Russ (18+) | ✔

22

Russ

I grimaced as my phone slipped out of my hands. After practically drowning me in oil like a damned grease monkey, they provided no way for me to get the shit off.

It was like liquid glitter. 

Touch it with the tip of a single finger and it got everywhere. Of course, Charlotte thought it was funny as my phone was now cracked, much like hers had been. Its screen was shattered after she refused to give me her attention and I refuse to be blamed for it.

"So, my brother wants to meet you," Charlotte suddenly announced. I turned to look at her and found that she had turned to face the window, lips puckered like a duck bill and eyes wide but nervous as she watched the buildings pass.

Very faintly I heard Rowena squeal, and with a single annoyed look from me, her smile faltered and she pouted, putting her earbuds in once again.

I scoffed, "Tell Jordan he can kiss my—"

"Not Jordan, actually. Lysander," she clarified. This time her eyes found mine and seeing the intensity in them, she gulped audibly. "But if you don't want to—"

I shook my head, smiling at her nervousness. "I'd love to meet him actually. Lunch at Tydes?"

Charlotte blushed, nodding. "I'll let him know where," she smiled softly, pulling out her phone. I watched her tap out the message before she stopped, turning to me once again. "But you know you don't have to, it's only been three months and—"

"And nothing. From what I've heard, he's your only family. Of course, I want to meet him," I grinned, my excitement unwavering.

"Really? That's so great," she grinned back, taking a second to hit send before tackling me and attacking me with kisses.

. . .

I could practically feel the tension in the air, so thick it couldn't be cut with a steak knife and more stifling than a complete lack of oxygen.

Lysander James Worthington Junior was a slight man, though he was also a bit muscular. His hair was the color of the Facebook logo and his eyebrows matched, though one was pierced with two shiny metal balls. And if Charlotte gave the proper count of events, he truly did love his sister.

Unfortunately, he was also a complete and utter idiot.

As he greeted us with a stiff, apologetic smile from afar, I practically had to drag Charlotte towards her brother who had been unfortunately accompanied by their mother.

As Charlotte had described her, though she was nameless except for mother, the woman's face was speculative, as though she couldn't possibly understand why I was with her daughter. Her dull red hair was pulled back from her face, so tightly that it nearly cleared her wrinkles. She wore no jewelry, aside from a pearl necklace and a decent sized wedding ring, and the hideous jacket she wore over her pale pink dress was something I was fairly certain could have been made out of one of Leticia's old couches.

"Charlotte Cecilia, how kind of you and your bastard boyfriend to join us, eleven minutes later than scheduled," she announced with an upturned nose, rather than greeting us warmly as her son had. 

Never in the three long months that I had known the man had I been so thankful that Charlotte's boss had never called her by her given name. Coming from her own mother the two words sounded positively frightening.

"Hello mother," Charlotte replied with a stiff smile.

I did the same, forcing the corners of my lips to turn upwards as I pulled a chair out for Charlotte before seating myself beside her. Though inwardly I balked at her reaction, the faux altruism was the least I had expected from either of them, but based on Charlotte's description of her mother, she'd rather grin and bear the closeness than cause a scene.

"Hello Mrs. James," I smiled. "Lysander," I gave a quick nod in his direction.

I refused to look away from Charlotte's mother whom as I recalled, had never actually been named. She was practically Voldemort. And any woman who called me a bastard before saying 'hello' was a mountain lion- looking away would mean I was easy prey, and so Mrs. James had called the wrath of my unwavering stare.

For the life of me, I couldn't begin to understand why Charlotte remained mostly silent the entire time. The quiet during sex was one thing, but the sudden disconnect from all snarky replies she could have given was heart-breaking.

"Russell Mercer. What would a boy like you want with my... Charlotte," she asked, peering at me through narrowed eyes. I noticed how she emphasized Charlotte's name, almost as if it would be in poor taste to refer to her as her daughter.

I gave the waitress a tight-lipped smile as she brought out our menus. Waiting until she had walked away, I replied, "It's Russ, ma'am. Just Russ. And I quite happen to love your daughter."

Mrs. James scoffed, rolling her eyes as if the assertion couldn't possibly have any semblance of truth. "Love? You've been fucking her for all of three months. You just can't see past the tits," she hissed, turning her nose up after giving Charlotte the barest of glances.

"Mom," Lysander warned, though his warning had little effect on her as she could hardly look at him without rolling her eyes.

She huffed but said nothing more. The waitress returned, taking our orders before leaving us in an uncomfortable silence. The drinks returned to the table before our food and Mrs. James took a large sip of her red wine.

"So. What is it really? Has he gotten you pregnant? Have you gotten her pregnant?" First, she asked Charlotte and then me. The question was the most enthusiastic she had been throughout the entire lunch.

"No," Charlotte whispered. 

"Huh," Mrs. James clicked her tongue, her enthusiasm returning to disdain as the food arrived. "Probably another Daniel situation, right?" she asked, malicious intent clear in her shit brown eyes. "Oh well, at least his mother's dead and he doesn't know his father. Right dear?"

Lysander began to quietly scold and swear at his mother as a sharp intake of breath came from Charlotte.

I looked down at Charlotte with worry clear in my expression, I could care less what she said about me, but Charlotte was another matter. Her expression had become stiff, nearly inexpressive except for the small number of tears that she blinked away before they fell. "We're leaving," she spat, pushing her chair back hard enough for it to topple over before taking my hand and leading me out of the restaurant.

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