Never Been Loved (6 page)

My sister is going to be leaving his face soon, and I think I might forget what she looks like if I don’t move my ass back home and go through all her stuff and snag some pictures for myself. But for now I have a living, breathing portrait of her memory and I have to start doing a better job of taking care of him than I already am.

Matty’s going to need a mom, and I don’t see Aly fulfilling that role.

“Daddy? Are you okay?” Matty asks, sleepy eyes slowly opening to look at me. Blue eyes. Like mine. Like Jules’.

How in hell can this kid reduce me to a sack of shit with one little question? How can he ask me if I’m okay, when
nothing
is okay? How can he ask me if I’m okay now that his mom’s dead, and Aly’s using me for rides on my cock, and everything has turned to shit?

I clear my throat, and feel that telltale itch on my skin for a tattoo. Endorphins – the post-tattoo rush; I need it. I’m going to have to call my guy to ink me sometime soon. Maybe tomorrow. Yeah, definitely tomorrow.

“Yeah, Matty. I’m okay. Are you okay?” I notice that he doesn’t move, like he doesn’t want to remind me that my hand is on him. Shit.

“Yeah, Daddy. I feel much better now. I might be hungry.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Oh, yeah? You might be?”

Matty nods, and uses a hand to rub his eyes into full alertness. My nephew’s so fucking cute, he’s going to destroy all the teachers’ panties in kindergarten next year.

“I’m not sure. My stomach is rumbly, but I don’t want vegetables.” Vegetables comes out like veg-a-tables. I grin, totally forgetting that Aly’s in my bed, and I can’t feed the kid right away without causing some problems.

“How about some eggs? With ketchup?” I ask.

Matty’s eyes pop at the sound of ketchup and eggs. Personally, I don’t how he can eat the stuff, but he likes it just fine, and I’d rather he eat protein than sugary cereal. Christ, I sound like a soccer mom.

“You’re the best, Daddy! Can I have some now?” The kid still hasn’t moved. I ruffle his hair, and watch his eyes slide closed and a little smile chase its way across his mouth.

I’m the goddamn lowest of the low. But I mean, I survived without the whole affection thing – but I had Jules. She was always there for me, and Matty has nobody – except his asshole of an uncle. Poor kid doesn’t know how shitty his life is.

“Just wait a second, buddy. Aly’s here, and we need to be quiet for now, yeah?”

Matty closes his eyes again and nods. He stays still a long time, and I watch him, wondering if he fell back asleep. Nope. The kid pops an eye open and gives me an exaggerated wink. I wonder where he learned to do that, or how he’s using it in the right context. Little genius. He sure as fuck didn’t get it from my side of the family.

I put a finger to my mouth – the universal sign for keeping your trap shut. Walking into my bedroom, I’m not surprised to see Aly still staring up at the ceiling, still naked, and not looking like she’s going to move any time soon. My dick twitches again at the sight of her naked limbs, her legs open, her pussy still glossy from what we did minutes ago.

Maybe I should just cut off my cock; that way, she can’t blast her way through my life and shit on me, no matter how good the sex is.

“I want you out of here,” I say. I inject all the asshole in me into those six words, and fume when she doesn’t even move.

“I want rounds two and three. You owe me that,” she says, green eyes piercing me with their cattiness. How did I never see it before? Also, she’d look fucking horrible in glasses. She’d probably buy those awful eighties lookalike things because they had the brand name. Typical.

“Get someone else to get you off, Aly. I need you to leave. We’re done here.” I start following the trail of discarded clothes on my floor. Black lace thong and bra, check. Skin-tight jeans, check. Sheer blouse, check and check. I shove them all at her, stifling my laugh when she starts sputtering. She doesn’t do indignation well.

But she does sit up, long limbs arranging themselves so that she gets her clothes in order. She stares at me like I’m the problem.

“Baby, we both know I can make you feel good in another twenty minutes. You’re okay for then, right?”

“Sugars, Aly. Ask about my sugars like a real fucking person.”

