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She laughed humorlessly. “Not me.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Maybe the old me, but not this me.”
I took a step toward her, speaking softly. “Begging your pardon, Addison, but they’re one in the same.”
Her face crumpled. I watched helplessly as two fat teardrops fell down her cheeks. “I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t like the person I’ve become.” Her breath shuddered. “I’m not this…this…this bitch.”
Well, this just got interesting. I no longer felt as though I needed an invitation. I sat across from her, passing down the box of tissues.
She went on, and I let her, because everyone needed to vent now and again. “I drove the only man I have ever loved into the arms of another woman by being this person.” Her lip curled. “I hate this woman.”
My response was surprisingly simple. “Then stop feeding her.” I tried my hand at humor to see how she would respond. I shrugged and widened my eyes. “You’re not the only one who hates her, you know.”
She amazed me by laugh-crying, “Oh, I know.” But she sobered quickly. “I don’t know how to stop being her. I’ve been her for so long that I can’t remember who I was before her.”
I stood and spoke gently, “Nicholas fell in love with that woman. She’s in there somewhere.” I smiled reassuringly. “You’ll find her.”
As I walked out the door, she spoke quietly, “Thank you, Mia.”
I left the office, speaking loud enough for only me to hear. “You’re welcome, Addison.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Quinn
I did a good job, I thought. I got to almost seven p.m. without calling her.
Now that I knew her, my days seemed to go slower and my body, now knowing the feel of hers against mine, craved her like no other. I missed the sound of her voice. I missed her laugh. Shit, I just missed her when she wasn’t around.
My mother was not a good woman, but if there was one piece of advice she gave me that stuck, it was: One day, you’ll meet someone who will consume your very soul. When you meet that person, you’ll know. And if that person ever tries to leave you, fight for them, because once they’re gone, life will become a chore.
It made me think that maybe she’d lost her person. Maybe he was my dad. Maybe that was why she treated me the way she did. She always told me I looked just like him. I hadn’t spoken to my mother in years. I had no idea where she was, whom she was with, or even if she was alive. I missed her some days. Others, I was glad she was gone.
Every time I ate French toast, I was reminded of her. We never had a lot of money, and Mom worked in diners as wait staff. She knew I loved French toast, and on the days she worked late while I was at home with only the TV as a babysitter, she would wake me up in the middle of the night just to see the smile I’d get at the surprise she brought me.
Her stomach would rumble as she watched me eat, but no matter how many times I told her to eat with me, she’d never take any. She told me it wasn’t her treat to share.
Something happened when I turned fourteen. My features started to mature. My face turned sharp and lost its innocence, and then I shot up a foot at a time, becoming taller and sturdier.
My mother’s love for me diminished. She started to look at me differently. Her hugs reduced, and then they were gone, leaving me craving affection and getting it from wherever I could. Namely in the arms of women older than me, who used me as much as I did them.
The love I had for my mom turned viciously into hate. How dare she treat her son like she had? She was a poor excuse for a woman, drinking heavily then putting her hands on the one person who loved her more than anything in the world.
I warned her. Once she had sobered, I told her that if she hit me one more time, I would hit her back. My warning went unheard.
The following night, Mom got her drink on. She was a lousy drunk, fuelled by bitterness and hatred. I moved to take the bottle from her. Her hand came across my cheek full-force. My anger spiraled out of control. I gripped her wrist and pushed as hard as I could. I watched in stunned disbelief as my mother stumbled backwards, falling to the ground with a thud. Breathing heavily out of my nose, I brought my arm back and threw the bottle of liquor at the wall beside me. The glass shattered and I ignored the way my arm stung, my knuckles seeping red.
I left that night. I left and never went back. I was fifteen years old. With only a backpack full of clothes, I hit the streets. I was an angry teenager on the loose, fighting my way through to my sixteenth birthday. I’d spent many nights on park benches, eating out of trashcans, and stealing clothes from people’s backyards.
One fateful night after a brawl, I was arrested. Who knew that would actually turn out to be a good thing?
