Teach Me Like That (LMLT Book 2) (16 page)

I don’t even question the urge for domestic tasks as I leave Lexi lying in her bed to make my way downstairs to make coffee. Even though my balls ache from overuse, my cock still stands at attention knowing that Lexi is in her room naked as the day she was born.

As soon as there’s enough coffee in the pot, I pour two cups. I’m taking a sip of mine when the front doorbell echoes through the house. Making my way out of the kitchen, I find myself grateful I threw on my jeans before coming downstairs.

I know it’s not my place to open her door, but that doesn’t stop me after waiting a minute to see if she’s going to come down to answer it. After the second chime of the bell, I tug open the door.

I stare in amusement at the tall, lean woman standing on the front porch. I’d guess she’s about forty-five, but with the amount of makeup she has caked on her face I could be way off base. I wonder if she’s lost because the tiny dress that is almost forcing her fake breasts out of the top of her dress is a little out of place for a Sunday morning.

“I’m Cinnamon,” she coos holding her hand out to me.

I shift my coffee cup to my other hand and shake hers. She slides her hand up my forearm before I can pull it back. I suddenly feel naked as her eyes roam over my bare chest.

“Kegan,” I say politely.

“You are one fine man, Kegan.” She takes a step closer to me and trails a long poorly manicured acrylic nail down my chest.

I take a step back and contemplate slamming the door in her face.

A hiss draws my attention to the staircase. Lexi is walking down with my shirt and shoes in her hands. Her eyes are narrowed, and she looks angry, but her focus is on the woman standing on the porch, not me. For that, I’m grateful. I had no idea how she was going to react to waking up with me in her house. Things are different the morning after. The light of day and the haze of alcohol lifting can have anyone questioning what they did the night before.

“Who are you?” I finally manage to ask. I’m trying to evaluate the situation, and if I’m going by the look on Lexi’s face, this is not a woman she wants in her house.

“Her mother,” she says looking past me to Lexi.

Mother? I don’t remember many conversations I have with women, but every word Lexi has ever said to me has been playing on a constant loop in my head. I distinctly remember her telling me both her grandparents and her parents were dead.

I turn my attention to Lexi. “I thought you said—”

“That I was dead? Yeah, she tells everyone that,” Cinnamon says stepping past me and into the house. “My key didn’t work,” she says to her daughter.

“I changed the locks,” Lexi says handing me my t-shirt and shoes. The look in her eyes is pleading with me to go and let her handle this situation.

I put my shoes on the floor and begin to tug my t-shirt over my head.

“Don’t get dressed on my account honey,” Lexi’s clearly not dead mother says. “This one looks much better than that asshole that knocked you up in college.”

My eyes widen as I look over at Lexi, and the same reaction is on her face. Ah, secrets and lies seem to be a theme with her. Like I said before, this woman has complicated written all over her, and as much as I love fucking her, this shit is getting too deep for me.

I make my way into the living room and sit on the couch to tug on my shoes. I can feel Lexi’s eyes on me, but I don’t raise my head until both shoes are on and tied up.

When I finally raise my eyes to hers, I can tell she trying to analyze my thoughts, trying to get a read on my reaction to her mother’s words. My thoughts are so scrambled I know she can’t get an accurate read. That would be an impossible task, seeing as I have no idea how I feel about all of it.

I could be pissed that she has so much in her past. I could be livid that she lied to me about her mother, for no other reason than she seems to have been doing it for years. Yet, if I judge her for her past and her way of coping with Lord knows what, then I become her, the same woman who slapped me in the face for coming face to face with a woman in my past.

Unfortunately, it’s the lies in my past that make me call everything into question. The fact that she did it so easily as if it was second nature is the cause for concern. It’s the reason the alarm bells going off in my head are louder than the ones informing me she’s more of a relationship type girl than the quick fuck kind.

I make my way toward the door, having nothing left to say. I don’t know why I stop walking when I feel Lexi’s trembling hand on my forearm.

Lexi

“Cindy,” I groan in frustration.

“Cinnamon,” she corrects.

