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When K-Mom comes home, she pauses in the space between the living room and the kitchen to observe Amber chugging beer.
"I am formally letting it be known that I don't approve of you engaging in underage drinking under my roof," she announces.
"Understood and duly noted," Amber replies, and goes back to chugging.
K-Mom glances your way. "Don't tell your Mom. She'll kill us all."
"Where is she?" You ask.
"She's busy serving warrants. We'll be on our own for dinner tonight." She sets her hand-purse on a little table by the foyer and roots through it for her phone. "How's Thai sound?"
"Not Elephant Jump <span class="mu-i">again</span>," you groan.
"I know. I hate that place too. But there aren't many Thai restaurants open yet since the storm."
"Will you stop pretending that you hate Elephant Jump?" You say. "You order from there <span class="mu-i">every</span> time you get to choose dinner."
K-Mom sputters. "Well... it's... what's your bright idea, then?"
You think.
"I guess Elephant jump is fine," you finally grumble.
She leans over the couch. Her fingernails clack gently against the neck of Amber's beer bottle as, gripping it, she steals it right out of Amber's hands.
"Hey!" Amber wails.
"I need a drink," K-Mom says. She tries it, grimaces, and only then does she check the label. She shakes her head in baffled frustration. "PBR? Seriously, Amber?"
Amber is on her knees, snarling at K-Mom from over the back of the couch. "Give me back my booze."
"I don't see booze here. I see a bottle of chilled piss. If you're going to be an alcoholic at age 17, get some goddamn standards."
"Came from your fridge, bitch."
"It's my wife's. Noelle has no standards. Do you want to be just like Noelle, Amber?"
Amber makes a pouty "hmmph" at the idea of wanting to be like an FBI agent. She reaches over the headreast, elbow locked and palm splayed. K-Mom reluctantly hands her over the bottle. Amber sips once, then settles back into her cross-legged position and rests the bottle between her thighs. "Anyway," she says absently, "I need it more as an icepack than a drink. Wes did a real number on my coochie a few minutes ago. It's still all red and inflamed down there."
