Chapter 7

"Hi, Mom!" I yell and walk into the house, the smell of garlic bread making my mouth water as soon as the screen door squeaks shut behind me.

Well, behind Lorelei. She stands behind me, her cuffs still around her wrists, nodding around the house like she gets a say in whether or not she approves of my mother's home. I look around and take in the house with fresh eyes, wondering what she sees.

The TV I mounted on the wall last year shows an old sitcom from thirty years ago. The coffee table contains a neat stack of books ready for me to return to the library, and I walk over to swap them for the books under my arm. Empty mugs with used teabags litter the coffee table and end table, and an afghan is bunched on the couch. Tissues and popsicle sticks litter the floor.

"Mom?" I ask again, nudging Lorelei into the room further and walking her to the couch. I look at Lorelei as she eyes the titles of Mom's daddy romance books. "Stay here," I instruct, pointing my finger in her face. Her eyes cross as she stares at my fingertip a centimeter from her nose.

"Aren't you going to take the cuffs off?" she asks.

"No. This isn't exactly routine. You're only here because the station is experiencing an overwhelming booking issue, and you're annoying enough to nag me to bring you along."

"I'm not annoying. You wanted to bring me. Wittle Wiam's tummy is rumbly."

"Is this your lady friend?" Mom asks, shuffling into the room and saving me from admitting to myself that I want to hang out with Lorelei a little longer.

Mom looks old in her bandana that covers her head and hangs over her shoulder. Her eyes have dark bags under them, and she shuffles like a woman older than her sixty years. She looks eighty with new wrinkles forming around her mouth.

"Mom, this is Lorelei. She belongs in jail."

Mom looks at Lorelei for a moment, her eyes moving over Lorelei's face and hair. She tilts her head to the side as if looking at a new appliance she's considering buying. "Aren't you beautiful? Orange wouldn't be your color at all, but you'd be perfect for my Liam. I'm Nola."

"It's nice to meet you, Nola. I don't belong in jail, and your food smells delicious. You must be quite the cook."

Mom blushes. "Oh, I just dabble."

"I've always wanted to cook savory meals. I'm a baker. Cooking and baking are two separate skills. Wouldn't you agree?" Lorelei asks, smiling. Why is she smiling that gorgeous smile at my mom?

"Well, between the two of us, we could keep my dear boy fed, huh?" Mom giggles.

I need to stop this matchmaking, smiling, and giggling now.

"Mom, let me help you with this stuff," I say, bending down to pick up the popsicle sticks and tissues and shoving them in the used mugs. I grab a few items and head to the kitchen, hurrying back because I don't want Lorelei to attack my mother. I don't think she would hurt an old woman, but drug dealers are deceiving. Flashes of my mother being choked out by Lorelei's handcuffs and held hostage as Lorelei backs out of the house and runs away enters my mind.

"Thank you," Mom says in a weak voice. She shuffles back to the kitchen. "Such a dear boy."

"What are you doing? What do you need? I can get it, Mom. Go sit down."

She shoos me off. "Nonsense. I'm getting my second wind for the day." She nods back to the room. "Who's your lady?"

"She's not my lady. She runs a cannabutter baked goods truck that's in violation of permit law." I yell the last part so Lorelei will hear me from the living room.

"I am not, Mrs. Lane. Your son has a stick about half an inch up his butt."

Mom giggles and pushes me out of the kitchen. "She's pretty," she whispers. "Go in there and talk to her. Tell her about your superhero figure collection and your eczema in the winter. Better to come clean now."

"I don't want to talk to her, Mom. She's not a date. She's a person I'm taking to the station, and I sure as hell don't want to talk to her about my skin condition from dry air."

"Uh huh."

I trudge into the living room, plop down across from Lorelei, and frantically think of something to take the focus off her and how perfect we'd be for each other. "I'll take your books back, Mom," I yell.

"Thank you, dear," she calls, still puttering around the kitchen.

I look at Lorelei and flick my gaze away. She must know I'm uncomfortable because she stares at me. It's a forced stare. I can tell she doesn't want to look at me any more than I want to look at her when she's settled into my mom's couch like a tick. Like she belongs there.

With nothing else to do, I grab one of the entertainment magazines off the top of the library book stack as Mom walks back into the room and circles the coffee table to take a seat right next to Lorelei. I flick through the magazine and try to find something to change the subject. Anything. "Oh look, an interview with Eminem."

"Was it the green one or the red one?" Mom asks, fluffing the pillow behind her and placing a bowl of cashews and two mini cans of Coke on the coffee table. My mother smiles at Lorelei, and my heart drops. I know that look. Mom likes her. "Personally, I like the yellow peanut one. He always has the goofiest voice in those Santa commercials. What do you think?"

Lorelei opens her can of Coke and takes a sip of foam off the top, slurping so loud that my dick notices. "I like whatever color the plain guys are. The round costumes make me laugh. And those gloves are ridiculous."

I put my head in my hands. This isn't happening. A drug dealer on the way to fingerprinting isn't in my mother's living room talking about candy commercial costumes confused with rapper interviews while casually drinking a soda. It can't possibly get any worse.

"What smells so good besides the garlic bread, Mrs. Lane? I smell something vegetable-like."

"Oh, sweetie, I made Liam's favorite meal."

Lorelei smiles at my mom like they're best friends. "What exactly is Liam Lane's favorite meal?" At least she didn't call me Officer Half Inch to my mom.

"Chicken and noodles, green beans, and garlic bread. Would you like some? I have plenty."

"I'd love some, ma'am. I worked up an appetite with your son manhandling me and putting me in cuffs."

Mom pushes off the couch again, and I jump up. "Mom, sit down," I gently push her back down to the couch. "You've done enough, and you'll wear yourself out. Let me get my plate and yours."

