Jacob Michaels Is Tired (A Point Worth LGBTQ Paranormal Romance Book 1) Read online

  “Thanks, Oma.” I sniffled wetly and cut off another piece of sausage. “I knew I could count on you.”

  “Count on me?” She scoffed. “Who the Hell got up in the middle of the night when you called last night and made up a room with fresh sheets, aired out the room, and made it livable again? Damn right, I’ll take your thanks. And whatever gift’s in that bag, ya’ little asshole.”

  “Could you not…”

  “No, I cannot.” She stopped me. “And if you weren’t so goddamn special now, you’d have remembered your manners. You left here in the middle of the night, sixteengoddamnyearsold, without so much as a word, and I haven’t seen an inch of your skin more than three times in the decade since.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, Oma, but…”

  “And I don’t give a good goddamn how special you are in Hollywood—or all over the world. You’re here. You’re only going to hear the truth from me, Robbie.”

  “Rob.”

  “Thought you’d been going by ‘Jacob’?” She waved me off. “Of all the dumbass things. Like Robert Wagner is such a bad name.”

  “Of course it’s not bad.” I shook my head, shoving another piece of the sausage into my mouth. “But, surely, someone of your age is aware that there’s already an actor by that name?”

  She waggled her head again.

  “Still better than ‘Jacob Michaels’.” She replied. “Sounds like a goddamn rock star or porn star.”

  “Well, I have been known to put on a concert.” I mumbled.

  “Yeah, yeah.” She waved me off. “I saw that on T.V. Royal Albert Hall—aren’t you fancy? Okay. So, that show was pretty good. But you’re not as special as you think, Robbie.”

  “I played Carnegie, too. Twice.” I looked up at her.

  She couldn’t help herself, she chuckled.

  “I don’t think I’m special, Oma.” I sighed, sliding my fork into the potatoes. “I’m just tired now. Nothing else.”

  We ate in silence for several minutes, casting glances at each other from time to time, trying to find some middle ground.

  “You ever at least get your GED?” She asked.

  “Yes.” I said. “I got it when I was twenty-one and had a break.”

  “Well, a postcard or something telling me as such would’ve been nice.” She said. “Or, ya’ know, you could’ve called or told me on one of your brief visits.”

  “Oma. I’m sorry.” I said, totally wasted of energy. “Can we finish this fight tomorrow? I just don’t have it in me.”

  “I doubt you’ll be up before Monday.” She rolled her eyes. “But you can bet your ass we’ll fight then, too.”

  “Great.” I spat. “Can’t wait.”

  “What’s in this goddamn bag?!” She growled, yanking the gift bag out of the chair at the side of the table.

  My grandmother yanked the paper out of the top of the bag and pulled out the box holding her gift. The ladies at the store had wrapped it for me. I had done the shopping myself, but I’d paid for gift wrapping. When you drop nearly so much money on one item, you may as well splurge and get the item professionally wrapped. I didn’t try to get the purse for free or even at reduced cost directly from Balenciaga. If they found out I was just giving it to my grandmother, they wouldn’t have cared in the slightest. My grandmother pried the box open violently, then stopped suddenly, her face going blank.

  “Do you like it?” I asked blandly.

  “It’s a purse.”

  “It’s a Balenciaga.” I said.

  “Well, I don’t know what the Hell that is…but this is goddamn gorgeous is what it is.” She mooned over the bag inside. “How much this set you back?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, if it cost more than a hundred bucks, I’ll beat the Hell out of you.”

  “Then it cost fifty.” I replied.

  “Fifty my cellulite-riddled ass.” She laughed suddenly, yanking the bag out of the box and turning it over and around, looking at it from every angle. “Black goes with everything.”

  “Balenciaga goes with anything.”

  “I’ll tell people it’s a Coach bag.” She nodded, making me cringe. “No one knows what the Hell Balensiatcha or whatever is. And no one knows how to pronounce that.”

  “People in Spain might disagree, but whatever makes you happy, Oma.”

  “You went to fucking Spain for a handbag??”

