Irreplaceable (Underneath it All Series: Book Three) (An Alpha Billionaire Romance) by Ava Claire
Authors: Ava Claire
Tags: alpha male, Billionaire, billionaire romance, billionaire erotic romance, alpha billionaire, alpha billionaire romance
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Chapter Nine: Jackson
I stacked empty beer cans until they reached over the pile of clothes that smelled like Mommy's cigarettes. They looked like candy cigarettes that she bought me once on a happy day, but her cigarettes didn't taste like candy at ALL. I still lingered, grabbing one of her t-shirts, wrapping it around my neck.
Beer cans made perfect monster trucks that crashed together just right. I transformed the labels into glittering logos like the race cars I saw at the store. Cars that Mommy told me she couldn't afford if I wanted a roof over my head and food in my mouth. When I told her I didn't need it anyway because there were plenty of empty cans to play with, her mouth fell open and she glanced around us, like she was in trouble.
She'd snatched me close and whispered, "Don't you ever say anything like that again." Her fingernails dug into my arms and the mark she left was the same color as the streaks that ran through her dark hair. Purple and blue and green.
I lined up my favorite can, Bolt, on top of one of Mommy's magazines. When she first bought the magazines at the store, she treated them like they were precious, demanding the cashier put them in a separate bag. When she got home, she curled up on the couch and went through each one, page by page. I could have run around the house butt naked and she wouldn't have noticed. I could have beat on pots and pans and started my own band, and her eyes never would have left the page. I wouldn't have done any of that though, because the magazines with the pretty women made Mommy happy. And when Mommy was happy, I was happy.
I didn't know what 'pretty women' meant really, and when I asked, she would roll her eyes and tell me to, ‘Look at the pages, dummy’. Not the new ones, that she was busy reading. I’d made that mistake once. She meant the walls that surrounded us. Bits of peeling paint were scattered amongst pictures of the pretty women. Women she said she'd never be again. I didn't understand, but Mommy said it was because I was a boy and boys were stupid.
To me, she was beautiful; more beautiful than the women she carefully cut out with scissors. She taped and glued and stapled the pretty women to the walls. Her arms and legs were skinny like theirs. She painted her face like they did. The only difference was she had a little bit of tummy. The tummy was my fault. “A baby stretches a Mommy’s body parts out,” she’d said. “A baby becomes a child who drives Mommy crazy.”
Like me.
I paused at the starting line, peering over my shoulder towards her bedroom. It was quiet. Quiet even for Mommy. The door was closed, which meant she either had a friend over, was sleeping, or just wanted to be left alone. Since it was 8pm and I'd been home all day since she didn't want to take me to school, I knew it wasn't a friend. Sleep or left alone—if I was smart, and I could be smart sometimes, even if Mommy didn't think so, I'd leave her alone.
I ignored the tightening in my stomach and lined up the cans. The TV was humming a few feet away, nothing compared to the crowds that were cheering in my mind, ready for the shot that would start the race of the century.
I cleared my throat, ready to use my deep announcer's voice.
And then the door crept open.
I scrambled to my feet, ready to apologize for being too loud, but when I saw her face, I lost my voice.
I'd seen Mommy early this morning and she'd been exhausted from work, her eyes red and bleary, her housecoat swallowing her body because she had it pulled so tight. I'd been worried then, telling her to go back to bed and I could make my own cereal. Now, I was afraid.
Her hair hung limply around her face, the dark strands tangled and wild. She didn't even bother to sweep it out of her eyes. A part of me was grateful because what I could see of her face was frightening enough. Her lips were chapped and cracking, but they were still as red as the lipstick she loved to wear. When she grinned at me, her
I stacked empty beer cans until they reached over the pile of clothes that smelled like Mommy's cigarettes. They looked like candy cigarettes that she bought me once on a happy day, but her cigarettes didn't taste like candy at ALL. I still lingered, grabbing one of her t-shirts, wrapping it around my neck.
Beer cans made perfect monster trucks that crashed together just right. I transformed the labels into glittering logos like the race cars I saw at the store. Cars that Mommy told me she couldn't afford if I wanted a roof over my head and food in my mouth. When I told her I didn't need it anyway because there were plenty of empty cans to play with, her mouth fell open and she glanced around us, like she was in trouble.
She'd snatched me close and whispered, "Don't you ever say anything like that again." Her fingernails dug into my arms and the mark she left was the same color as the streaks that ran through her dark hair. Purple and blue and green.
I lined up my favorite can, Bolt, on top of one of Mommy's magazines. When she first bought the magazines at the store, she treated them like they were precious, demanding the cashier put them in a separate bag. When she got home, she curled up on the couch and went through each one, page by page. I could have run around the house butt naked and she wouldn't have noticed. I could have beat on pots and pans and started my own band, and her eyes never would have left the page. I wouldn't have done any of that though, because the magazines with the pretty women made Mommy happy. And when Mommy was happy, I was happy.
I didn't know what 'pretty women' meant really, and when I asked, she would roll her eyes and tell me to, ‘Look at the pages, dummy’. Not the new ones, that she was busy reading. I’d made that mistake once. She meant the walls that surrounded us. Bits of peeling paint were scattered amongst pictures of the pretty women. Women she said she'd never be again. I didn't understand, but Mommy said it was because I was a boy and boys were stupid.
To me, she was beautiful; more beautiful than the women she carefully cut out with scissors. She taped and glued and stapled the pretty women to the walls. Her arms and legs were skinny like theirs. She painted her face like they did. The only difference was she had a little bit of tummy. The tummy was my fault. “A baby stretches a Mommy’s body parts out,” she’d said. “A baby becomes a child who drives Mommy crazy.”
Like me.
I paused at the starting line, peering over my shoulder towards her bedroom. It was quiet. Quiet even for Mommy. The door was closed, which meant she either had a friend over, was sleeping, or just wanted to be left alone. Since it was 8pm and I'd been home all day since she didn't want to take me to school, I knew it wasn't a friend. Sleep or left alone—if I was smart, and I could be smart sometimes, even if Mommy didn't think so, I'd leave her alone.
I ignored the tightening in my stomach and lined up the cans. The TV was humming a few feet away, nothing compared to the crowds that were cheering in my mind, ready for the shot that would start the race of the century.
I cleared my throat, ready to use my deep announcer's voice.
And then the door crept open.
I scrambled to my feet, ready to apologize for being too loud, but when I saw her face, I lost my voice.
I'd seen Mommy early this morning and she'd been exhausted from work, her eyes red and bleary, her housecoat swallowing her body because she had it pulled so tight. I'd been worried then, telling her to go back to bed and I could make my own cereal. Now, I was afraid.
Her hair hung limply around her face, the dark strands tangled and wild. She didn't even bother to sweep it out of her eyes. A part of me was grateful because what I could see of her face was frightening enough. Her lips were chapped and cracking, but they were still as red as the lipstick she loved to wear. When she grinned at me, her
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