Chapter 2 ~ Bellamy
Shit just got interesting... for me at least
––––––––
“Bellamy, are you home?”
I hear my mom calling for me from downstairs before the front door closes past my bedroom door. I don’t know why she is looking for me when she knows I am in my room studying—well, I was studying.
“Bellamy?” my mom's voice rings from the stairs, and I groan into the kiss I’ve been enjoying for the last three minutes.
“Ignore her,” I mutter.
The girl straddling my lap laughs against my mouth. “But your mom sounds serious.”
“Yeah, and I am horny,” I emphasise, grinding up against her, letting her feel how hard I am right now to be buried in her tight pussy. “So be a good girl and take my cock—”
My mouth is mid-sweep against some girl I’ve been hooking up with for weeks now; what is her name again? Jessica? Or is it Jenna?
The gap between our lips is about to close when my mother’s voice cuts through the other side of my bedroom door like a woman on a mission to ruin my life.
“Bellamy Atlas Maddox,” my mom shouts, thunderously knocking on my locked door, making the framed jerseys hanging above my headboard rattle on the wall. “I swear, if you are ignoring me, you won’t like the outcome.”
I freeze everything I am doing.
Okay, maybe she sounds a little angrier than I initially assumed, and it’s that fact alone that has the girl pull back, amusement still dancing in her warm brown eyes as she picks up her clothes from the floor and gets dressed. “You should probably answer,” she whispers.
Yeah, she’s right.
Fucking Christ, mother.
“I’m not even a child anymore; she should know what the door being locked means,” I argue to no one in particular.
“She’s your mom, so I don't think she wants you doing it under her roof,” the girl tries to reason and yeah, fine, sure, but this is technically not my mother’s house; it's my grandparents’, but I won’t be telling this girl that.
Unless she already knows.
Before I can get up from the bed to open the door, I hear the sound of keys jiggling, and then the door swings open to reveal one furious Victoria Maddox, my mom, standing there holding a basket of my laundry.
“Your mother does, in fact, know what a locked door means,” Mom says. “Your mother also heard laughter and assumed I’d find exactly what I found and thank God I did before your grandfather—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know.” I wave her off, not wanting to hear about those house rules my grandparents put in place while they were off travelling across Europe.
I bend over, pick up the discarded hoodie from the floor, and pull it on, along with the shorts beside the bed.
When I look up, my mom looks unimpressed, which is unfair.
I turned eighteen months ago. I’m an adult—an adult who happens to be sitting on his bed with a pretty girl who should be moaning his name, not sitting beside him looking as confused by this as I am.
Having my own mom being the cause of potential blue balls because she could just leave me alone is just not a normal situation I saw myself in tonight. I guess it will be my hand, porn and me later.
Yay... Not.
“Hi, Mrs Maddox,” the girl says brightly.
My mom smiles. “Hello sweetheart, please, just call me Vicky; my Mrs Maddox days are over.” She is getting more used to correcting people about the whole situation regarding the divorce.
The first few weeks my parents were separated were the hardest. My mom rarely left her bed unless she smelled the breakfast I was making her or to use the washroom.
By the first month of being separated, she kept blaming herself for my Dad deciding not to help pay for me to live on campus when Mom already paid my tuition for both semesters.
Now it’s been a year; Mom has two jobs, I’ve been working odd jobs for Mr Sullivan’s auto repair shop in town, and we do our best to pay for my schooling since her parents are nice enough to let us crash in their home, which, mind you, I don't think two people need such a large place.
But whatever.
It’s none of my business; what is my business is why my mom is barging into my room. “Was there a reason you needed me?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest.
The girl beside me gets up from the bed as my mom glances between us, then gestures to the hallway. “Would you mind if I stole my son from you, Stefanie?”
So that’s her name.
“Of course.”
I raise my hands in the air in defeat. “Seriously?”
Stefanie pats me on the shoulder, leans down to kiss my cheek and makes her way to the door, but not before looking at me one last time and giving me a cheeky wink. “You’ll just have to survive a little longer without me until next time, Bell.”
“Rude.”
Mom steps aside to let Stefanie walk past her, and I am fucking fuming seeing her perfect ass walk away from me.
“Tell your mom I said hello,” my mom shouts, and we hear Stefanie laugh as her footsteps fade down the stairs.
Silence envelops us once the front door downstairs closes in Stefanie’s wake, and for a few seconds, neither of us says anything, waiting to see who will break first.
Obviously, I do.
I always do.
I shoot my mom a glare, and she smirks—smirks all triumphantly like she won the world's longest race while my dick is weeping.
“I bet you're just proud of yourself for this,” I grumble.
My mom laughs, sets the laundry basket down on my dresser bureau, and walks over to the bed and sits down beside me. “Truly, I am sorry, but I needed to,” she pauses with a heavy swallow and averts her eyes from mine.
Now I am concerned.
“Use your words, woman. What is it?”
My mom raised her brow but shook her head, dismissing my words entirely until she was composed and ready. “I need to tell you something important.”
“Yes, I know, and the suspense is killing me.”
“Oh, shush, I need to think of the best way to say this to you without getting you freaked or weirded out.”
“Uh, okay.”
I don’t like this suspense. It isn’t the fun horror movie kind that comes right before a major jump scare.
It isn’t, but I hate those words and where this is going. It doesn't help that the last time she said those exact words to me was the day she and Dad were getting a divorce.
My mom is many things: patient, kind and ridiculously organised, the type of woman who remembers every birthday she’s ever heard of thanks to the colour-coordinated calendar she keeps hanging in the kitchen.
But this—this is just being dramatic, and my mom doesn’t do dramatic things. At least, not usually. The whole barging into my room at eleven thirty is a bit much even for her.
