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She could see the distaste in Chaya’s expression now and had to force herself not to scream out in pain at the sight of it.
Distaste? As though Angel were somehow dirty, or carried an offensive scent that couldn’t be tolerated.
The women escorted the girls from the room, the door closing quietly behind them and leaving her, Tracker, and Chance to bear the weight of the suspicion in the Mackay families’ gazes. And it was a weight that settled against her already-ravaged soul. Nearly a dozen Mackays focused their attention on her.
“Why are you so concerned about our children?” The attack came from Chaya.
And it was indeed an attack, one filled with suspicion and determined denial of Angel’s request.
She’d thought her heart couldn’t be broken further until this woman ground the remaining shreds with her dislike.
There, she admitted it.
Chaya Mackay didn’t just distrust her, she actually disliked her. The pain that resonated through her was shocking, weakening her knees and the shields around her emotions. For a second, she actually wished that damned traitor Duke were there, so that he could see why she was so certain Chaya Mackay wouldn’t give a damn if he sent her all the intel he’d gathered on Angel.
What did this wom
an see in her, Angel wondered, that was so bad that she was disgusted by it?
That aching pain she always carried exploded inside her.
Her mother had loved her once, when she was a little girl. When Angel had been the child Chaya Dane had called her sweet little mini-me. Before Chaya had gone to Iraq, before she’d met the sniper Natches Mackay.
“I apologize,” Angel expressed politely, pushing it back, determined that no one see how bad it hurt. “On second thought, I’m certain you have this covered. . . .”
Too little, too late.
Anger flared in Chaya’s expression and that dislike intensified to the point that Angel had to force herself not to cry out in pain.
I’m sorry, Momma, she whispered silently. So sorry . . .
“You have insisted on placing yourself in a position to gain our daughters’ trust and affection and I want to know why.” Chaya pointed a finger at her accusingly. “Because I know women like you and I know it’s not for the sake of those kids out there.” That finger stabbed toward the door, but Angel barely acknowledged it.
Women like you, her mother sneered, her tone so filled with disgust that the mental and emotional recoil Angel felt stole her breath for a moment.
Women like her . . . ?
“Chaya, that’s a little harsh,” Christa, Dawg Mackay’s wife, protested firmly but Angel barely acknowledged it. And Chaya sure as hell didn’t.
Angel could only stare back at her mother, the proof that she had disappointed her, disgusted her, causing her stomach to churn sickeningly.
“Women like me?” Angel spoke without intending to. “What kind of woman do you assume I am, Mrs. Mackay?”
She’d tried so hard, she thought in confusion, tried to remember all the lessons her mother had taught her when she was just a baby. To be polite. To be a lady. And she had failed. She had failed so bad.
“My damned name is Chaya,” her mother snapped disdainfully, that sneer in her voice, her expression, ravaging Angel’s heart, causing her stomach to heave from the pain. “You’ve been here off and on for a year and a half now, and for some reason we end up seeing you often whenever you’re in town. You’re no child nor an employee, so you stop the Mrs. bullshit right now.”
Angel simply stared back at her, hating herself, hating whatever she’d done to make her mother hate her, hating that she’d allowed herself to care and the realization that she had no idea what she’d done wrong.
“What kind of woman do you think I am?” Angel asked her again.
“Chaya.” It was Rowdy who stepped forward to keep Chaya from revealing whatever she saw in Angel. “We’re all upset. . . .”
Rage flashed in her mother’s face, fear glinting in her gaze.
“Someone just attempted to abduct my daughter—” Her voice broke, her pain ripping inside Angel, tightening her throat with unshed tears. “And I want to know why a grown woman is trying to ingratiate herself into four teenagers’ lives.” The look that flashed across her mother’s face was the only warning Angel had. “A mercenary. She sells herself to the highest bidder with those two.” Chaya’s hand flipped to Tracker and Chance as silent, ragged wails nearly choked Angel and became trapped in her throat.
Silent. Always silent . . . Oh God, it hurt. It hurt so bad.
