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“And I knew he was right!” she exclaimed. “My own mother didn’t want me, so why would anyone else?”
I wanted to go back to that fucker’s house and beat the shit out of him so badly, I couldn’t even see straight. He didn’t even qualify as a douchebag anymore. I didn’t know what the fuck he was, but as I held Tria and continued to tell her that I wanted her, I definitely considered a couple dozen ways to make him fit into a douchebag.
He had intentionally played on her worst fears of rejection, and for what? Did it make him feel better to blame her because she wasn’t turned on? Did he get off on it? Did he do it just to make her stay there? Did he really not know what he was doing, or was he just an ass?
Maybe another option: all of the above.
Despite my profession, I wasn’t normally a violent person. Something about people mistreating Tria brought it all out in me. Most of my vicious thoughts were nothing more than empty threats in my head, but when it came to Keith Harrison, I was becoming more and more convinced that I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from hurting him if I ever saw him again.
“They never let you forget it, did they?” I asked her when she calmed down again.
“Who?”
Tria had finally stopped shaking. I wasn’t even sure what time it was anymore, only that it was late, even for us. She was lying across my chest at this point, apparently deep in thought or memories or something. All I could see in my head was the image of a little girl with tears in her eyes while her own mother walked away from her.
If I ever met Dana Lynn, I was probably going to hurt her, too. At the very least, I was going to dress her up as a light heavyweight and toss her in the cage. Of course, as much as I wanted to have a quick and easy target to blame all this shit on, I knew there were other culprits as well.
“Those fuckers you lived with,” I said, “the Harrisons. They just reminded you of that shit all the time, didn’t they?”
“They’re the ones who were willing to—”
“Bullshit!” I yelled. She jumped a little in my arms, and I held her closer. “That shit Keith was spewing at you wasn’t anything you should feel grateful for!”
“No one else would,” she whispered. “How else am I supposed to feel?”
“Like those fuckers did you wrong,” I replied instantly. “They could have told you none of that shit was your fault like they should have done in the first place. But no—they let it all fester to make sure you stuck around. Fuckers.”
“Your parents threw you out, too,” she said. “From what little you have told me, anyway. At least Leo let me stay.”
“Totally different,” I said.
“You going to tell me how so?”
She was treading on seriously thin ice. The way my family treated me was nothing like the way those assholes had treated Tria. The way Keith had talked to her was nothing short of abusive. My family had never been like that. Of course, as far as I knew, Tria’s adoptive family hadn’t contributed to anyone’s death.
I was never one to compare parenting styles, but I was pretty sure she had it worse as a child than I did.
Chapter 8—Remember the Good
I hesitated. I didn’t want to go into any of this shit with her. I didn’t want her to know about it, think about it, or ask me about it. If she did, I’d have to remember everything, too.
“You aren’t, are you?” she said as she sat up a little to look at me. “You don’t ever plan on telling me anything about yourself, do you?”
“I’ve told you some shit.”
“You told me about a very short time period.”
“You don’t want to hear it,” I muttered. “None of it matters now anyway.”
“There you go,” she said as she rolled off my chest and sat up a little against the pillows to look at me. “Telling me what’s best for me. You realize that’s the main reason I left Beals, right?”
I glared at her—not because she was wrong, but because she was right, and I didn’t want to admit it. There were things I hadn’t told her that I probably could, and it would ease her curiosity without actually saying too much. I took a long breath through my nose, opened my mouth to say something, but then hesitated again.
“What was it?” Tria asked again, prompting me. “The perils of being filthy rich?”
“It’s probably not what you think,” I said quietly. I considered the house where I grew up. “Filthy rich is about right, though.”
“What was it like?” She sniffed loudly, rubbed at her nose, and adjusted her position across from me.
