating the tree was the one thing she did with me every year. For a few hours she pretended to like me.” She scratches at her chin, a thoughtful expression present. “Could have been the spiked eggnog, but regardless, it was fun.”
Even with the horrible Merry fucking Christmas music in the background that makes me feel like I want to slit my throat, I can’t imagine someone not liking Delta, yet she says it so often, so freely, like it doesn’t bother her at all. “I’d likely kill your mother if I ever met her.”
She laughs, as if I’m joking. “I’m sure I’ve had the thought a time or two.”
“It’s not a thought. It’s a fact.”
Her playful mood ceases. “She’s not worth getting put in jail over, Kross. Someone would report her stupid ass missing. She’s too social and fake to everyone that doesn’t know her personally. She has a likable personality. And, well, she is my mother.”
I spin the blade of the knife between my fingers, trying to keep them occupied. I don’t do well with sitting for long periods of time if I’m not tattooing. I need to be doing something to keep my head clear. Oddly, she helps. “What makes you think I’d get caught?”
“You know, that thing called forensics and all.”
“Has to be a body.”
“I’m not sure I want to know, but how many people have you . . .”
“Killed?”
“Yes.”
I drag the blade against my stubble, lightly scratching my face. “No clue. Enough to know I liked it too much to keep going the way I was. I had to tone it down to killing out of necessity instead of letting my temper control me.”
She stares at me, wide-eyed. “Well, pretending I didn’t hear that, and like I said, she is my mother, so . . .”
“I don’t know much about parenting and never will, but I would think that genetics doesn’t entitle you to treat someone like shit.”
She flinches as if I slapped her. Something is going on. I’m not sure what. She walks toward me, straddling my lap. My hands go to her hips, pulling her closer. Her hands encircle my neck. “You said your mother abandoned you? Do you remember her?”
“No.”
“Anything? Other than the neon.”
“Leave it.”
Her green eyes deepen in color. And then she says something that stabs me in the chest harder than a serrated edged blade. “I thought you trusted me.”
“I have dreams sometimes. They aren’t attached to a memory. They just exist in my mind. I don’t remember them actually happening.”
“Do you ever dream about her?”
My body feels weighted, paralyzed to this goddamned chair. “I don’t know. I dream about a woman, but she was young. I’m not sure who she is. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-one, give or take.”
“Do you know anything about her?”
“Her name is Rachel.”
She places her palm over my pounding heart. I try to blink away the flickers fighting to come back. I’ve never said that name aloud to anyone else. Her lips touch down on mine and everything disappears, leaving me in peace once again. “I’m sorry. No more today.”
She stands, tugging on my hands. “Come on. Enough of all this serious talk. We have a tree to decorate.”
For once, I welcome something normal, because those demons are never welcome, yet they haunt me every chance they get.