Her mouths sets into a tight line, and I see her ugliness. “Give me a little while, and I’ll roll my tongue around your cock, baby. Have you spill down my throat.”

Fuck, pulling out the big guns. No. Not this time. “Stop with the sweet talk. I want you out of my home. Now. Or I will shove you out as you are, completely naked and lock you the fuck out. Decide.”

“It’s that little fucking shit, ruining everything!” she shrieks, and I know, I
know
Matty heard.

Something dark and dangerous spreads its wings inside my chest cavity, and blocks out rational thought.

I grab her clothes, pissed off that she got her panties and bra on quick enough that I couldn’t totally humiliate her. I manhandle her, hand wrapped around her upper arm, and shove her out into the hall. I toss her shoes out as a convenience, along with her purse. Wouldn’t want her missing her phone so she comes back.

She screams for a good twenty minutes after I lock the door. I make Matty promise me he won’t open the door for any reason while I go take a shower. When I’m done cleaning her off me, I don’t hear her screaming when I shut off the water.

I get dressed and make Matty those eggs he wants. The little guy gets the ketchup from the fridge and plops it on the scarred kitchen table. The thing’s second-hand, like everything else in here, since it’s all I could afford after I moved out. Whatever’s become of my inheritance is padlocked in an account that I’ll only use for emergencies, medical catastrophes and for Matty’s college fund.

“These are delicious!” Matty mumbles over fried egg. So easily impressed.

I smirk and grab a napkin to wipe off the red smile the ketchup has left on his face. He mops up the yolk from his plate with a piece of brown bread, and slobbers it all over himself. He’s going to need a bath, and after my little bout of sexercise, I’m fucking exhausted. I needed that nap before, and now I really need it. Shit.

“Can I have some cake now?” Matty asks. I look at him, and watch him fidget in his chair. He knows the answer, and yet he asks after almost every goddamn meal.

“No, kid. You can’t.”

“How come?”

I can’t tell him he’ll die if he has it and won’t let me inject him with insulin. He’s been finicky about that lately, wanting to inject himself, trying to gain a little bit of independence with the needle. He’s still too young, and he doesn’t understand that yet. Which means I’m going to get another tantrum in five seconds.

Christ, I just want to sleep.

“You just can’t have any, all right?” I say through clenched teeth. Matty shuts up, and his shoulders hunch up like a turtle.

“Okay.” The word is tiny and small, like him, in the face of this thing called diabetes. He doesn’t really understand yet how different he is from the other kids, and I never want him to. How people look at you differently, and how most of them don’t understand what your body’s going through. I rub my face with my hands, trying to wake myself up.

“Look, I’m not having any cake, either. You know we don’t eat junk, Matty.”

“Okay.” Now I feel even worse, and it’s his fault.

“C’mon. Why don’t we go to the park for a little bit? I’ll push you on the swings, yeah?”

Matty’s eyes are hopeful, blue and bright as he waits to make sure I actually said what I said.

“Yeah, kid. Wipe your face, go wash your hands, and get your shoes on.”

Matty sprints to do what I’ve said, nearly tripping in his haste to get to the bathroom, like it’s been moved from its usual place. I smirk, and pull on my boots, cracking my neck. I go to the closet, and get the ratty school bag I use to carry my shit in for shift. I toss the still-damp t-shirts from them, making sure I pack my wallet, making another mental note to go to my car and get my pouch and since Matty’s with me. I put in three juice boxes of apple juice, and some candies.

Ah, the life of a diabetic – completely dependent on the thing that can kill both of us. This is my penance, being sick.

Some days I’m okay with that; others, I’m so fucking tired I could swallow a bottle of Aspirin and chase it with Jack.

Chapter 5

I can tell by the knock on the door who it is. Three feather-light taps on the simulated-wood door and you have to be ultra quiet, making sure you heard what your brain already knows is there. Three more feather-light taps, and my stomach bottoms out.

I’ve been good this week. If I were normal, I’d treat myself to a beer and some greasy food that’ll make me want to die come morning. Since I’m not, I settle for a can of Diet Pepsi for not calling Aly, for ignoring her calls and messages, and Christ, the videos. I maybe looked at them twice. Each. All right, three times.