"And Lorelei's."

I groan and pat her on the shoulder. "Fine. Fine. I'll get the drug dealer I'm taking in for a fine a plate of food."

Lorelei and Mom chat about books as I stomp to the kitchen a little harder than necessary, my boots hitting the linoleum so hard that I worry I'll crack the flooring. I scoop the food onto plates as my mouth waters from desperation. I'm going to make sure Mom has food first. If Lorelei thinks she's getting first plate, I have news for her. I scoop extra green beans onto Lorelei's plate, rattling the spoon a little louder than necessary to drown out Mom and Lorelei's conversation about romance books they've both read.

I clear my throat loudly before walking in and placing a plate in front of Mom with a smile and a plate in front of Lorelei with an exasperated sigh.

Lorelei's shoulders bunch up, and she smiles, clapping her hands as much as the cuffs allow. I go back to the kitchen and bring out my own plate, pulling the recliner over so I can use the coffee table as a table. I dig into my food and don't hide my eyes fluttering as I bite through Mom's noodles. I rotate between each dish, and I frequently steal glances at Lorelei as she chews. If her facial expression is any indication, she likes Mom's cooking.

Mom will talk about this for years. That nice girl I brought to her house in cuffs that ate every scrap of food on her plate and talked to her about MM commercials and BDSM books.

"Was Liam Lane always so uptight?" Lorelei asks.

"Fuck," I mumble under my breath.

"Always," Mom says, scooping green beans into her mouth with a shaky hand. I want to go over and help her eat, but I'd get swatted if I did something like that for her. "Had a stick up his rear since first grade."

"That's not true. I'm fun."

"When was the last time you did something fun?" Mom asks, her fork halfway to her mouth like I stumped her.

"Whose side are you on?"

"Yours, honey, but you need a little fun in your life. You don't go to concerts. You don't go to movies or hike on weekends. You only go out for beer with the guys from work, and most of them have sticks further up their butt than yours. Except for that handsome partner, that is. Otherwise, you mope around the house."

"Am I supposed to just be loose and lawless like Ms. Rogers here? What do you want? Am I supposed to go to a Tijuana donkey show every weekend and snort lines of cocaine out of a hooker's butt crack?"

"It would make you more interesting, dear," Mom says. "But what's a donkey show?"

"Never mind, Mom."

Lorelei sips her Coke and looks over at me, batting those damn eyelashes. I give her a stern look, warning her not to talk. "Why don't you explain it, Liam? Tell your mother what a donkey show is."

"I will not."

"Then why'd you bring it up?"

"Don't argue, you two. I'll look it up on the internet later. But to answer your question, Lorelei, Liam was uptight even before Amanda."

My stomach roils, and I stare at my plate. "I don't want to talk about Amanda."

"Is Amanda your ex or something? Did she break Liam Lane's cold heart, rendering him incapable of empathy?" Lorelei asks, clutching her chest and smiling.

Silence fills the room. "Amanda's dead," I mumble. I shove another piece of garlic bread into my mouth and stare out the window while I chew, focusing on not meeting either woman's eyes.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lorelei swallow and look down at her own plate. "I'm sorry. I didn't know," she whispers. "I just thought she dumped you."

"Oh, nothing like that," Mom says, waving her hands, clueless to my unease at the conversation. She's always been that way a little. Mom's a sweet lady, but she's a little na?ve and can go off on a tangent if she wants to talk about something, oblivious to the fact that other people don't want to talk about a topic. "She was Liam's best friend in high school and died of an overdose at a college party."

Tears well up in my eyes, and I focus on eating. I will not cry in front of a bust. I take deep breaths through my nose and try to control my chest from moving with the movement. I can control this.

"Is that why you hate drugs so much?"

My eyes flick to Lorelei's face, and her face shows nothing but sympathy. Her cheeks are pink, and her eyes are kind. "Among other reasons."

"Being?"

I drop my fork, and it startles my mother. She jumps a little, and I reach out and pat her shoulder in apology. "I've seen a lot of kids get sucked into drugs. They started by sneaking their parents' weed in middle school. By high school it was harder stuff."

Lorelei looks down and begins eating again. I shovel the last of the noodles into my mouth, but they're now tasteless. Now I'm thinking about Amanda and how I probably haven't done something truly joy-inspiring for ten years.

"Well, when are you two going on a date?" Mom asks, and I cough food out of my nose.

"Oh, Mrs. Lane, I would never be good enough to date Liam. With me being a drug dealer and all," Lorelei says. "And I don't like donkey shows."

"We're not dating, Mom."

Mom shuts her mouth and looks…sad. Does she really want me to date a woman with a weed food truck?

"But I do need you to take me somewhere, Liam Lane," Lorelei says.

"I'm taking you to booking after dinner. They're probably clearing the bar brawl out." I check my phone and fire off a text to Chase, asking him if it's safe to bring her in.

"I need to check on Bogey."

"Who or what is Bogey?"

"My dog. I just want to run by my house and check on him. Kailee's probably still closing and going home, and he has to pee. Poor thing won't last me spending hours getting booked. If he poops in his kennel, he eats it. You don't want my dog to have to eat his own feces because you're wasting my time over half an inch, do you?"

"You want me to drive you to your house so you can let your dog out?"

"I don't have a fence. We need to walk him."

My face burns, and I run my hand through my hair. "I'm going to get in trouble for this."

"I won't tell anyone that your mother made me dinner and you stopped so we could walk the dog. It's not like I'm running guns or something. In fact, I'm of the opinion you'll get in trouble for bringing me in on a busy Friday night for something so stupid anyway."

"Liam, you heard the lady," Mom says, standing and taking my dish. "You can't have the dog eating its own crap."