Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Marissa
“Dinner’s ready, Patrick!” I called from the kitchen as I plated the spaghetti for both of us, then reached for the garlic bread. It was a simple meal that we both liked, which meant we ate it twice a week.
The door of the second bedroom slammed, and I breathed a sigh of relief that he’d heard me the first time. Although I had a rule about no video games during the school week, sometimes he put on his headphones and listened to…whatever it was kids these days listened to.
As he clomped into the kitchen—at sixteen, Patrick was finally growing into his long limbs—I used my chin to point to the salad spinner. “Could you please do the Caesar salad? ”
He agreed with a grunt, and I felt a moment of pride that the two of us could work so well together. Years of living alone, just the two of us, meant that we could prep for dinner with our eyes closed.
We sat at the table and began to eat. When he was younger, we used to watch TV as we ate, and sometimes I still allowed us to both bring books to the table—although he wasn’t nearly the reader I was, despite my best attempts. But mostly, I tried to use this time to bond.
Too bad there wasn’t much to bond about.
“How was school today?”
“Good.”
Ah .
I hid my sigh by shoving a bunch of lettuce in my mouth. I wanted to ask him what he’d been up to at the water fountain, and why the school’s police officer had to interrupt him. But I was learning that the more I pushed him about his friend group—his bad friend group—the more he would clam up and retreat.
The problem was, since he’d moved into the high school wing of the upper campus, Patrick had started hanging out with…well, the only way I could describe them was The Bad Kids. These were the guys—led by Jaxon—who did stuff like graffiti walls and set small fires. They weren’t criminals , but they were heading that way.
“Did your biology quiz go okay?”
He shrugged and hunched over his spaghetti.
Damn. One of the issues, I was learning, was that I knew little, and understood less, about what a sixteen-year- old’s interests were. Besides his hoodlum friends—and yes, I realize that makes me sound like I’m getting ready to shake my cane and yell Get off my lawn !—Patrick had his video games, and I really couldn’t follow much of that.
But being a parent was realizing you had to meet the kid on his level and find value in his interests. Unfortunately, the only thing I was certain of when it came to how he spent his time was his schoolwork, so I tried to ask about it every day.
“ Patrick ,” I prompted.
Huffing a sigh, my son rolled his eyes. “Fine, yes, it was okay. I got an eighty-five.”
“That’s great!”
He peeked up at me from lowered brows. “It’s not an A.”
Did he think it mattered so much to me? Maybe asking about his schoolwork each evening had given him the impression it was all I cared about? I tried for a nonchalant shrug. “I know you studied last night, so that’s what matters. If you tried your best and got a B, then that’s great.”
Slowly, he sat up a little straighter, as if he hadn’t expected my answer. “I…uh…I used the whole mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell song you sang.”
A surprised bark of laughter burst from my lips, and I eased it into a smile as I saluted him with a fork full of noodles. “I guess your old mom doesn’t totally suck, huh? ”
“You’re not old , Mom,” he snorted, and bent back over his food. “You’re just boring.”
I reared back, blinking in surprise. “I’m not…” I trailed off, because wasn’t that what Joleen was saying this afternoon?
“You don’t do anything,” Patrick said to his spaghetti. “You don’t date, you don’t party, you don’t go play pickleball or whatever, you haven’t touched the boat since last fall, you don’t volunteer at the animal shelter…”
“Is that what your friends’ moms do?” I couldn’t help my hurt tone. “I’m not going to go out partying each night! I have a kid, and a job, and responsibilities.”
Patrick suddenly tossed down his fork and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Yeah, and so does every other adult I know. But they do all that stuff. They have fun .” He glared. “Mom, when was the last time you had fun?”
“I like to read,” I mulishly pointed out. “And I watched that mystery show—”
“ Mom .”
I winced. “Yeah, I realized as I was saying it. That doesn’t sound particularly fun to you, does it?”
The little snot smirked. “It doesn’t sound fun to you either. It’s just something you do before bed. You scroll your phone, you go to sleep. Why don’t you get a hobby, or go on a date or something?”
I stared at him, too shocked to try to figure out how to formulate my response. “A…date? Date who?” He wanted me to date? I hadn’t seriously dated anyone for sixteen years. “You know I’m not going to date. The two of us are a family, Patrick; I’m not going to screw that up.”
