Flower in the Flame (The Scattered Series - Book #1)

Chapter Two

2 | Nadia Spencer

When I was young, God – maybe 9 or 10, my mother began to feed me her little whispers of feminine confidence. Now I see the woman hated herself, with every fibre of her being she hated herself, but she still nourished me with certainty and spirit to grow me into something of a self-assured young woman who took shit from no one. 

Damn, she'd be ashamed of me if she saw how I let Carter walk all over me. Carter is not as bad as her lover was, but mother would have warned me that this is only the start, that it's only downhill from here. I won't allow myself to follow in her footsteps. I am not weak. The second Carter lays a finger on me, I'm out. I will not be diminished to nothing by a man who is spoiled by his mother and mocked by his father.

Madeline had ushered Carter out of the house as quickly as she could. Her little Prince. Maybe I'm just bitter, or maybe she's worse than my boyfriend. I'm sure all she does is fuel his incompetence.

Billie clucks his tongue from the roof of his mouth, and I almost forgot that he's there, in his seat which he sits in like it's a throne. "I presume Carter will carry your things out the car when he gets back?" His vocals are stony and rough, the only indication that the alcohol takes any toll on his throat. I snort the most unfeminine of laughs. "I'd be lucky."

At that, his head cocks to one side. Thick waves of black hair slide over his forehead with the motion. For a man of 41, he's doing well. His jaw is defined, eyes still glimmering with fiery personality, smile boyish and his hair doesn't show a lick of grey. The dark circles under his eyes and dipped, sharp cheekbones are the only indication of the wear the years have had on him. He and Madeline had Carter when they were 17, and from what I've gathered, they've been tied to each other since. Whether they want this tie or not, I'd say yes, after all, at the grand age of 24 I'm sure Carter could handle it if Mommy and Daddy split.

"What do you mean?" Billie Joe asks and let me tell you one thing: I hate people who play dumb. Despise them. "What I mean is your son takes off whenever the house needs vacuuming, or the bins need changing so he will probably do the same today." I can't say I prefer Armstrong's company to Carter's, but he's certainly better than Madeline.

Mr Armstrong stands with his empty glass, presumably to fill it, and grabs another glass down. He lifts it in my direction. "Fuck it, sure." I breathe a sigh with the words, and Billie chuckles. "Now," He pops the top off the bottle. Brandy. I didn't pin him for a brandy man. "I was under the impression I'd raised a son who would treat his woman with utmost respect. I'll have a word with him." He says with a shrug, as though it were nothing for him to reprimand his 24-year-old son.

He hands me the glass after filling it and putting in a single ice cube and sits back down in that seat of his. "So, I can assume that you jump at any of your wife's demands?" Billie laughs a rough chuckle at my words. "You can. I might be a miserable husband, but I am a husband, nonetheless."

"Miserable seems to be only the start of it." Placing my palms flat to the counter, I hoist myself up to sit on the side. Dipping his head, he breathes through the smile on his lips. "You are something else." Billie Joe stands again, nodding his head towards the door. "I suppose I will fill in for my son and help you with the bags." Maybe I've heavily misjudged this man – or maybe Madeline threatened to pour his brandy down the sink if he isn't nice to me. Either way, I'm getting help with the bags so I really shouldn't complain.

The boot of the car is stuffed with bags. A months stay means I need all of my stuff. Carter had insisted I could use his mother's hair dryer, but I'd refused. I like my own stuff. Besides, once I start sharing things like hair dryers, the next thing you know Madeline will be ushering me into the bathroom and telling me where she hides her vibrator in case I need it. I won't be needing it, I packed my own. You can't blame me, not when Carter finishes in 30 seconds and thinks my left lip is the clit. I've showed him many times what is where, clearly, he didn't take notes once.

Billie takes one look at all the bags before his gaze slides to me. By the way the outer corners of his eyes crease, he is clearly judging me. Bitch. "Are you two moving in or something?" He asks as he hauls out a blue suitcase which hadn't been zipped up all the way. I'd sat on it while Carter tried to do it up, but it was no use. Foolishly, my cheeks redden with embarrassment as I take a back-pack from his hands. "Who knows? Mommy's boy might not want to leave."

Slowly, he drags his tongue over his bottom lip, tips back his head and laughs. Of course he'll laugh, he takes any chance he can to mock his son. Asshole. "He'll want to leave, Nadia, don't you worry. And if he doesn't, I'll drive him away to save your sanity." Purely so I could cross my arms, I sling the back-pack over my shoulder. "My sanity will be just fine, thank you." Jutting out his bottom lip slightly to accompany a shrug, Armstrong raises his brows. "If you say so."

I do say so. And I'm never wrong.

"You know," He begins as he grabs another suitcase, "I know what you think of me and my wife. My son has always had issues with keeping his mouth shut." That motherfucker. Is smoke coming out of my ears? "And what do I think of you two?"

"You think Madeline is an obsessive, smothering psychotic bitch." True. "That is so not true!" I scoff as I shoulder the back-pack. "Madeline is a caring woman. I admire that." I hate it.

Mr Armstrong looks quite pleased with himself as he continues. "And you think I'm a washed-up sell-out who can't keep his hands off the alcohol and wishes more than anything to see his egotistical son come crashing down." Stupidly, horribly accurate. I say nothing, and the victory broadens Billie's grin. "Well, you want to know something?" I nod in response to his question, because all my words have clogged at my throat and won't come out. 

He puts down the last suitcase on the floor and steps closer to me. His proximity makes the air around me feel tight, my skin sticky. With those bottle-green eyes he stares, hard, as though every little mistake I'd ever made is written on my face. As if he sees me. 

"You're right."