Smolder (Georgia Smoke #6)

• One •

“I’m the reason you have food to eat and a roof over your head.”

Royal

The brand-new box of cereal I had bought yesterday sat open on the kitchen counter, along with two unused glasses, a jar of peanut butter, and the carton of milk that had been left on the stove. The bright side was, Grams hadn’t turned on the stove. Rubbing my face with both hands, I groaned. I shouldn’t have slept past six. Never a good idea. Not with Grams on the loose.

“You woke up hungry, I see,” I called out, then covered my yawn as I walked over to get the milk and tuck it back into the refrigerator before it went bad. Thankfully, it was still cold.

The sound of her shuffling feet coming from the living room to the kitchen was a relief. At least she hadn’t gotten out of the house. The new child locks on the doorknobs were working. I added water to the coffeepot. I needed caffeine. This was my only day during the week that my first class didn’t start until ten. Sleeping until seven had been my plan this semester, but if Grams was gonna start fixing her breakfast, that wasn’t going to be an option. Six o’clock it would have to be.

“There’s a man on the sofa,” she whispered loudly behind me.

I closed my eyes and sighed, then scooped the coffee grounds into the machine before turning back to look at my eighty-two-year-old grandmother. It was going to be one of those days. The days where she didn’t remember who her son—my dad—was. Sometimes, I wished I could forget him too.

“It’s okay, Grams,” I assured her. “That’s just Dad. He’s your son, Vin, remember?”

She frowned and glanced back while straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin. “That is not my son. Vinson is a fine boy. That man in there,” she said, pointing her arthritis-gnarled finger toward the door, “he stinks of liquor.”

Yeah, Grams, he’s always stunk of liquor.

Most nights, I managed to get him to the back bedroom so she wouldn’t see him in the morning. Last night, he’d been too difficult, so I’d left him in the living room before he decided to take a swing at me.

“He was at Miller’s Bar last night, Grams,” I told her, not feeling like sugarcoating it today.

I had to get to class, and I couldn’t do that if she was living in the past. Although I doubted my dad had ever been a fine boy.

“He drank until he got mean and started a fight,” I continued. “Glenn called me to come get him.”

The smell of the brewing coffee filled the small kitchen, and I inhaled deeply. I loved that smell. It reminded me of the past. The life I’d had growing up here when Grams’s head was still clear.

“Hmph,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “He did no such thing.”

I motioned to the cereal. “What did you fix yourself to eat?” Might as well change the subject. Arguing with her was pointless. She’d forget about him in there soon enough.

She frowned at the mess she’d left behind. “I don’t know.”

I reached for a coffee cup and filled it to the top. “I’ll get Dad up and have him go take a shower. Why don’t you have a seat at the table? I’ll fix you a nice cup of coffee and make you some toast just how you like it.” Which was too much butter on a slice of almost-burned bread.

I didn’t wait to see if she would do as told before heading toward the living room. The house was small, and I could easily hear her slippers as they slid across the linoleum floor toward the table.

The living room was a scattered mess. I had cleaned it up last night before I went to bed. Grams seemed to have been into many activities this morning. Including throwing things at Dad. There were several items surrounding him that didn’t belong. Smirking, I hoped the spoon she’d tossed at him struck his head and left a lump.

I stared at my dad. One of his arms hung off the side of the faded sofa that had once been a flower-printed velvet. It was patched up with duct tape in several places now and still held the stench of cigarettes from when my dad used to smoke in the house.

A low snore came from his open mouth, and drool dribbled out the side onto the pillow he’d found to sleep on last night. I started toward him and glanced over to see a bowl full of oat cereal with no milk beside Grams’s plastic covered green recliner that sat in the corner of the room. I hoped she hadn’t done anything gross to the cereal. That was too much to waste. I’d just bought groceries yesterday.

I bent down to grab my father’s arm and shake him.

“Wake up,” I said firmly. “I have coffee.”

He grumbled, then opened his eyes in a squint. “Why you waking me up so early?”

I continued to pull on his arm. “Because Grams thinks a drunken stranger is on our sofa, I have to get to class, and you need a shower. Now, drink.”

He sat up and held out his hand for the cup. I gave it to him and made sure that he had it before letting go. I might want to slap him most of the time, but I didn’t want to cause a third-degree burn. He wasn’t the best dad—or even a good human really—but he was mine.

“What time is it?” he asked, then took a sip, wincing as it hit his tongue.

“Ten after seven. I’ll get Grams something to eat, and then I have to go get dressed and leave. And I’m taking the Bug,” I told him, already knowing he was going to bitch about that.

“Why can’t Anya pick you up? I need the car,” he immediately said.

“Because Anya doesn’t go to college, Dad. You know this. And she’s been at work for an hour already.”

Anya was my best friend and had been my entire life. Her family lived two houses down, and although it was the same size as ours, her dad took pride in their home. The paint on it wasn’t peeling, there wasn’t plastic sheeting over any of their windows, and the front porch didn’t have holes in it from rotten wood.

“You don’t go to college either,” he shot back at me with a scowl. “Going on like you do is a waste of time. Maybe if’n you got a job, then you could buy yer own car. Stop wasting time sitting in classes for nothing.”

“I don’t need a car. I have my Vespa,” I informed him.

I’d bought it with my own hard-earned money two years ago. I loved my candy-apple-red wheels, but lately, it’d kept breaking down on me. Like now. It was back in the shop.

