“I remember when I was thirteen; I got a letter from my teacher about a short story I had written. It was going to be published in the school paper. I thought…here it is…this is the moment that finally connects us.” Without interrupting her story, even though it is breaking my fucking heart, I wipe the tears that track down her cheeks and let her continue. “She was in the kitchen cooking, which was pretty rare. We mostly survived on sandwiches or something microwaved. I ran up behind her, waving the letter, excited to show her. I…guess she hadn’t heard me come in because she jerked in surprise, causing her to dump the entire box of pasta she had in her hand into the boiling water. It…splashed out on her, and she started screaming. She was so…so mad. I backed away, trying to tell her I was sorry. She took the spatula she was holding and hit me with it over and over. While that was happening, do you know what I was thinking?” I don’t answer, knowing she doesn’t really want one. “Why was she cooking pasta with a spatula?” Isn’t that crazy? She is beating me, and all I can think about is what she is using to do it?” A bitter, almost-hysterical laugh escapes her lips. “I mean, did I really have a preference? When she was finished, she picked up the letter that had fallen on the floor, barely looked at it, then threw it in the trash, dumping the ruined food on top of it. That was it…that was the day I stopped caring about her and started just trying to survive her.”
As I struggle for composure, I see Sam’s suspiciously bright eyes in the rearview mirror. This beautiful, strong woman in my arms has brought two strong men to their knees with what I know is just one horror story from her past. She was one of the lucky ones, even if she doesn’t know it. She has lived through Hell and came out stronger for it. What happened today has knocked her down, but she is far from out. Whether she knows it or not, her hate fuels her need to succeed, and there is not a more-powerful motivator; hell, I know it firsthand.
Hate with a healthy dose of guilt has driven me straight to the top. Cocaine might be my crutch, but hate is my drug of choice. A general hate will distort you, make you weaker, but a focused hate on one person is power. When that hate is born from grave wrongs committed against you, it is an unstoppable train. Lia’s hate had been born that day, in that kitchen when her mother severed the bond between mother and daughter.
My hate had been born the day eight years ago when Cassie had attempted to end three lives, only succeeding in ending one. That I was back in this moment again, caring for someone scarred by their past, wasn’t lost on me. I felt both the urge to jump from the car and run and the even-stronger desire to shield her from any further harm. I couldn’t help but wonder what love between us would do to the hate that had driven us both so far. There were only two possible outcomes I could see: We would either save or destroy each other.
Even as those fears churn through me, I’m powerless to pull away from her emotionally or physically. Instead, I pull her onto my lap, tucking her head against my neck and simply hold on. “You slay me, baby, fucking cut me open.” She sobs against my chest, and I let her have that moment without trying to stop the flow. She needs this outlet, the release from the pain. The anger and hate will take over again soon, but for now, she needs to grieve.
Chapter Fourteen
Lia
Lucian had put me to bed like a child when we had gotten back to the apartment. It had taken a lot of encouragement to get him to continue on to his office as he had planned. I knew he had obligations and truthfully, I needed the space. I needed an afternoon to hold an ugly pity party full of thoughts of my evil mother and equally unsavory stepfather. Facing them both today in the courtroom had been more traumatizing than I had imagined; my stepfather’s eyes on me today had made me feel dirty.
When I woke a few minutes ago, I had gone straight to the shower, desperately needing to wash the filth away. His eyes on me brought back memories of all the times he had touched me, defiled me. I scrub until my skin is bright pink. Lather, rinse, repeat, over and over. I sink to the floor of the shower and allow myself one final cry. My feelings of betrayal are definitely on me. Had my mother not proven to me many times over that she has no feelings? She isn’t capable of love; she isn’t capable of being a human being. I hate her with a passion…I own that. I might loathe my stepfather, but my mother, in ways, is worse. She abandoned me…her own daughter. She is the lowest of life forms. I refuse to let her have another moment of my time. I can only hope the bed she has made with the devil today burns her for an eternity.
Standing, I step from the shower to find the bathroom full of steam. I open the door to release some of it before turning back to the sink. I towel off before applying a layer of the orchid-scented lotion Lucian loves. I drop one of his t-shirts over my head and walk around picking up clothes from the floor. Lucian has gotten more and more insistent about hiring a housekeeper. I stubbornly refuse to relinquish that role, needing to earn the money he has spent on me. He has tried to entice me into a position within Quinn Software, which I refused, as well. I enjoy taking care of him, and I don’t want people at his company thinking I have gotten a job there because I am sleeping with the boss. At least with me here, we can have privacy. And, let’s face it, it’s not like his million-dollar apartment is a pigsty; he is a neat person and always picks up after himself.