Chapter 17 Cory
“How slutty a short can I get away with at an official team event? I mean, Coach did mention Speedos, but I’m pretty sure he was joking.” Wiping the drool from Billie’s chin, Cherry looks me up and down, her disapproving scowl rendering reply unnecessary, yet unstoppable.
“Not that slutty.” She holds Billie with one arm, and wriggles on her stomach to the now substantial pile of clothes littering my bed, digs around, and pulls out the red pair of Adidas shorts James saw me jogging in.
The ones I bought purely because Harry Styles was wearing a pair on Instagram. “Try these.”
“Can’t. Wore them the other day.”
“Who cares. No one will remember. Besides, the vertical stripes might make your legs look longer.”
I should probably be insulted by that, but her point is valid. Ducking into the bathroom, I slide the yellow pair off and slip on the red. Dammit she was right.
“You were right,” I confess, even though feeding her massive ego is never a good thing. “Look at these stems. Trust Harry to deliver an elongation revelation.”
“Harry and me. Hey, that’s got a nice ring to it. Also, speaking of rings, imagine if you and Plum got married, and me and his sister got married. We could have a double wedding.” I stop flexing my calves in the mirror and lock eyes with Cherry.
“Okay, so let’s grab that thought, and dissect it a little. One, I am never, ever going to get married. Two, James and I aren’t fucking, or dating, yet alone engaged, and thirdly, last time I checked, you weren’t queer.”
“True, but if anyone could make me consider it, an intelligent, sexy blonde like Faith Plum could.”
“Wait?” I drop the crop sleeveless tee I’m holding to my chest. “How do you even know what she looks like?”
“Ahh, there’s this little thing called the internet. And phones have these apps, and you can find and stalk people like professors and plump-assed physiotherapists via them.”
Oh good lord.
“Please tell me you didn’t follow and like.”
“Okay, I didn’t.”
“You did, didn’t you?”
“Little bit, yeah.”
“Cherry!” Sweeping her daughter off the bed, she’s halfway out of my room, laughing like a possessed hyena when the heavy thud of the front door silences us both.
Mom has been going AWOL anytime she suspects Cherry and I will be home.
Everywhere you look, lies evidence she’s been here, meals cooked and packed in the fridge, laundry folder atop the dryer, notes to say Miffy’s been walked, but neither Cherry or I have laid eyes on her since news of the mortgage debacle broke.
Last night, we set a trap for her bringing Pops in as an unknowing accomplice. I told him I had to be at the Bears car wash by eight, and Cherry had a shift starting at nine. Worked like a charm. She may abandon her grown children, but never Billie.
As quiet as Cherry and I can be, we sneak down stairs, me tossing on my cropped tee as I go, Cherry plastering a hand over her mouth to stem her giggles.
For a beat or two, all is quiet, then distinct Mom sounds drift up from the kitchen.
“Remember, it could be Pops,” Cherry warns.
“No jump scares. We don’t want him dropping dead on us. ”
“It’s not Pops,” I whisper. “Listen, she’s humming ABBA. Pops hates ABBA.”
Cherry freezes. “How do you recognize ABBA after like two bars and from here?”
“Hello!” I pop my hip and poke at my exposed belly button. “Feel free to apply stereotypes in this instance.”
We make it to the kitchen just as Mom hits the bridge of Honey Honey.
Called it.
“Play it cool, sis. We don’t want to scare her off. She may be old but she’s quick and close to the back door.”
“Right.” Cherry nods, placing Billie in her baby-jail.
About three seconds later, she leaps through the archway screaming, “MOMWHERETHEFUCKHAVEYOUBEEN?” The poor woman drops her still steaming cup of coffee and does indeed make a break for the door.
I’m younger and faster, and beat her there.
Cherry remains where she is, so now she’s trapped.
“We know you’re a proud, independent woman, but we also know about the mortgage,” I say.
“And we want to help,” adds Cherry. “But you have to be honest and tell us everything.”
We say with perfect twin synchronicity that makes me cringe.
Looking eerily similar to a meerkat, Mom’s head twitches back and forth between us, before she deflates and collapses onto a stool.
In all my life I think I’ve seen Mom cry maybe five times, so when tears descend down her cheeks, the same happens on mine.
“Your dad left me with so much debt. Every month for years I had to decide what bill I could afford, but the longer I took to pay things off, the more interest accrued. Eventually I couldn’t keep up, so I found a mortgage broker on Craigslist. I’d never heard of balloon payments.