“No, ya don’t. That piece of shit ain’t here now, is it?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m doing you a favor. If you get caught behind the wheel again, you’re gonna be back behind bars. Suspended license means no driving,” I replied, then spun around to go back to the kitchen. I’d left Grams alone long enough.

“You don’t tell me what I can and can’t do!” he shouted.

“I’d be easy on me, old man,” I called back to him. “I’m the reason you have food to eat and a roof over your head.”

I heard his muttered cursing and smirked. He didn’t have a comeback for that one. Grams’s monthly check from the government was spent at Miller’s Bar, thanks to him. I’d given up on him getting and holding down a job years ago. I had learned early to be resourceful.

Grams was sitting at the table, staring out the window, with her hands in her lap. She had a lost expression on her face. It was never easy to see her like that.

I remembered her singing hymns in this kitchen while she cooked meals with the fresh vegetables from her garden. She was the only mother I had. The woman who had given birth to me split when I was six months old. Grams was the one steady, dependable parent I’d had—until her mind started going my senior year in high school. It was little things back then, but by the time I was nineteen, she’d forgotten how to cook or garden.

“Ready for that coffee?” I asked her.

She turned and looked at me. A sad smile touched her wrinkled face. “I suppose.”

I took down her favorite mug and filled it. She didn’t take sugar or cream in hers either. Her eyes followed me as I took it over and placed it in front of her.

“A strong cup of joe to get you going,” I said brightly.

She patted my arm. “You’re a good girl, Royal. Don’t let him bring you down. You’re better than him. You’re better than both of ’em.”

Seems her memory had been jogged, and she was remembering who Dad was again. I should be relieved, but with the memory came the disappointment.

I bent down and kissed her cheek. “I learned from the queen,” I teased her. “You taught me everything I know.”

A small chuckle came from her, and it eased the tightness in my chest.

“Now, don’t be giving me the credit for all that you do,” she said, patting me again. “I’m thankful for it. Good Lord knows, without you, I don’t know where I’d be, but that savvy you got, it ain’t from me.”

I smiled, straightening back up. “Well, it ain’t from Dad. It had to have come from somewhere.”

I never mentioned the woman who’d given me life. None of us did.

“You pay my tab last night?” Dad asked.

I turned to see him standing inside the kitchen with his rumpled clothing, hair sticking up, scratching his beard. He had been forty when I was born. I’d seen pictures of him back then, and he’d still been handsome. Not so much anymore.

The life he lived had been a rough one. He had never married my mom, but he’d been married before her. Grams used to swear he was a good man back then. His wife had died young from a bad case of the flu. She’d had a weak lung already, and they hadn’t caught it in time. They’d only been married two years when she died. Grams had said Dad wasn’t good for much after losing her.

My mother had come along years later. He met her at a bar one night, and they got drunk, then had unprotected sex. She was significantly younger than him.

There was one photo of her in this house. Grams had kept it. She used to say I might want it one day. But I didn’t, and I never would. It had been years since I’d looked at that photo, but it seemed the image of her smiling at the camera, holding me, was burned into my brain. I had her eyes, her mouth, and her hair color.

She hadn’t wanted to live with an old man, Grams explained, but she tried for me. Dad wasn’t easy to deal with. She hadn’t put up with him for very long, but it was probably best she’d left when she did. That way, I had no memories of her and no attachment.

“Yeah,” I told him. “Why don’t you stay home tonight? I’ll bring back dinner.”

He looked at his mother, then back at me. “I’ll go if and when I want to.”

Which was every night.

“Fine. When I get a call to come get you, I’ll ignore it. You can sleep on the floor of the bar—or behind bars. AND pay your own tab.”

He scowled at me. “I thought you had to go to a fucking class. Why are you still here, jabbering on?”

“Good point,” I replied, then looked down at Grams, who was staring out the window again. “I’ll see you this evening. Maybe I can get some more of that chicken and dumplings you love, along with the collards and mac and cheese.”

She nodded, but said nothing. Dad often put her in this mood. Maybe I should have just let her live in her memories this morning. The present upset her too much.

“I’ll go get ready. Make her some toast since you’re up and have nothing else to do,” I said as I walked past him, heading toward the bedroom I shared with Grams.

“Thought you was gonna do that?” he barked at me, annoyed.

“I gotta get to class, remember?” I replied with a grin.

It was almost eight, and I needed to make a couple of stops before my Modern Literature class. Essays were due today, and Professor Brereton was too sharp. I didn’t drop off any assignments on campus. Not with his class at least.

Opening the closet, I took down the box I kept on the top shelf. Keeping things out of Grams’s reach was something I’d found was a necessity. She would move things around and misplace them. I took the lid off the box and counted out the three essays inside. Two of them would pull a solid A while one would be a mid B. I respected a guy who understood his limits. The B paper was smart. Professor Brereton would never believe Drace, a party focused frat guy, had written one of the A papers.

I closed the box and shoved it back up on the shelf, covering it with a pair of my folded jeans, then put the papers in my bag before getting dressed. I was enjoying this class. More than the others I was attending this quarter. Since I wasn’t actually enrolled at Howison College, this was the next best thing. I got to do the essays and make money. I didn’t always enjoy the classes or the papers that I had to write for others. But most of the time, I was thankful for the education.

The rich kids, whose parents could afford to send them to the private college, were more interested in Greek life, parties, social events. They didn’t care for the actual work that went along with passing their courses. Lucky for them, there was me. I made sure America’s future politicians, lawyers, CEOs and socialites at Howison graduated on schedule. It wasn’t like the government and economy could get any worse.