Page 19 of Under His Control

“When did she pass?”

“A couple years ago. She had an inoperable brain tumour.”

I give him a sympathetic look and repeat his words since they worked for me.

“That was a bad way to go.”

“It was.” His expression turns contemplative. “Everyone wishes for quick and painless. Life in general isn’t either of those things.”

As he hands my phone back to me, his thumb accidentally swipes to the previous picture. In it, I’m holding up my phone to a mirror, my hip cocked while I lift my black top and expose my stomach. My mound is somewhat visible through the patches of my pink, lacy panties.

Jacob tightens his grip on the phone when I try to snatch it away. My face burns. I yank harder, freeing it from his grasp, then quickly lock it. His stare bores into me.

“You took that for your boyfriend?”

I frown. This abrupt change from talking about death to my semi-nude picture is too unsettling.

“That’s none of your business. If you’re still not convinced Mom’s dead, I can take you to her grave. I could probably even have her exhumed if that’s still not enough.”

He gives me a hard stare. “You’re pretty lippy for someone who’s fucked six ways to Sunday.”

“I’m in a bad spot right now but I’ll manage.” Somehow.

“You should’ve told yourself that before wasting your time coming up here to beg me for money.”

I scowl. “It wasn’t a complete waste.”

“Your written-off car says differently.”

“At least I learned something.”

“Oh? What did you learn?”

The words tumble free, my filter gone. I’m fed up of his meanness, and I’m already exhausted when it’s only nine in the morning.

“I learned that the man I remember is gone. You’re an asshole now. Goodbye forever, Jacob.”

7

Jacob

Penelope slings her bag’s straps over her shoulder and reaches for the passenger door handle.

I grab her arm without thinking. She yelps and tries to yank it away from me.

Shit. Her bruise.

I loosen my hold but I don’t let her go. I should. She was about to leave me alone for good, which is exactly what I wanted since she showed up. Why the hell did I stop her?

She’s not the first person to call me an asshole, to my face or behind my back. The way she said it—and that it’s her saying it—got under my skin.

I shouldn’t care what she thinks of me, yet it bothers me I disappointed her. It used to be my goal to make her happy.

“It’s not smart to insult the person you’re asking for help.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t want your help anymore.”

“How much do you owe?”