Page 37 of Hash

Is it bad that I hope he left?

I hold my breath as I walk down the hall and turn the corner, anxious to see what’s waiting for me on the other side.

All evidence of dinner is gone and Cormac’s high chair is cleaned up, but there’s no sign of Hash. Even my drink is gone.

A spark out of the kitchen window catches my eye.

Motherfucker.

Marching over to the slider, I throw it open and step outside.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I hiss as I continue my march over to Hash, who is casually lounging on my patio furniture like he owns the place.

He’s also smoking a joint.

“Waiting on your ass. What does it look like?” Hash asks as he takes a hit and outstretches his arm in my direction, offering it to me.

I stare at the joint, wondering if he’s lost his goddamn mind.

“Are you going to take it? It’s burning, and you’re wasting good shit right now.” Hash shakes his head.

“No,” I say, sassier than intended as I sit on the other end of the outdoor patio couch. “I’m still breastfeeding.”

Hash’s attention locks onto my boobs. “No wonder why Cormac is a chunk. I’m sure he’s eating real good with those knockers.”

“That’s not why.” I roll my eyes. Guys are so fucking stupid.

“You can’t push me out that easily, baby doll.” Hash changes the subject, making my eyes widen.

“I wasn’t trying to push you out,” I lie.

I was.

I so totally was.

“You were.” Hash leans over and grabs my legs, lifting them up onto the couch and placing my feet in his lap. My body sinks into the cushion of its own accord as Hash starts to rub my feet. “Feel good?”

“Yeah,” I mumble.

“You work too hard. On your feet all day and then taking care of our boy. It amazes me watching you handle it all.”

“I don’t really have a choice.” Unlike you is what I wanted to add but didn’t.

My pettiness has seemed to be taken down a level from the foot rub. I finally feel mellowed out.

“About that,” Hash says, picking up on what I didn’t say as he leans forward and takes an envelope out of his back pocket. He gently tosses it into my lap. “Here.”

“What’s this?” I ask, taking the envelope and opening it.

Inside is a stack of bills.

Hundred-dollar bills, to be exact.

“What’s this?” I repeat, my mellow mood disappeared as fast as it came.

“Some money. I don’t want you working so hard. I’m trying to make up for what I should have been doing all along.”

I dig the nail on my index finger into the side of my thumb until I feel a pinch to try to keep myself from crashing out.