Reckless Indulgence

The penthouse was a chaotic blend of empty bottles, crumpled clothing, and the lingering scent of last night's celebration. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, illuminating the mess Troy Jackson had conveniently ignored. At 10 a.m., the stillness was shattered by the sharp buzz of his phone.

Sprawled in the center of his king-sized bed with a woman on either side, Troy stirred as his phone vibrated incessantly, displaying the name: "Mrs. Michelle Jackson."

One of the women groaned, her voice husky from sleep. "dude, Pick the fucking phone up."

He reached out sluggishly, glanced at the screen, then swiped to decline the call and tossed the phone aside. "It's nothing," he muttered, closing his eyes again.

A banging sound erupted from the front door, followed by the relentless chime of the doorbell.

"Who the fuck is banging like that?" the woman on his right mumbled, burying her face in the pillow.

"Don't worry about it," Troy muttered sleepily. "Whoever it is will get tired and leave."

Downstairs, standing on the front porch, Michelle Jackson was on a mission. A striking Black woman in her late 40s, she was dressed in a sleek black turtleneck and tailored slacks. Her long locs fell down her back like a queen's crown, and her brown eyes were sharp with determination. Despite her elegance, she was not a woman to mess with.

The knocking intensified.

But Michelle Jackson wasn't the kind of mother to stop.

"Benjackson Troy!" she bellowed, slamming her fist against the door. "Open this damn door before I knock it off the hinges!"

Upstairs, one of the women finally had enough. She threw the covers off, muttering curses as she climbed out of bed. She ignored her bra and panties lying on the floor, grabbing a towel from the guest bathroom to wrap around her naked body.

"Someone better be dead for this nonsense," she muttered as she stomped downstairs.

The knocking continued as she reached the door. "Who's there?" she called out, her voice sharp.

Without waiting for an answer, she unlocked the door and opened it wide.

"Who are—" the woman began, but she didn't even get to finish her sentence.

Standing in the doorway was Michelle Jackson, her sharp brown eyes blazing with fury. She pushed past the woman without hesitation, her elegant frame moving with authority.

Get the fuck out of my way," Michelle snapped, dropping her designer bag onto the couch.

Michelle's sharp eyes swept across the living room, nostrils flaring at the disaster—empty bottles, discarded cups, and the lingering stench of alcohol.

"Lord have mercy," she muttered, shaking her head in disbelief.

The woman, taken aback, closed the door before walking up to her. "Excuse me, ma'am. l said ,Who the fuck are you?"

Michelle stopped, slowly turning to face her with a look that could cut glass. "Listen, if you don't get the hell out of my face, I'll slap that 'ma'am, who the fuck are you' straight out of your mouth."

Her tone was calm, but her words carried a weight that made the woman flinch.

Upstairs, Troy's ears perked up at the commotion. Groaning, he slid out of bed, throwing on nothing but a pair of boxers. "Who's the lunatic causing a scene this morning?" he muttered as he stumbled toward the stairs.

Then he froze.

Standing in the middle of his living room was none other than his mother.

"Holy shit. Holy shit," he whispered under his breath.

Michelle turned, her piercing brown eyes locking onto him. Troy clutched a couch pillow to cover himself.

"Oh, so I'm the lunatic?" Michelle said, sarcasm dripping from her tone. "No, Troy. I'm the lunatic who gave birth to a lunatic."

Troy looked both shocked and bold. "What the fuck, Mrs. Michelle Jackson?" He never called her "Mom"—because there was no mother-son bond between them.

Michelle folded her arms. "You didn't answer my calls.""Good morning, by the way. Now, care to explain this mess?" She gestured to the living room and the scantily clad woman still clutching her towel.

Troy scoffed, walking around the living room, searching for a cigarette. "Mrs. Jackson, I owe you no explanation about what the fuck happened in my apartment. But out of something called respect, I'll answer. I just launched a new song, and we were celebrating. Period."

Michelle's lip curled. "Celebrating? This ain't celebration. It's madness." She gestured at the disaster around her. "Listen to me, Troy. You're not the first so-called talented artist on Earth, and you won't be the last. Would your mentor's house look like this?"

Troy chuckled darkly. "I was expecting that bullshit."

Michelle's voice rose. "You're not getting any younger! Smoking, drinking, sleeping around with bitches"

"I'm not a bitch!" the towel-clad woman interrupted, offended.

Michelle turned to her. "It's not written on your forehead, sweetie. But if you're not a bitch, what are you doing in a man's house at this hour in a towel? If you get me angry, I'll unwrap it myself."

The woman gasped, stepping back. "Dude, can you talk to this crazy woman?" she asked Troy.

Michelle stepped forward. "Talk to who? You think I'm one of those soft mothers you can disrespect?" She reached toward the woman, who quickly darted behind Troy.