I didn’t understand and now … I just never wanted you to know. ”
Cherry and I crowd around, then fold over her like petals closing over a bloom at dusk. “We can help you Mom. You just have to let us. If you hadn’t been hiding you’d know I got a job and—”
“No.” With surprising strength, she pushes us off her and stands. “That’s enough. Next year you’ll be gone and I’ll have no say in what you do. But this year you’re mine, and you have school and hockey, and that’s it. No job.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “Sorry to muff your huff, but I really like what I’m doing and even if I wasn’t getting paid, I’d work as a volunteer.”
“Pfft,” Cherry scoffs, “wonder why.”
“No volunteering either.” I jump a little as Mom slaps her palm onto the bench top. “School and hockey. That’s it.”
“Um, hello. What about me? Can I quit too?”
“Cherry,” I whine. “I think you’re forgetting the point here. We’re supposed to be chipping in, not mooching even more.”
“Oh, right. Forgot, sorry.” Cherry’s stupidity is enough to have a little light emerge in Mom’s downcast expression.
“I’ve made many mistakes in my time, but you two idiots are the best of them.”
The hint of resignation makes that the best backhanded compliment I’ve ever received. It would be so easy to take that opening, and slap the puck home, but years of experience has taught me the wisdom in holding out for the right time to shoot.
“Can this idiot make you some breakfast?” Until now she’s been avoiding my gaze, but she looks at me then, really takes me in for the first time since we ambushed her, and every speck of color in her face drains.
“Cory, what in the hell are you wearing? God help me our Lord and Savior, is this what you’re doing now?
Is this your job? You’re some kind of male gigolo? ”
“Ma!” Caught somewhere between horror and hilarity, Cherry gasps but crosses her legs like she might pee her PJ’s.
Personally I find it too funny to be insulted …
maybe a bit of a compliment too. So once I stop laughing and regain the ability to breathe, I run my hands over my stomach and give my tight, exposed abs a slap.
“Hot right? The team car wash is today and we’re slutting it up to bring in the male attracted gals, gays, and theys.” And the gaze of a certain team physio I’m not sure will even be there.
If the curled lip is anything to go by, Mom’s still not impressed. “And Coach Harris knows about this?”
“About the car wash, yes. That was his idea. The skin show? That’s all me.”
“I massively underestimated how many people have dirty cars. Do you think they’re just here for us?”
“They are, I think I like it. I mean I feel cheap, but in a good way.”
“I never expected the filth in the driver’s minds would be far more disgusting than the grime stuck to their tires.”
“I fucking love this!”
Lucas. Evan. Elliot. Sam. Me.
Five young men in their prime. Five grossly different attitudes to life.
The sun is shining. The birds are chirping. And there’s a line of cars two blocks long waiting to be washed. Most cleaning equipment was dispensed within the first twenty minutes, with all customers choosing the top priced Man-wash over the regular sponge variety.
“If we do this every weekend, we’ll get three grand in no time. Hell, we might even make it today.” Lucas and Sam’s eyes widen as they both give me a high five. I think it’s because of my brilliant off the cuff math, but it’s not.
“Cubby, look who’s here.” The jubilation spreading on Sam’s face has me spinning as though I’m on ice. It’s going to be Cherry. I know it.
But it’s not. It’s another of my favorite fruits.
James Plum in a navy tee that stretches delectably across his broad chest, and shorts that would cover my knees, but on him sit sinfully high on his tanned, muscular thighs.
And not just any shorts, they’re pale blue, almost white velvet shorts for what’s essentially a water sport.
He’s either feeling very brave, stupid or flirtatious.
A million scenarios and positions I would like to see those legs in are playing in my mind when Sam and Lucas’ reactions block them out.
“Hey, why did you point James out to me like that?”
“Like what?” Lucas replies coyly.
“Like he was the last empty life raft on the Titanic and—”
“And you wanna ride him?” Sam finishes. This time, I dodge their gleeful high fives, because what the fuck?
Deciding to say just that, I do. “What the fuck?” I hiss, teeth gritted. “What are you even talking about? I do not want to ride—”
“He’s behind you.”
“—James, hey. So glad you could make it.” Yeah, ‘cause you’re running the show, you dick. I nervously attempt to push up glasses I’m not wearing, and change to running my hands through my hair at the last second. This man has me twisted.
“Looks like you’ve stirred quite the hornets nest.” He slides his sunglasses down his nose, critically eyeing Sam whose abs are currently scrubbing over the front window of a Volkswagen Beetle.
“Traffic’s backed up for miles.” Those eyes then turn to me, and I can practically feel the heat singeing the hair from my body.
My shorts are wet, really wet and possibly a little see-through.
I’m wearing black boxer briefs beneath them, but still.
Not a lot is left to the imagination. When his gaze makes its way back to my face, it lingers on the lips I just happen to be biting. “And I think I know why.”