Chapter Seven
Tegan
I stand back and look at the intricate design I just finished on the cradle someone commissioned. It’s a piece I’ve been working on for a while. On the outside edges surrounding the top are woven swirls that mimic a rope. The outside wall has the letters KT carved into the wood. On the other side are the words You are my sunshine. On the front is a carved sun and the back is a rattle. Once I’m done, it’ll sit on a stand that’ll allow it to be rocked, and to finish it off it’ll be stained dark. It’s not a piece you normally see for babies anymore—nowadays they have pretty white bassinets and cribs—but I like it. I like that the parents took the time and effort to have someone build something special for their baby.
I yank the rag from my back pocket and wipe my hands, done for the day. Tomorrow I’ll take it apart, stain it, then put it back together for the parents. They’re due to pick it up the day after. I’m looking forward to seeing their faces when they see it. That’s the thing I love most about my job: seeing the pleased faces of my clients when they first see their visions come to life.
I lock up my workshop and head to the house. A look at the clock says I still have five hours before I’m supposed to pick up Willow. As soon as the thought enters my mind, my dick starts to twitch. The girl is all I’ve thought about the last two days, which means my dick has been in a constant hard state. I’ve jacked off so many times since the last time I saw her, I swear my dick is raw. I need back inside her like I need my next breath. Her pussy is addicting. I’m not an exclusive type of guy, I like my variety, but the thought of fucking another random girl doesn’t even stir my dick in the slightest.
Fifteen minutes later, I step out of the shower, freshly cleaned and my dick beat into submission. For the time being, anyway. I grab a pair of jeans and a gray Henley from the closet and slip them on. My hair gets a finger comb, because I’m a guy and that’s just the way we do it.
A fluff of gray skids by me in a flash in the hallway, and I almost step on it.
“Hey, cat!” I yell, and dart after the fur ball. “Come here, you little bitch!” By the time I run into the living room, she, he, it, or whatever in the hell it is, is gone.
A few weeks ago, I came home to a scrawny gray cat on my stoop. I felt bad for it because it didn’t look like it had eaten for a while, so I went inside and brought back an open can of tuna. Later that evening, when I went out to grab something from my truck, the damn cat ran inside. I hunted high and low, but never found it. It’s been hiding from me ever since. I’ll see flashes of it occasionally, but it always runs off when I try to catch it. I put food out for her every night, so it doesn’t starve, and a little box, praying like hell it doesn’t shit and piss everywhere. Hopefully it’ll eventually feel safe enough to be social.
Hearing my phone ring from the kitchen, I leave the fur ball to its hiding place. Grabbing it off the counter, I grit my teeth at the number on the screen.
“Hello?” I don’t even try to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
“Mr. Zander?”
“Yes,” I grind out.
“Mr. Zander, this is Dr. Withers. I’m calling about your mother. I tried catching you yesterday before you left, but I was held up with a patient.”
I twist my head from side to side, hearing the popping of my bones. My hand grips the phone tight. Anytime that woman is brought up, my anger spikes. I’m normally a very laid-back guy, always happy and joking around. My mother is the only one that can spark the darkness inside me.
“What did you need to talk to me about?”
I try my best to keep myself calm and reasonable and not bite the doctor’s head off. It’s not her fault. This lies solely on the bitch’s shoulders.
“Her health is declining faster than we anticipated,” the doctor says. “Her organs are shutting down at a rapid pace. I know you’ve been coming to see her once a week, but I wanted to let you know that you may need to up the visits if you want to be there when she passes.”
Her words send several emotions slamming into me. I lean back against the counter and pull in deep breaths. Anger for the childhood I ended up with because of her. Bitterness because the bitch has obviously garnered the sympathy of her doctors and nurses when she doesn’t deserve it. Sadness for the mother I knew for such a short time and prayed every night after she changed would come back.
I hear a noise across the room and glance up to find my dad standing in the doorway. Now is not a good time for him to be here. The anger he feels for my mom is still very much alive. I don’t blame him. After the condition he found me in, and then learning what my mother did to me for years, I’m surprised he didn’t kill her. Looking back, I think the only thing that kept him from doing just that was the cops he brought along with him when he found out where we were.
I need to cut this conversation short as quickly as possible.
“I’ll talk to you on my next visit,” I tell the doctor, turning my back on my dad.
“Mr. Zander, you don’t understand. She may not survive for that—”
I cut her off, my voice harsh. “I don’t give a shit. I’ll be there next Monday.”
I hang up before she has a chance to say anything else. I don’t turn back to my dad, but I hear him enter the room and the scrape of a chair as he sits at the table. I look out the window as one squirrel chases after another up a tree.
“That was about her, wasn’t it?” he says, not caring to hide the anger in his voice. The emotion sounds foreign. I get my carefree nature from him.
“Yes.” I grip the edge of the counter and count to ten, trying to push back my own anger.
I turn and face him.
“She dead yet?” His question isn’t asked with sympathy or remorse or grief. If anything, it’s asked with anticipation. He knows about her condition only because I felt he had a right to know, even if he really doesn’t care.
“No, but they say it’ll be soon.”
He tries to hide it, but I can see the relief in his eyes. I’m not ashamed to admit that I feel the same sense of relief that it’s almost over. As much as I wanted a loving and caring mother when I was little, that ship sailed a long time ago.
I grab a couple beers from the fridge and hand him one before kicking out a chair and taking a seat across from him. I see my dad at least once a week. It’s normally me going to his house, but not because he doesn’t like to come to mine. I just happen to always go to his.
He leans back in his chair and crosses his ankles. I can visibly see him wiping his mind of all thoughts of his ex-wife, and I sigh in relief.
“I’ve got a commission for you.”
I pop the top from my beer and take a swig. “Whatcha got?”
“It’s a replica of coffee table. All I’ve got is a picture to go on.”
He hands over a printout picture of an antique table with several designs carved on the top. The design is very detailed and will take time and patience to get just right. There’s a door on the front that looks like it opens to a cubby space.
“Can you do it?”