I’m half asleep when I turn the corner to the kitchen, but what I see next stops me in my tracks. I rub my eyes and even blink to clear the distorted image that has formed in front of me. But it’s still there… they are still there no matter how many times I blink. My mum is sitting on top of the counter, her thighs parted. A man stands between them, his arms wrapped around her waist. Her hands are buried in his blond hair. His mouth is on hers, or hers on his—I don’t fucking know—what I do know is that the man isn’t Mike. It’s fucking Christian Vance.
WHAT