The officer who arrested me spent hours trying to get something out of me—my name, how old I was, where I was from. I didn’t tell him anything, not at first, but then he told me about himself, about his sons, about his work, about how he was a foster parent to another young boy. He followed this up by feeding me.
At this point, I was about ready to be the man’s pet if he asked me. But he didn’t. Instead, he helped me find a place at a home for young men like myself. They nicknamed it Runaway Isle. It was ran by a woman in her thirties named Carla. I liked her the moment I met her. Her eyes smiled, even when she didn’t.
Carla put me to work with a tutor, and by the time I was eighteen, I’d gotten a job at a local hardware store and had completed my studies, resulting in my high school diploma. One night, I’d been held back at work and got back to Runaway Isle just after nine p.m. When I walked inside, I stopped in the kitchen before going to bed, because I’d worked through dinnertime. I was hungry.
One of the boys, Jack, who was seventeen, had Carla backed up against the fridge. Her eyes wide and frantic, I watched in shock as he held a knife to her throat while he palmed her body in places that Jack should not have been touching.
Obviously worried for my safety, Carla mouthed, ‘Get out,’ as tears trailed her cheeks.
Fuck that. This woman had given me a new lease on life. I was not about to abandon her. I silently unhooked a hanging frying pan and crept closer. When I was within arm’s length, I lifted the pan over my head and brought it down over Jack’s head…hard.
Jack made a choking noise then fell to the floor, his cock hanging out of the fly of his jeans. Carla let out a whimper and pushed herself away from the wall. I caught her before she fell and brought her into the living area to sit on a sofa. I called the police and they arrived within minutes.
An ambulance collected Jack and he was taken to the hospital with a police escort. Carla explained how Jack had cornered her and that he’d told her he’d been waiting for months for a moment alone with her. He’d planned to assault her. The sick fuck.
The police commended me on my actions, and Carla squeezed my hand in thanks. I was just glad it had ended before Carla had truly gotten hurt.
But Carla had been hurt. She’d been hurt in a way that couldn’t be fixed, and within months, she decided to close down Runaway Isle. It was heartbreaking. Many of the guys had become friends, but we understood why she felt she couldn’t do it anymore.
The boys were transferred all around, while the older ones were given the option to work and use our police contacts as temporary guardians. I went with the latter. I quit my job in hardware and went into construction, finding a shit-hole apartment that was about big enough to store a pair of shoes and nothing more, and went about my life.
I had no furniture, no bed, and barely enough food to eat, but I got by. What the experience did for me was make me appreciate what I had in the now. What screwed with me was just how appreciative I was of a certain frien
dship I’d made, and just how scared I was to lose it.
I dialed her number and waited.
“Hey.”
I smiled at the sound of her voice. “Hey. How was your day?”
“Ugh,” she groaned. My smile stretched wider. I loved how animated Mia could be. “You wouldn’t believe what happened. So, there I was, just minding my own business, when Ella tells me our event has been double-booked. There I am—freaking the eff out, mind you—and all I’m thinking is how badly I’m going to get my ass handed to me if I don’t fix this, right?”
I took a deep breath, and then exhaled slowly, letting her words flow over me, soothing me. “Right.”
Mia snorted. “No shit.” I chuckled silently at her enthusiasm. “So I spent the rest of the damn day finding a replacement, and guess what?”
“What?” I said as I folded an arm behind my neck, getting comfortable.
“I found something even better!” She blew out a breath. “It was like the gods of event planning were watching over me or something. Talk about relief. I was about one minute away from pooping myself.”
I pursed my lips in thought. “That could’ve gone badly.”
She chuckled then, and I wished I could see the way her face lit up when she did. There was something about Mia and her laughs. But nothing could beat the way Mia smiled when she was really happy about something. It was stunning. Simply beautiful.
There was nothing more I wanted to do than to lie with her, to tangle my legs with hers and hold her close, listening to her tell me about her day. The sad truth of it was I didn’t even feel the need to fuck her. I just wanted to be close to her, to place my head on her chest and listen to her fucking heartbeat.
Oh, man. I was becoming a total pussy.
But somehow, my need for Mia was more important. I knew this, because without thinking, I asked, “Can I come over?”
