Read Online Random Acts of Love (Random #5) by Julia Kent - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Julia Kent
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mess I’d just made. That’s how life worked. You made a mess and you took care of it, out of courtesy to other people and because that’s just part of being a decent human being. Clean up your own shit. Don’t put that burden on someone else. I could go into the legal framework for how that specific moral code translates into the legal structure in the United States, but I won’t. Not now.
Not when Mom just transferred her own shit on to me.
I stormed upstairs. She ignored me. Covered in milk and coated in a kind of visceral shame that made me already regret coming home at Mom’s insistence—notice how we hadn’t even gotten to that part yet?—I needed a shower. Bad.
I marched into my bedroom, yanked a t-shirt and jeans out of my drawers, and opened the door to my bathroom.
To be greeted with a wall of sheer plastic and a plumber’s ass crack so big it could be the Grand Canyon.
“Uhhh, what?” I barked out.
The guy on the ground stood and turned around. “Hey, Joey!”
That’s right. Dad. Not my real dad, but Paul the Plumber was damn close. I broke out into a grin in spite of myself, my eyes jumping all over the gutted room.
“Again?” I asked ruefully.
“Again,” he said with a sigh. “Your parents are paying for my son David’s braces.” Paul was a beast of a man. Reminded me a little bit of Darla’s Uncle Mike. A rough talker, and not well educated. But Paul was a smart guy, and he loved to talk sports.
I snorted. “Glad their money’s put to good use.”
He frowned. “I’d say putting you thorough law school counts, too.”
Oh. Great. Now Paul was guilting me?
A corner of his mouth shot up. “Gotta have someone on my side when I’m sitting in the drunk tank. The second you pass the bar, I want your card.”
My shoulders relaxed. Okay. Not guilting me. Being back home made me tense and on guard in ways I didn’t even realize.
“JOEY!” Mom’s screech could cut glass. “Use the shower in my bedroom. And don’t forget to use the blue bathmat this time, and not the cream one, if you’re going to use a blue towel.”
Paul’s eyebrows arched up in question.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Mom’s rules.”
“She makes you match the towel to the bathmat?”
My body halted, not sure how to explain. Ingrained into me for years, Mom’s rules made sense. It wasn’t until middle school that I realized other families didn’t make their maids iron the curtains every week using distilled water and lavender in the iron’s steam, or make sure that the coconut oil they stir fried their edamame in was slave free.
“Yeah.” It was easier to take the simplest explanation.
“That explains a lot.”
“You’ve known her for years, Paul. Remember when she got all upset with you because the trim in the bathroom had three percent of its materials from China and she was terrified we were all going to get antimony poisoning?”
“I remember. All while she was sucking down sulfite-free, organic wine like it was a sports drink.”
“Mom doesn’t get irony, Paul.”
“Your mom’s checks cash like anybody else’s, bud.”
And that’s why I liked Paul.
“How about that Superbowl?” I asked, leaning against the doorjamb.
“JOEY!” she screamed again. “I NEED YOU.”
“She needs you,” Paul said, giving me a look of sympathy.
“She needs a muzzle,” I muttered as Paul snickered, my hand in a salute as I walked downstairs, complying with Mom’s request.
She was standing in front of the refrigerator, fingers tapping. Dad was on the ground, cleaning up my mess. A wave of resentment poured over me.
“You don’t have to do that, Dad,” I said, bending down.
“Yes, I do,” he snapped. “If you don’t do it immediately and do it right, it just makes a bigger mess later.”
The words churned inside me, making me uneasy and a bit sick. My body tensed, abs tight and centered, like I was about to lunge, but the nerve impulses kept me in place, teeming
Not when Mom just transferred her own shit on to me.
I stormed upstairs. She ignored me. Covered in milk and coated in a kind of visceral shame that made me already regret coming home at Mom’s insistence—notice how we hadn’t even gotten to that part yet?—I needed a shower. Bad.
I marched into my bedroom, yanked a t-shirt and jeans out of my drawers, and opened the door to my bathroom.
To be greeted with a wall of sheer plastic and a plumber’s ass crack so big it could be the Grand Canyon.
“Uhhh, what?” I barked out.
The guy on the ground stood and turned around. “Hey, Joey!”
That’s right. Dad. Not my real dad, but Paul the Plumber was damn close. I broke out into a grin in spite of myself, my eyes jumping all over the gutted room.
“Again?” I asked ruefully.
“Again,” he said with a sigh. “Your parents are paying for my son David’s braces.” Paul was a beast of a man. Reminded me a little bit of Darla’s Uncle Mike. A rough talker, and not well educated. But Paul was a smart guy, and he loved to talk sports.
I snorted. “Glad their money’s put to good use.”
He frowned. “I’d say putting you thorough law school counts, too.”
Oh. Great. Now Paul was guilting me?
A corner of his mouth shot up. “Gotta have someone on my side when I’m sitting in the drunk tank. The second you pass the bar, I want your card.”
My shoulders relaxed. Okay. Not guilting me. Being back home made me tense and on guard in ways I didn’t even realize.
“JOEY!” Mom’s screech could cut glass. “Use the shower in my bedroom. And don’t forget to use the blue bathmat this time, and not the cream one, if you’re going to use a blue towel.”
Paul’s eyebrows arched up in question.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Mom’s rules.”
“She makes you match the towel to the bathmat?”
My body halted, not sure how to explain. Ingrained into me for years, Mom’s rules made sense. It wasn’t until middle school that I realized other families didn’t make their maids iron the curtains every week using distilled water and lavender in the iron’s steam, or make sure that the coconut oil they stir fried their edamame in was slave free.
“Yeah.” It was easier to take the simplest explanation.
“That explains a lot.”
“You’ve known her for years, Paul. Remember when she got all upset with you because the trim in the bathroom had three percent of its materials from China and she was terrified we were all going to get antimony poisoning?”
“I remember. All while she was sucking down sulfite-free, organic wine like it was a sports drink.”
“Mom doesn’t get irony, Paul.”
“Your mom’s checks cash like anybody else’s, bud.”
And that’s why I liked Paul.
“How about that Superbowl?” I asked, leaning against the doorjamb.
“JOEY!” she screamed again. “I NEED YOU.”
“She needs you,” Paul said, giving me a look of sympathy.
“She needs a muzzle,” I muttered as Paul snickered, my hand in a salute as I walked downstairs, complying with Mom’s request.
She was standing in front of the refrigerator, fingers tapping. Dad was on the ground, cleaning up my mess. A wave of resentment poured over me.
“You don’t have to do that, Dad,” I said, bending down.
“Yes, I do,” he snapped. “If you don’t do it immediately and do it right, it just makes a bigger mess later.”
The words churned inside me, making me uneasy and a bit sick. My body tensed, abs tight and centered, like I was about to lunge, but the nerve impulses kept me in place, teeming
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