“Yeah, well…” He huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh, might’ve been anger, his gaze locked on the tabletop to my left. “And how do you think that makes me feel? To know that you’ve spent the last how many years avoiding guys, avoiding fun , because you didn’t want to…I dunno.”
“Because I didn’t want to hurt you,” I whispered. “I didn’t want you to get attached to some guy only for it not to work out.”
Scooping up my garlic bread, I shoved it into my mouth to keep from blurting out something else. After a long moment, Patrick seemed to accept the impasse and picked up his own fork to stab at his salad.
I was almost done eating—the silence heavy and awkward—before he cleared his throat. His attention on what was left of his meat sauce, Patrick said too nonchalantly, “The guys and I had a crazy idea today.”
Oh no. “Oh yeah?” I tried for nonchalance.
“Yeah, we were talking about maybe…” Blue eyes peeked up at me from under his too-long hair, then flashed back to his food as he mumbled something.
I leaned forward. “What?”
“Starting a band,” he said to his plate.
Huh. I knew Ethan was musically inclined—he played the horn for the school pep band, and the guitar at home—but Patrick hadn’t mentioned this interest before. “A…ba nd?” I clarified carefully, not wanting him to think I didn’t approve. “Like, a garage band?”
He shrugged. “We’re not using the garage except for Christmas decoration storage.”
Well, that was true. “Who’s going to be in your band? What instrument are you going to play?”
Slowly, Patrick lifted his gaze, as if hesitant. “Um…Ethan on the guitar and Jaxon on his base and Hank on the keyboard if he can get his mom to let him take it out of the house. And Brian wants to sing. And I thought…I could play the drums.”
My brows rose.
He’d never shown an interest in music before, but Patrick did have pretty good rhythm. I wasn’t sure I could afford a full drum set right now, but… “Maybe we could find a set used on the mainland or something.”
It wasn’t until his expression lit up that I realized I’d said it out loud. “So you’re cool with it?”
Was I? I mean, the thought of a bunch of teens blasting “music” in my garage made me wince. But…at least if they were here, I’d know they weren’t out getting into trouble. So I smiled as genuinely as possible. “Yeah, of course I’m cool with it. I can be the cool, non-boring mom.”
He snorted, but his lips curled. “Thanks. That is pretty cool.”
And I gotta be honest; I felt like I’d finally done something right .
Suddenly, inspiration struck, based on his earlier complaint.
“Hey! How about tomorrow after school we take the boat out?” I shook my head. “Well, actually, how about after school we work on the boat, make sure it’s ready for the season?” I had a nineteen-foot Boston Whaler in a slip at the marina, and Patrick was right; we hadn’t used it since last year. “Then the day after tomorrow we take it out, get some clams?”
His smile grew. “Clamming? Heck yeah, we haven’t done that since last spring! You could make linguine!”
“Only if you make the Caeser salad again.”
“Deal.”
We shared a smile, and I felt a band around my chest loosen. Maybe, just maybe, I didn’t completely suck at this parenting thing, or this adulting thing, or this not-having-fun thing.
I can’t believe my kid wanted me to date!
Simbel
Breakfasts had become…boring.
For ten years, since we’d left the research facility where all of us orcs from our cohort had been sequestered as the government ran experiments and whatnot, it had been Memnon and me against the world. We’d moved to New York together, since it had seemed the most exciting way to interact with humans. We’d graduated from the academy together. We’d pushed each other competitively to make detective and solve cases.
And then Sakkara’s call had come.
It was hard to deny the attraction of having a real home, a place to belong. Eastshore had welcomed the orcs with open arms, and it was amazing to see all the guys finding their places—and Mates—here on the island.
And Memnon and I had made the decision to come check it out, right around the time one of our perps had skipped parole and headed to Eastshore to get revenge on his ex…who turned out to be Sakkara’s Mate.
That situation had been…a situation. We ended up quitting the NYPD, I transferred to EIPD, and Memnon…Memnon still hadn’t recovered. The bullet he’d taken had fucked up his femur, and he’d taken an early retirement.
We moved into this apartment over the florist shop on Main Street, and now everything was different.
Not in a good way, though.
“You want any eggs?” my twin grunted as he limped from the fridge to the stove.
“Nah. Fridays are for sugary cereal,” I quipped, trying to keep the energy higher than it felt. “You want any Fructo-s?”