  “No.” I laughed loudly. “There’s a shop in Beverly Hills.”

  She waggled her head again, but her spirit wasn’t in it. The bag was just too nice for her to pretend she wasn’t impressed. My grandmother examined the bag inside and out, getting more and more impressed the longer she looked at it. Then, suddenly, she seemed to have a thought.

  “The boys at the center will love it.” She beamed. “You don’t know him because you haven’t been here in forever, but Carlos, he’s a drag queen, and he’s my favorite of all my boys—he loves fashion. He’ll be jealous as shit. You think we could order one for him?”

  “It cost over fourteen-thousand dollars.” I said evenly.

  “Well…shit.” She held the purse to her chest as she stared down at it. “Can you get him something nice—but not that nice? Maybe some nice high heels or something?”

  “I’ll order something for Carlos, Oma.” I just agreed so that I wouldn’t have to argue. “What size high heel does Carlos wear?”

  “How the Hell should I know?”

  “Well, I thought maybe you were loaning him some of your items.”

  “You’ve still got a goddamn smart mouth.” She snapped, but there was a twinkle in her eye.

  “Find out his heel size, Oma.” I waved her off. “I’ll order him some Louboutin heels. If they come in his size.”

  “Those the one with the red soles?”

  “Yes.”

  She squealed and hugged her purse.

  “You sure got over being mad at me.” I cocked an eyebrow at her.

  Even that hurt.

  “I’m happy for Carlos and me. You’re still a fucking asshole.” She snapped again. “But…thank you, Robbie.”

  “Of course.” I nodded before shoving a potato into my mouth.

  After I managed to finish the scant amount of food that my grandmother had put on my plate, drank a big glass of water, and helped her put things away, I was allowed to grab my bags and make my way upstairs. Oma was on my heels as we climbed the stairs together, her steps much steadier and spry than my own. At the top of the stairs, I was slightly out of breath and she dashed around me down the hall. She dashed past what used to be my room when I was a teenager and went to the end of the hall.

  “What?” I pointed at my old door.

  “Turned it into a sewing room.” She answered. “I’m going to put you in your mom and dad’s old room. So, you’ll have your own bathroom.”

  “Okay.”

  I ventured further down the hall and let her open the door for me. Inside, the room was very clean, smelled fresh, and there was nothing but the furniture to remind me of my parents. Not that being reminded of them was particularly hard on me. The furniture was all still the same—heavy, dark wood, well-made. But all of the linens were different, the pictures on the wall were bright and cheerful, the curtains were gauzy with heavier drapes pulled to the side. Early spring sunlight streamed through the windows, making the room look absolutely cheerful.

  Oma watched as I sauntered over to the bed and set my bags down at the foot of the bed. I looked around the room, spotting the door to the bathroom off to the side. It was a fairly small bathroom, but it was private, and it was clean. That’s all that I cared about. It had a large claw foot tub and a hand-held shower head, a pedestal sink, medicine cabinet, it would be more than enough. The room itself was large, with enough room for a chest of drawers, a king-size bed, two bedside tables, and a sofa. This was almost like going for an extended stay at a B&B.

  “Don’t you smoke those cigarettes in here.” Oma snarled.
<
br />   “I’ll go outside when I smoke.”

  “And don’t do any drugs in here.”

  I glared at her.

  “I don’t do drugs.” I snapped. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

  “Okay.” She nodded. “You ain’t got any on you, do you?”

  “Only prescription.” I squinted at her.

  “Anything good?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Just Paxil and Nexium.”

  “Damn.” She shrugged.

  My grandmother wasn’t going to take pills that weren’t prescribed to her, so I don’t know why she was posturing. Of course, she might have just been curious about what good drugs she thought a celebrity from Hollywood took.

  “Why the Hell are you on Paxil for fuck’s sake?” She asked. “Dropping fourteen-grand on a purse take it out of you?”

  “Can we discuss it later?”

  She rolled her eyes but relented.

  “Well, get them clothes off and I’ll get them washed.” She said, heading towards the door. “Probably have to wash every-damn-thing you brought the way you smoke.”