So whatever this is matters to her.
I swing my legs under the blanket so I can lean against the headboard, and because if she is going to take her sweet ass time getting to the point, I might as well get comfortable.
My mom takes a deep breath and then exhales. “Okay,” she says and gives me her best smile. “Ready?”
I nod. “Rip off the Band-Aid.”
I mean, come on, this is the same woman who works two jobs, still manages to attend all my games and come home late to cook us dinner because, apparently, when I try, it makes her sick or nearly burns the house down.
I told her to teach me.
But the point is, if she is nervous to tell me whatever this is, then it has to be huge. Like winning two tickets to one of those wrestling matches we like to watch together.
“I’ve been seeing someone.” My mom immediately diverts her eyes from mine and shuts them, and I swear an eternity passes in which I am just staring at her.
Then I grin.
“That’s it?” I laugh. “Mommy’s found herself a boyfriend, and she’s what? Scared her big old son is going to beat the shit out of the fella?”
She looks back in my direction and just blinks, utterly dumbfounded or something. “You aren’t mad?”
“Wait, seriously, that’s it?” I can’t help but laugh a little harder until tears streak my cheeks. “Oh wow, Mom... You made it seem like you killed someone.”
Her shoulders visibly relax then, and an almost relieved smile appears. “I take it you are okay with this predicament then?”
“I mean, why wouldn’t I be?”
God knew she deserved to be happy after spending more than enough years trying to make everyone else, mainly my dad, happy first. So if some guy manages to make her smile and make her day brighter, then good for her, and whoever the bastard is.
I’m not about to bitch about it.
Mom looks genuinely pleased I’m not getting a bat and asking her for the dude's number, which makes me curious who he is, what he’s like, and if he has a dog.
I’d love a dog.
“Really?” she asks. “One hundred percent okay with this?”
“Truly.”
Damn woman.
You would think I am an overprotective son or something the way she’s acting—oh wait, there is the mailman who tried to hit on her and the way I chased him down the street with my lucky hockey stick for checking her out...
Yeah, never mind.
The relief on her face makes something warm settle in my chest. Knowing my approval helps her feel all the more assured that she deserves whoever this guy is, and that he's important enough to bring it to my attention.
When my mom gets up, she hesitates before taking another step and looks at me with a look that quickly ruins the warm feeling in my chest.
“What?”
“There is one little detail I forgot to add.”
I scoff, pointing a finger at her accusingly. “Of course there is; well, let it out then.”
Please don’t be pregnant, please don’t be pregnant. Please God, let it be anything but that. I don’t want, nor do we need, a baby to take care of in this safety hazard of an old house.
Mom laughs softly, but it also comes out a little awkward when she starts pacing. “He has children.”
I raise a brow. “Okay.”
Wait.
“How old?”
She swallows hard. “He has a son your age and his daughter is two years older, so no need to worry about having to get to know them, right?”
“Right,” I repeat, because what the actual fuck is wrong with her right now? Like, yeah, I don't need to get cosy with his kids, but what is she so concerned about? It’s weirding me out more than her early nervousness to spit out the fact that she has a boyfriend.
Okay, now I need to know.
“Who is this guy?”
Her lips twitch as if she is holding back from saying it.
“Mom?”
“Your coach—I’m dating Coach Walker.”
My eyes widen. “What the fu–” “I know, I know,” she says, cutting me off. “It just happened, and at first it was just coffee to talk about you and your bright future, and then it evolved into dinner dates in the city and—”
“Holy crap,” I manage. “You’re joking.”
She shakes her head. Shit just got interesting, for me at least, because I was so fucked—royally fucked; it isn’t even funny.
I watch, stunned and horrified, as my mom pulls out her phone and shows me a picture of my coach and his two children.
And yeah, I know his kids, well, I mainly know his son and his stupidly perfect smile, the way he walks into every room as if he is a god among peasant mortals, the thrill he takes in belittling me specifically at every turn because the way he does shit—the flawless grades he doesn’t have to work hard to get because he’s smarter than the fucking professors.
And fine, maybe I started messing with him first, but how could I not?
My God.
She’s dating Satan's dad. My mom is dating Minho Seong Walker’s dad, and I know she knows how much I hate that guy.
Not Coach; I love the guy, he’s awesome. I hate Minho with a burning passion that could rival the fires of hell.
“Mom—”
“Before you say anything, I want you to know that we are having dinner with the Walkers next Saturday,” she informs me.
My mouth falls open before I compose myself, shutting down the meltdown that is slowly eating away at my insides.
There is no way on God’s green earth that I would go to dinner with the Walkers—with Minho, the little shit.
Absolutely not.
“I know you and his son don’t get along, but if you could just do this for me, I would greatly appreciate it, buddy,” she continues nervously, rambling on and on. “I swear, after this dinner, if you don’t even vibe with Colton and me, I will end it, but I need you to know he makes me really happy.”
Fuck me.
I can’t even get into how weird it’s going to be having her date, my coach. But for now, his son is my biggest issue.
Swallowing my hatred for one person for one night can’t be that hard, right?
Yeah, right, he keyed my car twice, and the only reason I never pressed charges is that I didn’t have solid proof, but I know it was him.
Wouldn’t even be surprised if he paid someone to do it; the little fucker is crafty like that.
“I’ll try... for you,” I say because I can’t promise I won’t try anything.
My mom smiles. “Thank you.”
She got out of the bedroom before I could say anything else on the matter, and I am just left here in my bed, wondering where it all went wrong.
I could laugh, but I don’t because one thing is certain. If Minho knows his dad is dating my mom, he is already planning how best to fuck up my life.
And fuck it up, he will.