Rekindling the Flame (Smoky Heights #1)

Chapter 10

TEN

AURORA

Feathers flutter in my face, and it sounds like an entire flock of birds taking flight around me.

A horrible smell, and my life flashes before my eyes.

Squawks—whether from me or the beasts, that’s TBD—abound, and my mother’s stifled laughter makes it to me from her spot in a chair on her back patio.

My hands close tighter around the firm, feathered body, and it tries to take off, again.

I scream, again.

A cackle rends the air, and I squeeze my eyes tight until my head is over my shoulder, in the direction I’m fairly confident my mother is laughing at me from. When I feel marginally safe, I open my eyes, trying not to rethink my entire trip and plan in the process.

“This?” I ask her, the chicken still grasped firmly in between my hands, held out as far from my body as possible, even in these overalls and rubber boots she leant me. I refuse to let this thing get close to me. My underwear alone cost more than anything my sister owns, and I have no interest in getting bird all over them. “This is the priority on your bucket list?”

This is not the kind of cock I’m used to wrangling.

“Seeing you get your hands dirty? Yeah, it’s pretty high up there.” Her voice is cool amusement. Not unkind, but that no-shit attitude that the apple didn’t fall far at all from the tree on is definitely present.

“I’m surprised you even trust me with your precious babies,” I say sarcastically, but only a small sliver of the statement is a joke.

My mom’s silvering hair catches a glare in the sun and I let myself watch for just a second, trying to appreciate the moment, the way she stirs the glass straw—the one with the ceramic bee attached to the side of it—in her mason jar, clinking the ice against the sides of the glass, before she takes a sip of lemonade that’s probably spiked, if I still know her.

A weird time to be reminded, but her hair glinting jogs something in me that it’s almost time to get mine touched up. My nails, too, now that I’ve been here for two whole weeks. On that note, before long, my lips will need touching up, too, but we’ll freak out about the options for those later.

“Closest thing I got to grandbabies, you can humor me,” she calls out after she’s wet her whistle.

Arms fully extended in front of me, face screwed up and head scrunched as far to the side and buried between my shoulders as my neck will allow, I carry the beast to the separate enclosure my mom apparently stores them in while their hen house gets cleaned out.

By me.

I’ll say one thing (and one thing only). The only thoughts going through my head have been oh my god, ohmigod, oh my god , so I haven’t had time for my usual mental harassment of self, and I guess that’s not the worst thing ever.

But moving these birds, cleaning out the facility where they lay their eggs, do … whatever it is that chickens do?

Absolutely fucking disgusting.

I’d rather be forced to power wash the streets of the Meatpacking District.

If I hadn’t accompanied her to an appointment with the oncologist last week—heard firsthand how the tumor is progressing, her prognosis, the lack of options, the dimness of it all—I’d say this was the worst thing I’ve done in years.

It’s a solid number two, and please don’t make the obvious joke there.

But if she thinks she’s going to get me to quit on her, to give up on my plan to help her through this time by giving me a difficult task, she forgets how hardheaded of a daughter she raised.

Three haunting, sweaty hours later, the birds are back in their coop, locked away, thankfully, and I’m in front of my mom on the patio.

I blow a strand of hair that’s plastered to my face—well, I try to blow it using all the force my bottom lip can muster in an upward direction, but the bottom half of the lock just flops around, the top refusing to budge.

I bring the back of my less offending forearm up and swipe at it, trying to keep as much dirt and grime from my face as possible, and a shudder rips through me at the visceral realization I was unsuccessful in that.

I knew this trip wasn’t going to be fun , but today has been a special kind of torture. If there was a decent day spa within an afternoon’s drive, I’d say I’d earned one hell of a spa day. Alas, the nearest five-star resort is probably a ways away.

Only seven and a half more months until I’m back in New York , I remind myself. Think of all the spa days waiting for me then. And the lack of chickens, unless you count the ones on the roof of the next building over, but I don’t have to clean up their shit, so I don’t count those.

“Having fun?” My mom waggles her brows at me from her spot in the shade, refilled glass next to her, condensation dripping down its side, and I snap.

My gloved hand lurches out for her glass and I gulp it down from the rim of the glass, straw pressed against my cheek as I guzzle it.