  “The bags were in the trunk.”

  “Well, I’ll wash your sweaters and jeans if you want.” She said. “And your underbritches. Just leave them in the hall there.”

  “It’ll all have to be dry cleaned.” I shook my head.

  “Even your underwear?!?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Oh.” She nodded. “Well, I’m not just washing a pair of underwear. Throw ‘em in the hamper.”

  “I can do my own laundry, Oma.”

  “You don’t know how to work my machine.” She waved me off. “I don’t know that we have a dry cleaner in town. But we can run your fancy ass clothes over to Toledo when I go to the center one day next week.”

  “Okay.” I shrugged. “Or I can do it myself.”

  “I bet you haven’t seen the inside of a dry cleaner or a washing machine since you were eighteen-years-old.” She snorted. “Probably wouldn’t know what the Hell to do. Probably got an assistant for all of that.”

  “She doesn’t do my laundry.”

  She was waggling her head again.

  “Just, leave me be, please.” I waved her off. “I’ll take care of my laundry.”

  “Fine.” She turned up her nose and screwed up her mouth. “I’ll bring you some dinner later.”

  “I just want to sleep.”

  “I’ll bring you some fucking dinner later, Robbie.” She stated loudly. “You can wake up to eat it and go back to bed. Then, in the morning, I’ll bring you some goddamn breakfast if you don’t feel like coming downstairs. Then you can go back to sleep. You seeing a pattern here?!? I gotta put at least ten pounds on you before I can take you anywhere or people will think I’m living with a goddamn zombie. People around here already call me a fucking witch due to all my herbs. Don’t need them thinking I know fucking Voodoo.”

  “Fine.” I held my hands up in resignation. “Wait. What?”

  “Oh, those goddamn bastard kids of the Kelly’s?” She rolled her eyes. “Been telling their friends that I’m a witch ‘cause I live out here all alone and got my garden. One time I might’ve shot at ‘em when they came up on my property. So, they have to spread their rumors.”

  “You…shot…at children?”

  “They’re fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen.” She shrugged. “And they were too far away for the shotgun to do more than pepper ‘em. Sonsabitches sure knew to scatter when they were being shot at, though. If you talk to Sheriff Dennard, I didn’t tell you that. He’s still all kinds of pissed off.”

  “The Kelly’s are still having kids?” I asked in disbelief. “They were ancient when I was a kid.”

  “They aren’t Clancy’s and Darby’s, you idiot.” She laughed. “Their son took the house over when they moved down to Florida and moved his pug-ugly wife and kids into the house with him. They’re all butt ugly. Hair the color of a baboon’s ass. I’m telling you. If ugly was a crime, they’d all be on Death Row. I know they were trying to see if I had potatoes in my garden.”

  “I know they’re white—but that’s still racist.” I frowned.

  “Fuck those ugly Irish assholes.”

  I sputtered for a few moments, then finally gave up.

  “Okay.”

  Oma seemed to give up as well when I didn’t have anything in me to say to such things.

  “Well, so, I’ll see you at dinner time.” She nodded.

  “Okay.”

  Oma went to the bedroom door and exited, pulling the door shut behind her. However, before the door was shut, she popped her head back inside of the room.

  “Take a shower before you lay down.” She snapped. “Don’t stink up my fresh sheets. I don’t change them but once a week. This isn’t a goddamn resort at Disney World.”

  “Okay, Oma.” I waved her away with a sigh.

  Like I’d go to a resort at Disney World.

  I took off my cardigan and sweatshirt and hung them on the back of the bedroom door from the ancient old clothes hook. The same happened with my jeans. Then I took off my “underbritches” and threw them in the hamper inside of the bathroom. The hot water in the house still managed to expel water near the temperature you’d need to boil eggs, but it felt good against my skin and on my joints. I used the handheld shower nozzle to knock off the first layer of filth from my body and hair, then filled the tub and submerged my body. I laid in the near boiling water until I was beet red, then scrubbed myself with the lye soap in the basket hanging off of the tub. Next, I scrubbed my hair and scalp with the lavender shampoo Oma made herself. I gave my face a good scrub with the washcloth and lye soap, then sat in the tub until it was drained.

