Page 30 of Beg Me

“We’ve started over three times,” Gus says, tossing his pencil in front of him. “It’s not the numbers that are the problem.” He leans forward, staring me in the eyeballs. “The problem is that I don’t understand math, and if we’re being honest, I don’t think you do, either.”

My arms cross over my chest. “I passed sixth-grade math, so I know a little something.”

“I’d like to call Gran and see your report card.”

“Are you calling me a fraud?” I ask, lifting a brow. Typically, his cheekiness is fun, but there’s cockiness to it that prickles me the wrong way.

“Not outright. But your math skills haven’t been proven beyond a reasonable doubt.”

“My math skills aren’t on trial here.” I give him a strained smile and head toward the stove. Don’t fight with a kid. Let it go. “There are a couple of different ways to attack that problem. Pick one and go for it.”

He groans loudly, as if I’m not picking up on the preteen dramatics.

“Simplify eighteen twenty-fourths,” I say, straining the pasta. “Are both numbers divisible by two?”

“I have no idea.”

“Gus.” I pour the pasta into the sauce on the stove and then turn off the burner. We’ve been over this. So. Many. Times. “Come on, man.”

“Dad.” He mocks before sighing. “This makes no sense. Who cares if you can simplify it? It’s the same thing. I think.” His forehead hits the table in frustration. “I hate this.”

I check on the garlic bread in the oven and then make my way back to the table. Gus hasn’t moved. He definitely hasn’t attempted the problem again.

My spirits sink as I imagine doing this every night all summer. I’d rather sit in the saunas with the forwards at the facility. It’s sad to say, but listening to them moan about their bruises and rip farts while sitting in a small room sounds more fun than fighting with Gus over fractions.

God, help me. I don’t know how Deidre does this for days on end.

I take a deep breath, ready to start again, because we have to at least get one page done before we quit. But before I can speak, the doorbell rings through the house.

Gus wastes no time springing to his feet. “I’ll get it.”

My eyes close as I plead with the pain flirting with my eyes to go away. A migraine isn’t going to help anything.

“You’re my guardian angel,” Gus says, the words causing my eyes to fling open again.

Who’s he talking to? I sit up straight as footsteps grow closer. “Gus?”

“Hey, Dad,” he says, mischief in his tone. “Look who’s here.”

Rounding the corner beside my son is Markie, and I’m pretty sure my jaw smashes against the table.

She pauses in the doorway with a smug smile painted on her lips. A pair of tight gray shorts hug her thick thighs, while a Tennessee Arrows tank top showcases her tits. Her hair is messy like she just crawled out of bed, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything sexier in my fucking life.

“Hey,” she says, grinning.

“Hey.” I hope it doesn’t sound as tight as I feel. My hand goes between my legs to adjust myself under the table. “What’s going on?”

She drops a key onto the table. “Miles asked me to bring this to you. It’s for the mechanical room.”

Mechanical room? Oh, right. “Thanks. I didn’t realize you had it.”

“Yeah, well, consider me my brother’s unpaid and underappreciated rental manager. The former tenant left everything in a very tidy binder. So if you need anything else, I probably have it,” she says, her gaze dropping to my lips for a split second.

I smirk. “Then I should totally take your number.”

Gus’s hands clasp together at his chest, and he looks toward the ceiling. “Thank you for listening, God.”

Markie and I laugh as I stand.