Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 160578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 803(@200wpm)___ 642(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 803(@200wpm)___ 642(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
“You okay? Something happen?” Her lilac eyes almost match my gray. Jessica had once said I had flecks of lilac like Mom’s, but she had smoked a lot of weed that night so I’m sure she was tripping.
“Nothing happened.”
She relaxes, her index finger tapping the steering wheel. “Good.” A maniacal laugh bubbles from her lips. “Would hate to kill a Malum.”
“What?”
The woman looks at me as if she didn’t threaten a King. “What?”
I roll my eyes.
Her laughter is infectious when she turns the radio on to a G-Eazy song about Tumbler girls. Being a one-hour drive from this side of the island to the other, Mom loses herself on this week’s drama of Midnight Mayhem back in Spain. It didn’t take them long to fall in love with L’embruix. It’s hard not to. With cobblestone streets, antique architecture, lanterns for streetlights, and the smell of freshly baked bread, it’s hard to imagine any place being as beautiful as L’embruix.
The drive to the airport is fast, and within thirty minutes of arriving we’re up in the air with a direct flight to Spain.
Flights are long, but because I’ve done this one as often as every second week, I know the path like the back of my hand. I use this time to flip through TikTok, ignoring my Instagram. I lose myself for the remainder of the trip, passing on coffee and asking for whiskey. I hate to start early, but the nerves racking through my body kind of need it.
Especially with the death sentence burning in my pocket.
After landing back in Spain, Mom directs us down the main street of L’embruix, where cobblestone streets curl around ancient buildings. Withered in terracotta reds, fading from the thousands of summers it’s stood through. I push my window down and inhale the breeze that carries laughter and gentle strums of music, dancing through the smell of spilled red wine.
She stops the car. Tucked above concrete archways, our home is a blend of ancient history and graceful luxury. With ornate iron gates with growing ivy, the private courtyard is picturesque.
Turning in her chair, she blinks back at me. It’s silent but not unsettling. I can’t imagine there being an uncomfortable silence between my mom and I, but I know she’s going to ask me something. I hope without either of my dads here that she will understand to not push hard. She doesn’t have a lot of maternal instincts, but I couldn’t ever imagine having another mom.
“This…whatever this is that’s happening.”
I remain silent.
Her head tilts to the side. She usually only does that when she’s about to go off about something she’s passionate about, and in this day, we’re thankful she has things to be passionate about. Mom has been through a lot—to say the least—throughout her years, but she tries. Mainly it’s her finding weird hobbies, loving them for a period, and then eventually getting bored and starting something new. With the range of knitted blankets, handmade jewelry, oh—and one of the throwing stars sitting peachy against my thigh—Ma has always in one way or another tried to create hobbies that find a way to help me.
“I know you can’t say anything. I want you to know that you can to me, because I don’t give a flying fuck about Nathanial or any of the Kings for that matter.” She bats her lashes, tucking pieces of my hair behind my ear.
“Play nice…” I warn, but the corner of my lip twitches.
“I will!” She widens her eyes at me as I find the door handle. “One day,” she mutters, rolling out of the driver’s seat. I listen to her harp on about the current state of Midnight Mayhem and how the shows have been lately. She manages to skate over a few people who she doesn’t want to mention, as we head up the stairs and beneath the archway.
The door closes behind me and I lower my duffel bag onto the concrete floor, blowing out a deep breath. I’ve been home a lot over the years, but this time is different. This time I won’t be leaving to go back to Del Morts, and aside from the twisting anxiety of what’s to come still sitting pretty in my guts, it feels…good.
“I thought about painting your room, you know!” Mom calls out from the kitchen around the clashing of glasses and the fridge door closing.
“Oh really?” I holler back, removing my coat and hanging it up. The house was clearly inspired by old Tuscany homes. With rendered walls and timeless cabinetry, every piece of furniture is elegantly ancient. Which reminds me—I track back to my coat and grab my phone before making my way down the open hallway where the living room sits on one side, and the kitchen on the other. Mom and Dads’ bedroom is downstairs, and the upstairs is all mine. Two bedrooms, one for training, and a bathroom, sauna and gym.