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I point to myself. “Me?”
“We were at your house. It was a campaign dinner or something. Anyway, just me and my dad made it. My sister was sick, so my mom stayed home with her. My dad worked for your dad. You were eight, maybe nine. I knocked over a plate of food. I was afraid I would get in trouble, so I didn’t tell anyone. I cleaned it up, but your father saw the white carpet stained with salsa from my chips and dip.” She doesn’t move her eyes from mine. “Your father saw you with a plate of salsa and grabbed you harshly. I followed when he took you into a side office on the first floor of your house.”
I wish I could remember which event specifically she was referring to. I don’t. This same scenario played out on more than one occasion. Anytime things didn’t go perfectly or not enough money was raised or my father was simply mad at the world, I paid the price. In the end, one event blurred into the next, and as much as I tried to hide out to avoid them, I wasn’t successful. What she saw happened so many times.
She swallows then brings her hand up to stroke my cheek. “He . . .” She pauses, and I see the pity in her eyes.
I tense and step away. Everything in me goes tight. My heart seems to stop beating. I never want to see that look in those heavenly blue eyes. I never want her to have any sadness or negative emotions associated with thoughts of me. If there is one thing I never want to see in her eyes, it’s pity.
Pity for me.
“Don’t finish the fucking sentence. I know what happened and whatever you remember is probably mild compared to what I endured. It was a long fucking time ago. It’s done. He’s not a part of my life except when it’s expected or situations like today where he couldn’t reach me and had to relay information.” I pause, watching her rapidly blink, processing what I just said. I don’t let up and give her time to think on my childhood. It’s over. I have moved on, and she needs to let it go, too. “Look, my place is free. I’ll take you there until we can sort out yours,” I say roughly, needing to breathe.
I don’t need anyone to feel sorry for me, least of all her. She has no idea what growing up like that has done to me. She witnessed one time. She saw a little boy who had no choice other than to take on the problems of a grown man’s inability to control himself. She doesn’t know that it started when I was so young I don’t remember a time he didn’t hit me.
She doesn’t know how many times my mother begged me to be a better boy so I wouldn’t keep upsetting him. Never once did my mother fight for me. No, all the fight had to stay inside of me, never to be let out.
The thing is, as much as I hate my father, as much as I never want to be anything like him, it happened despite my best intentions. The same little boy grew into a man much like the one who just left here.
No, Lorraine Bosch need not pity me.
She should fear me.
There is a moment of hesitation before she moves to put her shoes on so we can leave. After I grab the rest of my stuff and toss it haphazardly in the bag, we head out. My father’s unexpected arrival killed any thoughts of breakfast. I can’t stand that she pities me and I wonder, yet again, if I should walk away.
The ride to my condo is quiet. I need it to be that way. I don’t know what to say to her, and I’m sure she has no clue what to say to me.
I’m not a little boy anymore, and she can’t save me even if she thinks she somehow can.
Getting out, I walk toward the front door as she follows. There is no need to disillusion her to think I’m the kind of man to open doors or cover her with my jacket because she’s cold. Sure, my instincts pull at me to do these things, but she doesn’t need to find good in me. Knowing what I came from, she should know what I’m destined to become. I tried to fight inside to make the change; that didn’t happen. In fact, with Missy, I sometimes think I was worse.
At the doorway, I stop her in front of the security man. “Max, this is Lo.” He extends his hand, and she takes it. “She’s free to come and go in my place.”
Seeing her hand in his, I fight back the rage inside me that another man is touching her. I shake my head, trying to brush off the thoughts of crushing the man who matches my size and skill set just for being polite. I have never been this jealous of a touch before. Even Tatiana and Caldwell didn’t make my blood boil to this extreme.
