Page 147 of Jonesing for a Spy

She may not have meant to land the barb, but she did and she did it well.

“Well, he called Jim and said he heard that the boy was into some bad stuff.”

“That’s not like him to tell Dad about a case.” I’m fishing, but I need to know how much she knows.

“It isn’t a case. It’s the feds. Anyway, your dad began terminating him from Electric Peoria, so his stink doesn’t roll down on us.”

Shit. I forgot to do that. “I want to say thank you, but he should have run that by me first. I’m still the president.”

“Pish posh. He’s not usurping your authority or anything. He was stepping in where he could help. You had your girl to worry about.”

“I asked her to marry me.” Asked may be a strong term, but Mom definitely doesn’t need to know the details.

Her gasp is quiet but still there, followed by a muffled sniffle. “Oh, Strider, I’m so happy for you. She said yes, right? Of course she did,” she goes on, answering her own question. “Who would be foolish enough to turn down my boy?”

“She said yes. I’ll send a pic of the ring when I can.”

“June and Mirren both offered open invitations to your father and me.” She leaves the last part hanging as if she’s looking for confirmation or rejection.

“That makes me happy. We’re living in Mirren’s garage apartment for now, but I think we’ll move into the house come early spring. That means the apartment is always available.”

“Will you be home for Christmas?” she asks quietly.

“I don’t know, Mom. It’s doubtful⁠—”

My words are cut off by a scream. I drop the phone and run.

62

reverse-reverse cowgirl

Strider

Mirren thrashes in her chair; her face is contorted in pain. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

She’s asleep. This isn’t pain… at least not physically.

“Mirren. Baby.” I shake her shoulders. “Wake up.”

An arm flails and hits the back of my own.

Dropping my voice, I try again. “Mirren, it’s a nightmare. I’m here. Wake up.”

Her eyes spring open. They’re manic and searching, finally anchoring on my own. “I— I’m sorry.”

The fuck?

“Why are you apologizing?” I release her shoulders and back away, realizing that towering over her might be the all-wrong move when her mind is—or was—playing tricks on her.

“Don’t go.” She extends a hand, and I can read what she won’t say.

“Do you want me next to you or can I hold you?”

“Please.” Her voice is small but clear.

Lifting her from her chair, I take the seat she just vacated, situating her in my lap as she adjusts to make sure her knee is supported correctly. “Want to tell me about it?”

She shakes her head but speaks anyway. “You need to know that I come with this. I don’t know how to turn it off. I would if I could, trust me.”