  I rinsed myself off with ice cold water, a tip I’d learned from several other people in the business. Helps close the pores and keep out dirt and grease after a good scrubbing. When I lifted myself from the tub, I looked down at my body, sighing at my knobby hips, prominent ribs, knobby knees. I got my toiletries out of my bag and brushed my teeth, brushed my hair, and applied fresh deodorant. Then I applied moisturizer liberally from the tips of my toes up to my neck. Can’t have dry, messed up skin.

  When I finally slid into fresh underwear and pajama bottoms, which hung for dear life from my hips, then slid into a baggy t-shirt, I almost felt better. However, when I had closed the drapes and slipped under the warm blankets of the huge bed, I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. It was the first time I didn’t dream or have nightmares in at least two years. All I knew was darkness.

  It was dark when Oma shook me awake for dinner. I forgot that even in spring time, in Ohio, night falls earlier than it does in Los Angeles. Oma turned on the bedside lamp as I eased myself up to a seated position in bed. She wordlessly put a tray over my lap and set a glass of water on the bedside table. She sat down on the sofa and produced a crochet project out of nowhere.

  “Are you just going to sit there?” I asked sleepily.

  “Eat your fucking dinner.”

  So, I ate my fucking dinner. The meal consisted of a bagel slathered in cream cheese, smoked salmon, a dish of nuts, a couple of hard-boiled eggs, and more of the cabbage and potatoes from lunch. Obviously, my grandmother was trying to put weight on me as quickly as possible. After the bath and nap, I was actually able to eat most of the food. Once I was done, I was more tired than I had been before. Oma grabbed up my tray and empty water glass and left as quietly as she had arrived. I slid back into bed.

  Breakfast was similar. The sun was pretty high in the sky outside when Oma arrived with another tray. She sat with her crochet while I ate yoghurt and granola, two more boiled eggs, and a fruit smoothie she had whipped up. The smoothie tasted like shit, but I managed to choke it all down. Then Oma was gone again and I was sliding back into bed. I could feel my hair sticking up in a million different directions, but I didn’t care.

  This went on for three days straight. I didn’t leave bed unless it was to use the bathroom off of my bed
room. Meals consisting of fatty, high protein, calorie dense foods, were brought by Oma, and she’d sit there and crotchet while I ate. Eggs, cheeses, oats and grains, meats, yoghurt, granola, bagels, potatoes, dark chocolate, greens…the food just kept coming. On the fourth day, when I woke up as the sun was starting to light up the world, I didn’t feel tired for once. And I smiled for the first time in months without being prompted.

  Chapter Two

  Oma wasn’t in the kitchen when I went downstairs. She hadn’t been in her own bedroom upstairs, either. Her bed had been made up and her house dress was hanging on the hook on the back of her door as well. I assumed she was downstairs in the kitchen, making breakfast, but she wasn’t doing that either. When I peeked out of the kitchen window, I finally laid eyes on her. She was in her garden, hoe in hand, breaking up the earth. I frowned to myself as I pulled my robe tightly around myself and made my way to the backdoor.

  I walked down the backsteps and made my way across the yard to her little fenced in garden area. Oma’s garden was surrounded by a white picket fence with an actual gate with a bell. It was cute—just like it had been since I was a small child. But, the sight of my whip-thin grandmother hacking at the ground with the yard implement like she was trying to bring up oil made me cringe. Surely, she was too old to be working so hard out in the yard? Of course, she didn’t show any sign that she wasn’t doing just fine with the work she was doing.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, holding my robe tightly around me to stave off the cold. “It’s still butt-early-thirty. The sun’s barely up.”

  “You’re awake, aren’t you?” She didn’t even stop hacking at the earth. “If you’re awake, I guess I can be awake and working, can’t I?”

  “That…that doesn’t really answer my question.”

  “I gotta get this ground broke up good.” She replied over chops of the hoe. “Barkley’s is bringing me manure tomorrow.”

  I wasn’t sure that that answered my question either.