I shake my head and look at Kegan, grateful he stopped when I reached out to him. I have no idea what to tell him, but my mother standing in the middle of the living room isn’t helping the situation at all.

“That’s your stripper name,” I counter.

I know what you’re thinking… how dare I speak to my mother that way? Yeah, you have no idea about this woman.

“You,” she says aggressively taking a step toward me. “Are the reason I’m a fucking stripper.”

I feel Kegan’s body tighten. I take a step back, and he repositions his body as if to shield me from the angry woman.

“I wasn’t going to be a stripper, Lexus.”
God I hate my name
. “I was going to be a showgirl! I had dreams!” she screeches, growing angrier as each word comes from her mouth.

“Cindy,” I say in a calming tone trying to stop this before things get out of hand.

“Cinnamon!” she yells. I watch as her face turns a brilliant shade of red that almost matches the color of her dyed hair. “If that piece of shit producer hadn’t knocked me up, I’d be famous by now.”

The famous part she’s always thrown in my face. As long as I can remember she’s blamed me for her shortcomings. I don’t know why; it’s not like she didn’t drop me off with my grandparents the first chance she got. The newest addition, though, is her mention of the producer being my father.

My paternity changes to suit her mood. I’ve come to realize over the years that there’s a very real chance Cynthia Carter has no idea who my father actually is, but her poor choices in choosing sexual partners are somehow all my fault.

I sigh at the realization. Like mother, like daughter.

Suddenly my desire for Kegan to stay, if only as a defense against my belligerent mother, evaporates completely. The longer he stays, the more he’ll realize that I’m a complete mess.

“You’ve ruined my life!” she continues. “I was destined for fame, and what do I have now? Nothing. I have nothing to show for years of hard work other than being the lead at Marky’s Muff Mansion in Portland.”

I want to laugh at her declaration, but it catches in my throat as Kegan takes a step toward her.

“Sounds to me that you’ve got some pent-up frustrations,” he says with an edge to his voice.

My mother nods, seeking his sympathy.

“Seems you’re pretty upset, made some bad decisions in your life,” he continues.

She nods. “Horrible decisions. I didn’t know I was pregnant until it was too late for an abortion,” she whimpers.

Kegan’s back muscles tense up at her words. For me, it’s just another day with my mother. I’m so thankful that these random visits are so few and far between.

“She ruined my life,” my mother says.

“It’s a damned shame you feel that way,
Cynthia
.” I smile at his use of her name. “Lexi is the most amazing woman I’ve met, other than my own angelic mother.”

He turns his back to her and looks me in the eye. “I need to go. Unless you want me to stay?”

I shake my head. He’s seen enough. After this, I may never see him again.

He kisses my forehead but lingers a second longer than necessary. “We need to talk about the lying,” he whispers in my ear before walking out the front door.

“He may be good looking, but he’s sort of an asshole,” she says picking up the half empty cup of coffee Kegan sat on the side table before putting on his shoes.

“I’m not talking to you about Kegan,” I say walking out of the living room and heading in the direction of the coffee I smell in the kitchen.

“I just don’t want you to make the same mistake I did,” she says halfheartedly as she follows me.

This is my mother. She gets belligerent, puts on a performance around others, vying for sympathy, then calms down to just spiteful and backhanded comments.

“I did make the same mistake,” I remind her.

Falling for a man who used me. Check.

Getting pregnant and then left by that man. Check, Check.

“You were lucky, though,” she says

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. This may be another thing she’s adamant about, but it’s also the one thing that makes me want to throat punch her.

“I wouldn’t call it luck,” I mutter taking the full cup of coffee Kegan must have poured for me and heat it in the microwave.

“It is lucky,” she pushes. “You weren’t saddled with a kid your whole life.”

I huff at her distorted memories.

“Why did you have to bring up the baby in front of Kegan?”

The laugh that follows my question reeks of malicious intent.

“What? You didn’t tell your boyfriend that you trapped a guy in college?”

“I didn’t—” I stop my words. There’s no sense in arguing with her. I never get anywhere when I do. I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

She laughs again. “Neither was the last one.”

