Free Bootscootin' Blahniks by D. D. Scott Page B

the bathroom door, Zayne turned the shower as hot as it would go, waiting on the water to reach a scalding temperature.
    He stepped around the glass-block shower wall Damian had built during the remodel, entering the swelter of steam swirling the stall. He switched the showerhead to deep massage. The increased pressure pounded his nerves into minced meat.
    How could he limit his mother’s involvement in his life without crushing her? Since his dad’s death, her control wrapped around him tighter than ever. It was as if she feared she’d lose him too. He had to level with her soon. Otherwise, she’d squeeze his ambitions into dried up dreams, like the frazzled and frayed pulp of a bad wedge of lime.
    Damian and Cody busted his balls constantly for giving her too much power. But nobody told Kat McDonald what was or wasn’t acceptable meddling. Zayne, and his father too, had tried for years and gotten nothing but chastised or ignored.
    The hot water pummeled Zayne’s chest, beating down with hollow thumps against his ribs. Knowing she struggled to fill the empty space left by his father’s death, he didn’t want to be too hard on her. Fussing over his life ’til he was nuts was her answer to attempting to heal her bereavement.
    Hanging out at the farm every free minute she earned, she was privy to all his comings and goings. She didn’t give a shit about the tomato business. And never had. Tomatoes were the McDonald way of life. She’d just happened to fall in love with a McDonald. The farm simply provided an extra venue in which to keep up with her son’s personal life. She didn’t have enough time to get the dirt on him while tending to their saloon.
    As much as he wanted to stay in the shower to avoid the lynch mob in his kitchen, Zayne turned off the water and reached for the towel he’d thrown over the top of the shower wall. Pressing the fluffy cotton to his face, he breathed in the fresh-laundered scent. His mom insisting on doing his laundry again now that he was back home wasn’t an item he opposed.
    He wrapped the towel around his waist and brushed his teeth. Crossing the hall back to his room, he threw on jeans, and grabbed a T-shirt.
    “Sorry I’m late,” he mumbled as nonchalant as he dared, waiting on the firestorm.
    Call him hyper-sensitive, but the kitchen was un-naturally silent, with only the clinks of utensils against plates. Each ping pierced his nerves.
    Avoiding direct eye contact with anyone, even the dog, Zayne took a mug out of the cabinet above the sink and poured a cup of coffee. His back took the brunt of the holes bore by their expectant faces. He couldn’t help but notice Studley Pete’s front paws shielding his eyes from the drama about to unfold. Zayne’s most loyal friend was no dummy.
    “So what’s the verdict on Roxy’s ankle?” His mom fired the first shot. Like she’d ever refuse to take one. “The poor dear. What did you do to get her so flustered?”
    “That’s nice, Mom, just assume it’s my fault. Her ankle will be fine in a day or two. It’s a mild sprain.” Zayne set his mug on the table, glaring at her before picking up a plate and heading to the counter to fill it with Cody’s quality cooking.”
    “It’s a fair assumption. You’re no Romeo. And whenever you’re around that girl, bad things happen to her,” Kat said, taking his plate away from him then motioning for him to sit at the table. While serving up heaping proportions of scrambled eggs, bacon, buttered toast and fresh-sliced tomatoes, she continued, “I saw you two arguing. Then I saw her stomp away. What am I supposed to think? You’re such your father’s son.”
    Zayne looked at Damian and Cody for support, but suddenly the food on their plates required their full attention. All he got was the tops of their heads. “Gee, thanks, guys.”
    Begging off, Damian lifted his shoulders and threw up his hands. Cody simply smiled at his plate, shook his head and kept eating.
    “Mom, I’d