Matty’s been good all week, too. His sugars have been somewhat stable for a kid, which means that he’s not spiking and dropping and hanging out at either end of the blood sugar spectrum. I’ve been careful with my sugars, too, working out and eating properly. I feel good.

I glance back at the kitchen table where Matty sits, legs swinging back and forth off the chair so quick, he’s making himself move. He says he’s going to draw me a picture, the first one he’s ever done for me. Matty keeps his eyes trained to the paper while he colours the (it might be) sky orange, making sure to cover the green sun.

I move to the door, unlock and open it. Mom’s got those giant sunglasses on, holding the key to the lobby in her hand, letting it dangle off her Tiffany&Co keychain that’s worth a whole week of groceries.

I move back, a silent invitation, and ignore the itch at the back of my neck. Unexpected visits never end well. Even when I was living back home, Mom just showing up at school, or work always meant trouble.

Usually, it was to drunkenly rant about Dad and his need to fuck around, or about Jules and me, disappointing her yet again. It only got worse after I got sick. The look in her eyes became even more frosty, more detached like I really wasn’t her son anymore. Maybe in her eyes, that’s exactly what happened. Whatever genetic defect I have to make my own body attack its own pancreas did not come from her.

“Hi Mom,” I say, leaving the door unlocked after I close it. Quicker for her to leave when she inevitably pisses me off.  

“Hunter,” she says with the warmth reserved for the mailman as he hands her a dirty envelope. Her floral scent wafts up my nose, making me sneeze. Hilary MacLaine does nothing half-assed. Mom doesn’t lightly smell of perfume, no, it’s like she’s bathed in it. And the whole fucking apartment is going to stink in the next five minutes.

“Just checking in?” I ask. Nah, she’s here for a reason. I know it; she knows it. We’re just playing games, circling each other to see who’ll draw first blood in admitting the real reason she’s here. Mom caves first.

“Of course not. You’re not a little boy anymore.”  I want to tell her that I never was a little boy, but I keep my trap shut.

“You want to see your grandson?” I ask. Mom’s mouth opens and closes, only to do it again like she’s trying to find something wrong with my question. Matty is her grandson, he’s just not
my
son.

“Later. I want to talk about you and Alysha right now,” she says, laying it all out there like a fucking battle strategy. I’m the helpless soldier that has to follow orders.

“Fine. Want something to eat or drink?”

Mom has been at my place exactly five times before today. I hate the way she looks at the bare walls, left that awful beige that always makes me think my place is dirty when it isn’t. I watch her taking in the scarred leather couch, and the absence of trinkets she hoards back home. I can’t afford shit like that, only the necessities. With that one look around my living room, dining room and kitchen, she cuts me down to the bone and I’m that stupid little boy with a spilled glass of milk.

Even now, I can’t stand how disappointed she is in me.

“No, thank you.”

“Fine, sit wherever you want. I’m going to finish making Matty some lunch.” I busy myself with the frying pan, watching the slice of butter I put in there from before I checked out Matty’s drawing slowly melting. Grilled cheeses are my specialty, or so Matty says, and I want to give him what he wants. I want to make him smile.

“Hello, Matty,” Mom says, like she’s greeting the man who you’re ordering a casket from.

“Hi Grandma!” Matty squeaks. I could really love this kid. “Grandma... why do you have sunglasses on inside?”

She’s pretentious, kid. All about power. Don’t sweat it.

I unwrap the plastic masquerading as cheese, and plop it on the brown bread. I squish down with my spatula, and wait ’til the cheese melts. The whole apartment smells like burned butter awesomeness, and my stomach heeds the call. Looks like I’m gonna make another three of these bad boys. Anything to distract from my current situation.

“How was daycare today, Matty?” Mom asks, and I’m surprised she even asked. I smirk. The kid has a way with words, and telling stories with every detail included. I try and fake as much enthusiasm as possible most of the time, the rest I’m too exhausted to fucking care.