Yep, vodka.

I swallow every drop of the refreshing blend and don’t stop until the glass is empty of anything but ice, tumbling in a cool rush toward my face, and I don’t even stop then.

When I finally do put it back down, she’s watching me with an amused gleam in her eye.

“Your doctor approve of all that alcohol?”

She scoffs at my nerve. “What’s he gonna tell me, I’m dying? I’m not dead yet, dove. Gonna get my kicks where I still can.”

I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing at her morbid sense of humor.

“Nice job today, Aurora.” My mom nods her head toward the chicken coop and then stands from the rocking chair and heads inside, me trailing her with a grunt. Rendered fairly speechless by the day’s activities, too exhausted for thoughts, too worn out for words. I guess there’s a silver lining after all.

Lexi is sitting at the dining room table when we come through the back door, swiping the screen on her Android, but she looks up at our entrance. One look at me and she’s doubled over in laughter.

And the day just continues to get better.

“I didn’t realize y’all had wrestling in the pig pen on the list for today,” she gets out between heaves.

“Hardy har har.” I roll my eyes and yank the gloves off my body as I head toward the laundry room off of the kitchen, where I strip out of everything I borrowed and throw the clothes in the basket waiting there, ignoring the tittering I hear coming from the two of them in the main room.

When I head back out, it’s in nothing but what God gave me, a cami, and my undies, and I stride past them pointedly on my way to my mom’s room. “I’m taking a shower,” I call without looking back, and I grab the clothes I arrived in from where they’ve been waiting for me to finish playing Old McDonald.

“We could just hose you off in the backyard like the rest of the livestock?” My sister can barely control her hoots of laughter, but between you and I, it’s nice to have something between us that isn’t seething hatred, so I ignore the jibe. This is the first time since I’ve been back that we’ve seen each other and it hasn’t been just straight at each other’s throats, so I’ll take the growth where I can get it.

“Use mine,” my mom calls out. “It’s got shampoo and all already in it.”

I emerge thirty minutes later a brand-new person. Soaking wet hair rolled up in a towel, the corduroy coverall dress I came in looking a bit more revealing without the cami on underneath, but that thing will be lucky if it doesn’t get burned after what it’s been through today. Showing a bit of extra skin is just going to have to be the vibe. Luckily the bralette I wore here is cute enough it might just pass for something intentional.

Strolling into the living room, I find my mom and sister seated in the La-Z-Boy and the mismatched loveseat, respectively. I hold out the men’s razor I found in her shower.

“What’s this?”

“That’s called a razor. It’s what us plebeians use to remove body hair when we can’t afford fancy waxes or whatever your people do when you’re too good for shaving.”

I roll my eyes at my sister. “It’s called laser hair removal, look into it, Lex. That mustache doesn’t have to be a permanent fixture on your face.” I turn back to my mother while my sister feels her upper lip self-consciously. Hah. Point one for Aurora. “My question is why is a men’s razor in your shower, Mom?”

My mom’s turn to roll her eyes. We’re a sophisticated bunch, I guess. “Well, dear. We’re a little late for this talk, but I suspect you know by now that sometimes women have needs , and sometimes they choose men to fulfill those needs.”

“Gross!” Lexi shouts, covering her ears.

“That’s uncalled for, Mother,” I say with complete disdain, in concert with my sister’s outburst.

“Oh, please. Lexi, you’ve been walked in on by half of our family. Rory, the number of times we had to pretend not to hear you and Wyatt Grady in your room?—”

I let out a shriek that doesn’t drown out enough of her words.

“—can’t handle the fact that you’re not the only ones under this roof who enjoy male company.”

“Fucking disgusting, Mom!” Lexi continues protesting loudly. “You had sex twice, when you got pregnant with me, and again with her, and that’s it!”

My mother swats the air with a hand at the both of us. “Like you don’t need a good dicking from time to time, the both of ya. It’d probably fix a lot of issues for each of you, actually. If you need recommendations?—”

“Seriously, just stop!” I shout this time.

“That should be illegal,” Lexi spits out.

But the twinkle in my mom’s eye makes this gross-out—this entire day—almost worth it.