I shake my head and pull my cup of warmed coffee from the microwave. I could argue with her that I thought Hunter and I were together, exclusive even, but I seem to have a problem with reading cues from men.

“Why are you here, Cindy?”

I look over at her, arms crossed over her chest and a glare in her eyes.

“I need money,” she all but demands.

“I don’t have money to give you,” I respond quickly.

“You spent all of your inheritance?”

“That money is mine. I’m not touching it, and neither are you.”

Her body stiffens, and I wonder briefly if she’s going to attack me. She’s never resorted to violence before, yelling and degrading is more her thing, but I wouldn’t put it past her. She grew angry quicker today than she has in the past.

“You owe me,” she spits holding her clenched fists by her sides.

“I don’t owe you a thing,” I say as calmly as I can manage.

At what point does a parent get things so twisted in their head that they honestly believe that giving birth to a child guarantees them everything that child has?

I totally get taking care of a loving parent when they need it. Hell, I wish this was the case. Had my mother been around, had she nurtured me and loved me the way a parent should, I’d give her every penny I had if she needed the help. That is so far from the case I’m dealing with now; it’s almost comical that she expects a penny from me.

“That money was supposed to be mine. That’s my parents’ money, not yours.” She’s seething, which isn’t anything new.

She only shows up when she’s down to her last dime, and she comes back each time because I give into her. She is my mother after all. My grandmother would help her out. It’s what I saw growing up.

Cindy would show up, beg for money, and my grandmother would give in if only to get her out of the house. Things were always chaotic when she was here, and it didn’t take long before she wanted things to go back to normal.

“They didn’t leave it to you,” I say pouring out the coffee. I look at the clock on the wall, wondering if it’s too early to start drinking.

“You manipulated them,” she counters.

“I did no such thing.” I head to the fridge to grab the unopened bottle of wine. If she stays too long this time, I may be an alcoholic before she leaves.

I clutch the bottle to my chest, reach in the drawer for the corkscrew, and don’t even bother to grab a glass.

“I need money,” she says again as if I didn’t hear her the first time.

“What do you need money for?” It’s always some big excuse: car trouble, apartment got robbed. Last time she was here she needed money for another abortion. She’s had several. I don’t believe in abortions as birth control, but there’s no way I’m okay with her bringing another child into the world.

“I have tickets,” she says, but her eyes dart away from mine. You’d think after all these years of manipulating people that she’d get better at lying.

“Well,” I say calling her bluff. “Write down the information for the court and I’ll get online and pay them.”

“You can just give me the money. I’m a grown-ass woman. I can take care of the paperwork myself.”

I raise an eyebrow at her. “You want to pull that ‘grown-ass woman’ mess with me while you’re standing in my kitchen begging for money?” I huff and make my way to the door.

She practically growls at me, and it brings a small smile to my lips. It’s the little things.

“You’ll have to make the bed upstairs if you plan to stay,” I tell her as I walk out of the kitchen.

“Some fucking host you are,” she says to my back.

I turn around and face her. “I’m not hosting you. That’s for when people show up because they’re expected, wanted. I’m not asking you to leave, but I’m sure as hell not going to cater to you.”

“I’m your mother,” she spits.

“Yeah,” I say turning back around. “Just my shitty luck.”

I leave her to do whatever it is she does while she’s here. No doubt she’ll spend a few hours rifling through the house, trying to find things to pawn or sell.

Kegan

I couldn’t tell you why I kissed her before I left, but even with the anger coursing through my veins, I knew I couldn’t leave without doing it. Call it instinct, need, or ownership. I have no idea, but my nerves calmed a fraction when my lips met her skin.

Just a fraction, though, because I don’t do lies. I don’t do complicated, and after hearing what her mother said, this situation is nothing if not complicated.

She told me her parents were dead. She never mentioned having a baby. I struggle with faulting her with that omission. We don’t have a relationship. We fucked. We had sex. Amazing, mind-blowing, incredible sex, but sex nonetheless.