Perv
I'm still dressed in my t-shirt and jeans, Punk is wearing a dress shirt. How about that. He does have fucking clean clothes after all.
I already know she's going to tell me I should dress better, then she'll give me shit about my new tattoo. It's Punk's fault we're even here. I should have punished him when I had the chance.
The door opens and there she is, wearing her fucking pearl necklace and pink lipstick – Martha Stewart's evil fucking twin.
"There he is," she says with a big smile. "My sweet boy."
Then she pulls Punk in for a hug.
Punk
While his mom talks nonstop about recipes for cocktails and cake, and how nice it is that I bothered to dress up, I drag my dipshit into the kitchen behind me. He's reluctant.
To look at him you would think he'd been brought up by gypsies or wolves, not by such a loving mother. He's seriously pissed, and the way he glares at me makes my ass tingle in a super-hot way.
Ignoring his simmering temper, I blink, throw out my best helpless look, and then tell her how I can't manage on my own.
This will be easy.