* CHAPTER 4 *

Seven twenty-five a.m. was not a welcome sight—and neither was my reflection—but disappointing Ma would have been unforgivable. If not for Bella's awkward departure, I'm sure I would've rolled over and fallen sound asleep without setting my alarm, brushing my teeth, or even peeling off the sticky condom. A sobering thought for a sobering man.

I showered and slapped on my Nautica aftershave. Fake it 'til you make it. Hopefully, I'd be making it by dinner tonight.

I knocked softly on Ma's door and waved to the peephole. Click of a deadbolt, slide of a chain, creaky opening of a door—just a crack, and the appearance of an eyeball.

"Morning, birthday girl." I slid her card into the gap, and she swung open the door and stepped into the hallway.

"Aww, thank you, dear. I'll open it at breakfast." She looked up from the envelope and did a double take when she saw my face. "You didn't sleep well."

"I love you too, Ma."

The elevator doors opened, and I saw my blush reflected on all three mirrored walls. Yeah, that happened.

Ma was quiet, turning the envelope over and over in her hands, watching the numbers tick their way down. Thankfully, the doors opened on floor twenty-six, and a family with two loud kids and five huge suitcases filled up the silence.

We had the dubious distinction of being first in line when the Festival Buffet opened at 7:45. Avoiding Ma's all-knowing gaze was awkward at best once we sat down in the booth. I busied myself with the choreography of coffee preparation while she opened her card. She loved the mushy ones, the kind a guy less secure in his masculinity might feel like a pussy buying. Ma did me the great favor of reading this one to herself. Her eyes were teary when she finished.

"Thank you, son."

"Welcome. Ready to hit the buffet?"

I piled two plates with the greasiest hangover cures available—pancakes swimming in butter and syrup, bacon and sausage, home fries, and wet scrambled eggs. Ma barely paused the spoonful of oatmeal heading toward her mouth as my overly heaped dishes hit the table across from her. "Eating for two this morning? Something you need to tell me, Edward?"

My heart raced for a second while I scythed through my memories. Yes, we used a condom, thank God. "Yes. Congratulations! You're going to be a grandma."

"Oh, you do love to tease your old Ma."

Oh great. Here it comes . . .

"You know, Edward, I'm not getting any younger."

"Yes, you are. You're getting younger every day." I glanced around the restaurant and located a young waiter setting up a table across the room. "See that guy over there? He was checking out your ass while you were at the buffet."

She knew I was putting her on, but she looked anyway, turning back with a grin. "That's gross. He's younger than you."

"Hey, gotta keep up with the times. Cougars are the new thirty. When you got it, you got it." I picked up a long piece of bacon and bit off a big chunk, hoping to distract her with my bad manners. "And I hope you're getting it."

"My sex life is none of your concern, young man."

Shoving the rest of the bacon into my mouth, I delivered the coup de grâce. "But I was hoping to have some little half-siblings before I turned forty."

Mom set down her spoon, grabbed her napkin off her lap, and waved the thing back and forth across the table. "I surrender! Touché!"

"Awesome. And Ma, don't worry. When I meet the right girl, you will be . . . like, the fifth person to know."

* BINGO *

You can't walk through the public spaces of the Foxwoods compound without passing reminders of where your hard-earned dollars are about to go. Large-scale metal sculptures, majestic wood carvings, native design elements woven into furnishings and lights, and impressive cloth teepees literally line the hallways. There are gift shops selling moccasins and blankets, native-themed jewelry, knick-knacks one can't possibly live without. There's a museum if you're so inclined, but I doubt many are. They're not really here for the culture; they're here to win.

Fifteen generations and at least as many lawsuits after the New England colonists slaughtered or enslaved most of the original Pequot tribe in 1636, the United States Congress officially recognized the Mashantucket Pequot Tribe, opening the door to enterprise and land ownership. In 1986, bingo was introduced to the good people of New England, who flocked to a 1,200-seat tent at the end of a long, dark, unmarked road to try their luck. Today, the Foxwoods Resort and Casino boasts 6,500 slot machines, 2,200 hotel rooms, 350 table games, two spas, and two golf courses. The bingo hall holds 3,600 souls who, for the most part, end up returning one chip at a time to the Native Americans what their forefathers brutally took almost 400 years ago—proof that God appreciates irony.

The bingo hall was a short distance from the buffet—not a coincidence. Ma took off like a blue streak, her leather bingo bag—complete with multi-colored bonkers stuffed into pouches around the outside—bouncing off her hip with every stride of her right leg. I had to jog just to keep up.

"Hey, I could've gotten hit by a truck, and you'd never know it."

"Sure I would," she answered, not slowing down even a tick. "I have the CNN app on my iPhone. I'm sure you would've made the news."

"Real nice, Ma."

She shooed away my whining with a dismissive wave and hitched her bag higher on her shoulder.

I kissed my manhood goodbye. "Want me to carry that?"

Finally, I'd found the magic button to get her to slow down. "You'd do that?"

"Of course."

"That'd be great." She gave me a warm smile, handed me her bag, and took off twice as fast for the cashier cage.

"Yes, I'll take four packs, and . . . how many cards do you think you can handle, Edward?"

"I don't know . . . ten maybe?"

Ma burst out laughing. "Have you been sneaking trips down here without my knowledge?"

"Um, no."

"He'll take three."

Fewer than my sixty-year-old mother? Hell no. "We'll take eight, please." I shouldered my way in front of Ma, shifting her bag to the other side so I could reach my wallet.

"Wow. That is a great bag."

Oh, fuck me. It was her. Now what? Were we strangers? Old friends? I'd follow her lead and pray she wouldn't throw me under the bus. Ma didn't need to know her son was a slut—and a terrible lay.

"Seriously, where'd you get that? Mine only holds two bonkers."

"Um, it's not mine."

"You stole it?" Bella asked, blinking at me with the most innocent puppy-dog eyes.

"What? No, it's my mother's."

Ma patted me on the back. "Oh, Edward, I think the girl is teasing you." She took the bag off my shoulder and offered it to Bella for a closer look. "I bought it on eBay."

"Sir? That's $240."

"Oh, sorry." The cashier took my card, and I kept my ears on the conversation behind me.

". . . six zippered pouches inside . . ." Ma was turning her bag inside out for Bella, who was riveted.

Packs in hand, I grabbed Ma's elbow. "Okay, Ma, all set."

Bullet dodged.

"Lovely meeting you, dear. We'll save you a seat inside."

Or not.

Bella smiled sweetly. "Thanks anyway, but I have my regular place. I'm a wee bit superstitious."

Of course you are. I was so grateful, I could've kissed the girl—on the cheek. "Well . . . good luck," I said, pulling on Ma.

"We'll wait." Ma planted her feet and gave me the look.

Protesting would only make her suspicious. The long day ahead just got longer.

Author's Note: Now, what are the chances of that meetup? Gosh, I love fanfic! *wink*

XXX ~BOH