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“I must be crazy if I’m thinking about mothers.” I hadn’t thought of my own mother in years beyond her birthday and Mother’s Day each year, but Jana had brought those memories to the surface. I missed my mom. She would have never let this happen to me. Mom got cancer when I was a baby. Although she fought it for years, it finally took her from us when I was about ten.
Most of my memories of her were sitting in the waiting room at the doctor’s office or visiting her in the hospital. She’d always had a smile on her face, even when the pain was too much to bear. My father always stuck by her side. He was a great dad.
Well, until Mom died.
I sighed, wiping my eyes. Those memories were too painful to think about right now, so I shoved them down deep like I always did. I had to get back to the especially important business of staring at the ceiling fan going round and round.
What else could I do? It wasn’t like I had any place to go, or anyone to see, which was why my gaze bounced from the fan to the slice of grass visible from the guest room window.
I had no family, no friends, no home and no fucking place to go. That was the sad but true state of my life. To top it all off, Charlie had locked the door—for my protection—so the only thing I could do was think and stare and plan.
Why hadn’t I run out the front door instead of coming back in here? I can only blame myself for choosing this prison.
Plans required money, and I couldn’t even talk Charlie into spotting me a few thousand bucks so I could get the hell out of Nevada. The fact that he refused to do even that much for me, especially after the things I’d overheard—okay, eavesdropped—his mom saying, told me that Charlie had a plan for me. He might show more kindness than Roadkill or the other Black Jacks ever had, but he still held me hostage.
Which wasn’t much better than the Jacks.
But I kept reminding myself of one fact every time those gray eyes tried to fool me into thinking otherwise. Relative kindness was not kindness, another lesson no one told you as a kid.
The lock on the bedroom door turned with a loud click, and it opened slowly. Charlie peered around the door as though he had a surprise. “I got food. Let’s eat.”
“Not hungry,” I snapped, though he should know it by now. When had I ever jumped at his command?
He let out an impatient sigh and pushed the door all the way open.
“Jeezus, Savannah. You need to eat. I got pizza because everyone loves pizza. You’ve barely eaten since Ma was here. It’s been days. You need to eat.”
I shot him a look that conveyed all my pent up fury. Or it would have for any other human who wasn’t dense. Or didn’t have a plan to use me as ransom.
“What part of not hungry is difficult to understand? I’m not hungry and when I am, I’ll tap on the wall, and you can slide a plate under the door, or however they do it in prison.”
“You’re not a prisoner.”
“Sure, I’m not. Just locked in a room that I can’t leave.” I folded my arms and flashed a phony smile. “Sounds like a prison to me.”
Charlie’s lips kicked up into a crooked grin. “Come on, smart ass. Let’s eat.”
Something about that smile made something in me cave. At least for the pizza. I kicked my feet over the edge of the bed and said, “Fine. I’ll eat.” But I refused to show any enthusiasm.
The kitchen was better than being stuck in the guest room, and brighter than the living room. Jana told me Charlie had installed blackout shades on the bottom floor to keep unwanted eyes from peering inside when he wasn’t home. They’d been closed the day I arrived.
My slices waited on my plate while I watched Charlie inhale four or five slices of pizza. He’d put two plates on the table on either side of the pizza and a box of wings. Tall glasses stood next to bottles of soda, and a stack of napkins sat in the middle of the table.
“I’ll definitely take that root beer,” I said. I didn’t have much of an appetite, but the sugary soda calories took the edge off.
“Good girl,” he said softly and tossed a slice on my plate, careful not to make a big deal about it when I took a reluctant bite. It reminded me that yeah, my appetite was returning.
“How are you feeling?” he asked around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni.
“Better than yesterday but not one hundred percent.” It was my problem, and I’d deal with it myself.
