Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 116(@200wpm)___ 93(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Sadness flickers across her face. “He doesn’t…well, you know what he’s like. He’s not very touchy-feely.”
It strikes me that Rogue and I are two peas in a pod. We both stoically face everything, keeping our pain and grief lodged deep inside. I’ve always thought that was a good thing, but maybe when it comes to my girl, it’s not.
“He had to have told you something.” I don’t want to reveal too much. My story is intertwined with his, and maybe there’s a reason he’s never shared it with her.
She shakes her head. “I asked a couple of times when I was little, but he was always vague about his past. I don’t even know if I have grandparents on his side.”
Fuck, she’s wondering about the people she comes from. “He’s an orphan…same as me.”
“Oh.”
An uncomfortable silence falls between us for a few long minutes as I try to decide what to tell her. I don’t want to keep secrets from her, but I’m not sure how she’s going to look at me once she knows. “Do you remember a few years back when a group of men got together and sued a boys’ home?”
She thinks for a moment then says, “Do you mean the one that made national headlines for abusing the boys?”
We weren’t part of the lawsuit. Neither Rogue nor I wanted to publicly relive that nightmare for the world to watch. As it was, the coverage started up the panic attacks for me again. I don’t imagine that it didn’t fuck with his head too.
I give her a jerky nod. “That home is where we came from.”
She’s silent though she does press closer, burrowing into my side like she wants to offer me comfort.
“It was where the unadoptable boys got sent. You reach a certain age in the system, and nobody wants you. So they created a place for kids like us.” I still don’t know the exact purpose of the institution. Did someone really start it with the best of intentions? Or was it a sick experiment, meant to break us psychologically?
Decades later, I’m still not sure about the answers to those questions. All I know is I’ve infiltrated prisons in remote countries that were kinder and more humane to their prisoners than the workers were to the foster boys sent to that shithole.
“One of the kids tried to pull a knife on your dad. I disarmed him and took the weapon. After that, he started to call me Ace. Said I was his ace in the hole. I guess it kind of stuck,” I swallow hard.
We only made it out of there because we had each other’s backs. We were brothers. We’re still brothers. Except I know what color his daughter’s pussy is. I know how she tastes coming on my face. It’s a fucked-up situation, and I still don’t know what I’ll do about it. The only thing I can’t do is give up Mackenzie. Not now when I finally have her.
“So, then what’s your legal name?”
“Real name is Anders.” I don’t want more questions so I squat down on the trail, tugging her down with me. I point to the markings on the path. “See these? Bunny tracks. A big one and several little ones. Probably a mama and her kits.”
Her gaze doesn’t leave my face. “It’s OK.”
Fuck, I didn’t realize I was that easy to read. I blow out a breath and say everything in a rush, like one long sentence, “I was found in a parking lot, umbilical cord still attached.”
I don’t look at her. I can’t look at her. I don’t want to know what she’s thinking. I don’t want to see the look on her face when she realizes I’ve never been worth keeping around. But then she wraps her arms around me.
She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. She just holds me, somehow sensing the storm this has brought up inside of me.
I see a psychiatrist twice a month, mainly so I can keep my prescriptions active. All of the asinine questions never help. But Mackenzie’s quiet acceptance, her willingness to sit in silence with me, eases a small part of the ache.
After several long minutes, we get back to the trail. I feel oddly lighter with her knowing about my past. I expected that she would turn away from me, that she would understand how damaged I am. But then she was there, wrapping her arms around me.
“I wish I’d known,” she tells me as she watches a flock of geese flying overhead. “Maybe there’s something I could have done for my dad. Kind of makes sense now why Christmas makes him a little bit sad. He always works so hard to make sure everyone else gets their holiday wish.”
“He doesn’t want you to know. He’d never burden you with his shit,” I explain so she doesn’t blame herself.