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ELEVEN

Joey

It’s a sneak attack.

Such a gentle question after he got me to relax by being funny and cute that I’m not prepared.

I should have prepared.

I should have known this man wouldn’t let this shit go.

“Seriously?” I mutter.

“You not wanting to share makes it seem like you lived with a bunch of serial killers.”

They may as well have been.

They’d all but murdered my siblings.

The thoughts slide through my mind so quickly that I’m not prepared, that I don’t have time to block them, to stop them from showing on my face.

Something I know he picks up on in an instant.

Screech!

My body jerks as he tugs my stool close to him, his legs coming on either side of mine, one of his hands dropping to my waist, the other resting on the counter near my arm.

“What the fuck is that, Red?”

I inhale.

He’s close, so close. And his deep blue eyes are fixed on mine, those golden flecks molten with rage. “What did they do to you?”

I don’t want to talk about this shit.

I don’t want to think about it.

But I also don’t want to draw this argument out because I know Damon, I’ve experienced the recalcitrant asshole side of his personality many times over the last years, most recently last night. Hell, I experienced it thirty minutes ago on my back porch.

If I just say it, it’ll be done and we can move on and never talk about it again.

“It’s not so much as what they did, but what they didn’t do,” I say quietly. “We were homeschooled, my siblings—I was the oldest of four girls and a boy—and I. Which isn’t bad in of itself. Plenty of people do it successfully. But my parents weren’t educated themselves and they weren’t consistent and they didn’t do more than shove a workbook in our faces and expect us to magically educate ourselves.” I sigh. “By the time I argued enough to be allowed to enroll in school, I was three grade levels behind in reading and four in math. My siblings didn’t fare any better.”

He nods, but doesn’t speak, just lightly squeezed my hip.

There and listening.

Because he knows there’s more.

And, unfortunately, there is.

“Because they weren’t educated and because we didn’t know better, we also weren’t looked after in a lot of other ways. We lived off-grid and the water wasn’t clean. We got sick a lot. And none of us were vaccinated against any diseases, even though my parents were. So, when we brought chicken pox home from school, we were all pretty sick…”

This is where it gets harder.

I close my eyes for a second, shove down the memories.

So scared. Itching like a madwoman. Throwing up and shitting myself.

“And it was the combination of all of those things that killed my siblings,” I force out, the words a rasp. “Chicken pox. Bad water that added to all of that sickness. And my parents not knowing better.”

His fingers flex again.

“The twins died first. I woke up in the morning and went to check on them and…” I exhale, trying not to remember the horror of finding them. “Th-they were just gone,” I whisper. “And my parents were out of their minds with grief. Charlotte and Ava were really sick too and even though I begged my parents to take them to the hospital they refused. They said the plants and honey we had would make them better.”

Damon curses.

But I don’t acknowledge it, acknowledge him or the pity in his eyes, the sadness in his frame.

I need to finish this.

“So, I packed the girls and I up, and I walked us all to the hospital.”

A cold night.

A raging fever.

Stopping to puke and clean up my sisters.

Knowing we’d never make it.

And finally, finding a fire station.

“But we couldn’t get there. It was four miles away and we’d only made two, so when I saw the fire station, I knew it was my only hope.” An exhale. “But it was shut up tight, the lights off, no sign of anyone, but I banged on the door until one of the fireman came out. And then I passed out.”

His fingers on the counter are drawn into a tight fist, the anger in his eyes a furious, terrifying thing.

I can’t stop now, though.

“And when I finally woke up, days later, they were all gone.” A beat. “It was just me left. I was fourteen,” I whisper. “They were gone and I was too young, too fucking young to make it on my own.”

“Of course you were,” he whispers.

“My parents were there, wanted to take me home, but I didn’t want to go. I refused actually, screamed and yelled until the doctors and nurses took pity on me and didn’t go through with the discharge.”

“Baby,” he murmurs.

“I couldn’t look at them.” My throat works. “How could I fucking look at them? Live with them? Love them?”

“You couldn’t,” he says gently.

I nod in agreement. “I couldn’t.”

His hand on my side shifts, running lightly up and down my torso.

“Then the fireman who opened the door for us came into my room, and he fought for me.” My voice breaks. “He was the one person who’d fought for me at that point. I went home with him. He and his wife healed me, brought me hockey, showed me what a real family could be like.”

“He sounds like a great man.”

“Yeah,” I murmur. “He is. They both are. And now they’re retired and touring the country with his wife, Beth. Last I heard, they were spending their days hiking in Arches National Park and then heading toward Zion.”

That hand is still gently moving on my side. “You ever go with them?”

I shake my head. “Nah,” I say. “I cramped their style for long enough. They deserve their freedom, not to be tied down with a kid they didn’t want.”

His brows drag together. “Why do you?—”

But before he can finish the question—likely another one I don’t want to answer—there’s a knock at the door.

We both freeze.

“You expecting company?” he asks quietly.

I shake my head.

His eyes narrow, and he straightens, hops off the stool.

The loss of him close, of his warm, strong body hits hard, and thus, it takes me a second to process that this is my house and he’s answering my door.

I climb down in a hurry, turn for the hall, and I’ve just reached the entryway when I hear,

“Who the hell are you?”