“Stuff’ll rot your teeth and your brain.”
That was my twin brother, spreading cheer as always .
Memnon had always been the serious one, but in the last few months, since moving here, he’d become…so much more withdrawn. Angry. The male was grumpy, there was no way around it, but now? I could tell he was all churned up inside, not at peace with himself, and I hated that I couldn’t help him fix it.
I forced a smile, even though I was eating, and his back was to me. “So, you wanna check out that taco truck tonight? Rissa at work said it was pretty good.”
For the last four days, whenever I’d thought about her, something deep in my chest spasmed. I hadn’t been lying to her son; I respected her and wasn’t going to push my company on her if that’s not what she wanted. But seeing her every day, trying to stay cheerful and upbeat, when my Kteer was urging me to take taste lick claim was…hard.
Heh . Wasn’t the only thing hard , if you get my drift.
My brother grunted as he scrambled the half-dozen eggs in the pan. I thought that was going to be his answer, but after about a minute, as he was spooning them onto a plate, he said, “Thought you were going to the basketball game tonight?”
Oh, that’s right, it was Friday.
“I don’t have to,” I offered, spooning the last of my milk. “I’d rather hang out with you.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” he grumbled, limping to the table, carrying his plate and fork in one hand, his mug of coffee in the other. “Go to the game, stupid. ”
I hated this. I hated that he no longer pushed me…but just pushed me away. I hated that we weren’t a team any longer. And I hated that he was in pain. “How’s the leg?”
His dark gaze jerked up, and he scowled at me as he plunked the food across the table. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Quit babying me.”
It wasn’t the first time in our careers that one of us had been wounded. But it was the first time he’d withdrawn like this.
“Are you going to physical therapy today?”
“ Simbel ,” he growled, picking up his fork. “Stay the fuck out of my business.”
For thirty-six years, his business had been my business. And vice versa. “Just wondering,” I quipped, hiding a wince, “because that’s a shit-ton of protein for sitting around on your ass all day.”
Memnon didn’t respond, and that was chilling, frankly. A few months ago, before the disastrous Christmas case, me saying something like that would’ve been enough to launch him across the table at me, and we would’ve gone down in a pile of broken dishes and messy food.
Now, though, he mechanically shoveled the eggs into his mouth.
I sighed. “I really do want to try the taco truck with you—”
“Go to the game,” he growled at his plate. “Sit next to Rissa. Woo her. Mate her. Be happy. Leave me alone.”
Eyes widening, I reared back. There was a lot to unpack there. He wanted me to…move on with my life without hi m? I shook my head, hating the weird feeling in my chest, and decided to latch onto the easiest thing he’d said. “I told you, Rissa isn’t interested.”
He shot me a dark look from under his brows. “Yeah, and do you believe it?”
Actually…no. I’d seen the way she looked at me when she didn’t think I was looking. I’d felt the way she’d looked at me. More than once, I’d smelled a difference in her scent when she was around me, which normally would’ve been an indication she was very interested in me.
But she’d told me…
Yeah, well, maybe you ought to ask again .
“Look,” Memnon announced out of the blue, not looking at me as he grabbed his coffee mug. “You know she’s special. I know you know she’s special. Just…get on with it.”
“Special, how?” I blurted.
His gaze finally met mine with a scowl. “I’ve seen the way you look when you talk about her. Stop fucking around and go claim your Mate already.”
I slammed to my feet. “What?” My voice was too high. “She’s not my Mate .”
Except…that weird feeling in my chest? My Kteer very much liked the sound of that.
My twin brother scowled. “Swear by the goddess, there’s something in the water around here. Just go to the game, stupid. Leave me alone. ”
I opened my mouth to respond, but he shoved away from the table, eggs half-eaten. Holding his coffee mug, he limped toward his bedroom, as if telling me the conversation was closed for now.
And I stood there in the kitchen, my blood buzzing from all that sugar, my Kteer clawing at my chest, my uniform suddenly too tight. I was going to go to the game tonight, wasn’t I? I was going to look for Rissa, and I dunno whether I was going to talk to her or not, but I was going to look for her at least.
Mate ?
No, my brother was the idiot in this situation. I didn’t know Rissa; we hadn’t hung out at all. She wasn’t my Mate, and Memnon was just an asshole.
Yeah.