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“He clothed and fed us but also used us to make money in underground fights.”
“What?” My feet falter. He said it so casually, like no big deal.
“Yeah. Once a month, he’d take us to an old building, basement, dark and dingy hole in the ground, and people would pay to watch us bare-knuckle fight each other. I guess there are sick fuckers who are into that shit, watching kids fight. The winner of the match got a steak and his own room for the following month.”
I stand speechless, imagining the horror he had planted in my head.
“Ah.” He waves his hand. “It was a long time ago. He’s in jail. Do you like parmesan?”
Forget the parmesan. I need to know more. “How long did you live there?”
He cuts up what looks like pre-grilled chicken and tosses it into a pan, along with some broccoli.
“I was thirteen when Reacher found out about it. He shut The Kraken down,” he finally says, covering the pan with a lid.
“Reacher?”
“That’s what we called him. He was the one they’d send when one of us got in trouble. He’d pick us up from the police station, a foster home, or the boy’s group home and transport us to juvie or another group home. But when he came, you knew it was the end of the line for you.”
“What happened after The Kraken was shut down? Where did you go?”
“I went back to the boy’s group home, and I took to the streets at fifteen. I ran drugs for a gang until Reacher found me again.” He lifts the container of cheese and shakes it. “Parmesan?”
“Sure, whatever.” I flick my hand. “What happened then?”
“I was sent to juvie, and that’s where I was until I turned eighteen.” He dumps the noodles into a colander, drains them, and then transfers them into the pan of chicken and broccoli. He stirs the contents with a wooden spoon and looks up at me.
His eyes have a way of making the journey deep inside to parts of me I pride myself on hiding. Being a journalist, I’ve learned the art of not being seen, standing in the crowd, and becoming part of the blur. The area people don’t notice or that’s unfocused on a picture to highlight the object of their attention.
When he looks at me, I become the focus of his attention, and everything else becomes a blur.
“What about you, Chosen Ashley? Where did you grow up?”
I don’t want to talk about myself. I need to know more about him, about his time in juvie, but I get the sense he’s said all he intended to say. “I was born here, in Florida. I went away to college in New York. I worked at a small news station in Nebraska, mostly doing investigative work, interviews, and research. After that, I wrote articles for a few papers here and there. I moved around a lot.”
He carries two plates of food over to the small table in the corner of the flat. “Did you go to college in New York to be closer to the father you hate?”
“No.” I progress toward him, watching him sit down. “I just went to college there.” I lower into the chair opposite him.
He picks up his fork. “You didn’t see your father when you were there?”
“Sure. A couple of times, but I don’t really know him. He left us when I was ten to pursue his dream of becoming a newscaster.”
“Ah.” His head tilts back, and he peers at me through thick dark lashes. “Daddy chose his career over his family?”
“Yes. It seems trivial compared to your situation.” I shamefully avert my eyes to the plate before me and grab the fork to take a bite.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I apologize if I made you feel that way.”
I look up, finding sincere eyes glowing back at me.
No! Don’t give him a pass to confuse what you feel for him. He was there when the only father you ever had was killed. Still, the longer I search his eyes, the more convinced I am that he’s not a bad person.
He may have been ten years ago, but today…I stab the food with my fork and shove it into my mouth. “Mmm…” I mumble between bites. “This is delicious,” I say, hearing the surprise in my voice.
“Thanks.” He chuckles, observing me as I take another healthy mouthful. “I learned a long time ago how to cook for myself.”
“Yeah, I saw all the cookbooks in your library.” I laugh, shoveling in another bite of the food while glancing around at all the bookshelves.