"Mrs. Jackson, stop!" Troy pleaded, holding her back.

Then—the second woman descended the stairs, also wrapped in a towel.

Rubbing her eyes, she yawned. "What's going on? Y'all are loud."

Michelle's eyes widened in disbelief. "Two women?" Her voice was incredulous. "Really, Troy?"

The first woman turned to the second, aghast. "You slept here too?"

"Yeah. Why?" the second woman replied casually.

"Let's just grab our stuff and leave," the first muttered.

"Leave to where?" Michelle interjected, blocking their path. "You're not going anywhere until this house is spotless."

The women exchanged uneasy glances.

"This woman is crazy," the first whispered.

"You think I'm crazy?" Michelle's sharp ears caught it. Kicking off her heels, she grabbed one and waved it threateningly. "Don't worry. I'll show you crazy."

Troy stepped in between them. "Mrs. Michelle Jackson, stop this nonsense or get the hell outta my house."

Michelle froze. "What?"

Troy turned to the girls. "And you two go get dressed and get the hell out. Now."

As the women hurried upstairs, Troy grabbed a cigarette from the center table, lighting it. "Listen here, Mrs. Michelle Jackson," he exhaled a puff of smoke. "This is my house. You have no right to order my guests around."

Michelle's eyes blazed. "I am your mother. And you have no right to speak to me in such a manner."

Troy exhaled another puff. "And I am a grown-ass man. You can't barge into a grown man's house like it's your husband's house. Let this be the last time you pull this stunt."

Michelle's jaw clenched. "So now I have to notify my own son before visiting his house?"

Troy leaned back against the couch. "Without notification, don't come here. If I don't pick up your calls, I'm busy as hell."

Michelle folded her arms. "Busy? Busy with what? Bitches, smoking, drinking, and partying?"

Troy smirked, taking another drag of his cigarette. "That's what fuck boys do."

Michelle inhaled deeply, trying to contain her frustration. She stepped forward and took his hand in hers. "Listen, my dear boy," she said softly, her voice calm.

That was what she called him when she wanted him to really listen.

But Troy yanked his hand away. "Enough with that 'my dear boy' shit, Michelle. I ain't three years old."

Just then, the women came downstairs, now fully dressed. One of them blew Troy a kiss. "Last night was amazing, dude."

Troy winked. "Thanks for coming, sexy."

Michelle scoffed, disgusted. "Don't ever come back here, bitch."

Troy shot her a sharp look. "You don't get to decide that, woman." He plopped onto the couch, cigarette dangling from his lips.

"My dear boy"

"Why the hell are you still here, woman?" Troy cut her off coldly. "Enough with that 'my dear boy' shit. I ain't three years old."

Michelle stared at him, a mix of hurt and anger in her eyes. But Troy just took another drag, exhaling the smoke lazily.

Michelle clenched her jaw. "I want you to live a good life, Troy. This?" She gestured around. "This ain't it. It's irresponsible, it's disgusting, and no mother would be happy to see her son end up like this."

Troy met her gaze, unbothered. "Well, lucky for you, I don't need a mother's approval."

Michelle stared at him, her lips pressing into a thin line. "You may not need it now, but one day, you'll regret saying that."

Troy smirked and took another drag. "We'll see about that."

Michelle sighed, rubbing her temple as if she were trying to keep herself from losing her patience. She reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope, then tossed it onto the coffee table in front of Troy.

"This is an invitation card for your cousin's wedding. Ryan's getting married."

Troy, who had been lazily puffing his cigarette, froze mid-inhale. He blinked, his expression shifting from disinterest to shock.

"What?" he said, sitting up straighter. "Ryan's getting married? The boy's just twenty-five!"

Michelle folded her arms, unimpressed. "Exactly. He's young, yet responsible. Meanwhile, you—" she gestured around the messy apartment "—are years older than him and still living like an overgrown teenager."

Troy scoffed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Well, good for him." He took another slow drag of his cigarette before standing up. "Is that what you came here to say?"

Michelle met his gaze with a firm nod. "Yes, and also to check in on you."

Troy let out a bitter chuckle. "Like you give a fuck."

Michelle narrowed her eyes. "Don't start, Troy."

Troy ignored her and stretched lazily. "Well, I got a couple of things to do today, so… use the door whenever you feel like."

Michelle tilted her head, eyeing him. "Did you just tell me to leave?"

Troy smirked. "No, Michelle. I'm just saying it nicely."

Michelle exhaled sharply, grabbing her bag from the couch. She turned toward the door without another word.

Just as she reached for the handle, Troy leaned back on the couch, exhaling a cloud of smoke

."Have a great day, Michelle."

She paused for a second, gripping the doorknob, then scoffed softly before walking out, slamming the door behind her.