Page 19 of Riot’s Thorn (Sons of Erebus: Reno, NV #4)

“Parker,” he repeats. “I like it. You doing okay over there in the boonies?” His tone is jovial, but there’s a serious connotation I don’t miss, along with the brief but inquisitive lift of his brow.

Everyone seems to be so interested in how I’m doing, but I don’t know why, since none of them seem to have any intention of helping.

“The rats take some getting used to, but otherwise, yes. I’m doing okay,” I say.

“You got rats?” Lucky asks. “Shit. Don’t tell Tinleigh until we get some traps set, or she won’t want to stay here anymore, especially since we got the puppy. I swear, she treats that thing like her baby. If she thinks he could get bit by?—”

“You don’t know he has pet rats?” I ask in confusion, shifting my attention to Riot, who’s wearing his usual blank expression.

“No shit? How many? What are their names?”

Riot is no help and says nothing, which brings on some guilt. Was he keeping them a secret for a reason? If so, why? And does no one go over to hang out with him or whatever bikers do?

Since the owner of the rats is remaining mute, I feel obligated to answer. “There are two, Amy and Ben. You should see their enclosure. It’s actually really cool. They’re probably the luckiest rats to ever exist.”

“They aren’t,” Riot finally pipes in. “Rats are very social, so Ben and Amy would be much happier in the wild, where they’d have access to more of their own kind. But I think they are happier than they were in the glass box at the pet store.”

“Cool. Maybe I could come by and meet them sometime. Rats are cool as fuck, but still, don’t tell Tinleigh.”

“Tell me what?” A short, pretty woman dressed in low-rise, baggy shorts and a pink crop top that matches the streak in her hair walks over and tucks herself into Lucky’s side. The height difference between the two is staggering.

Wait, she looks familiar.

“Do I know you?” I ask.

“No, I don’t think so. But I think you’ve met my twin, Myla?” At my confusion, she shakes her head. “Sorry, they call her Killer.”

“Oh my god, yes! You two look exactly alike and also not at all alike.”

“Yeah, we get that a lot. Myla turned emo last year, but don’t let her fool ya. She has a heart of gold.” She holds out a hand. “I’m Tinleigh, Lucky’s ol’ lady.”

Lucky grips her by the back of the neck possessively. “Baby, this is Parker, Riot’s . . .friend.”

I roll my eyes. How is it possible an entire group of people take no issue with Riot both killing my dad and holding me here against my will?

My subconscious whispers how I haven’t begged for help or even tried to escape. Not really. I just accepted my fate. Am I that weak? Or do I trust this man more than I’m letting on? Is Riot my savior and not the villain in this story?

Still, I can’t wrap my head around Dad and Grandpa being that evil. It seems impossible. Men who do those things are slimy criminals, like drug warlords or something, not men who dress in bespoke suits and have impeccable table manners. Right?

Tinleigh smiles, but her tone is even. “What’s it like living with Riot?”

“I couldn’t ask for a better captor.” Jesus Christ. Does anyone around here even like Riot? My slight indignation at their treatment of him has grown into outright resentment. “We’d better go sit down so we can eat.”

This time, I take Riot’s hand, if only so people will stop asking me if I’m okay living with him. Definitely not because I want to lay some kind of claim on him so everyone knows he’s not the creep people make him out to be. I don’t care about his image. Not at all.

We sit across from each other on a picnic bench, and I notice what’s on Riot’s plate—or rather, what’s not. “Your burger doesn’t have anything on it.”

“I like it plain.” He bites into his bread and hamburger patty.

“Do you want some of my potato salad?” I ask.

“No. I only eat potatoes as fries or chips.” He demonstrates that by popping a plain, salty chip in his mouth.

“What about flavored chips? Like barbecue or sour cream and cheddar?”

“No.”

I think back to the meals he’s made and realize everything has been very simple, plain, and inexpensive. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Okay,” he says hesitantly.

“How did you grow up?”

“Like everyone else. Unless you die, everyone grows up.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” I say, though I’m not positive he does. He’s a very literal person.

“I was raised in Reno. Lived just north of here in a trailer park with my mom.”

My next question would offend most people, but I have a feeling he’ll take it at face value, the way I mean it. “Were you poor?”

He huffs. “You could say that. Mom couldn’t work a lot of the time, so I had to, but jobs that’ll hire a kid don’t pay well.”

His food choices make sense now, and a pang shoots through my heart thinking about a child-sized Riot trying to earn enough money to pay rent. “That must’ve been really hard.”

“It just. . . was .” He shrugs. “I didn’t like the few times we had to live in the car. I had the power to make sure that didn’t happen, so I did.”

I can’t help but notice how his shoulders are relaxed and he’s talking freely now that we’re alone. Not that I think he doesn’t like the other club members, but he’s more serious and rigid with them. I find I like how comfortable he is with me.

Oh, god. In no way should this information make me feel special. That’s so stupid.

“Where’s your mom now?” I ask, my ego slightly overblown.

“She’s dead.” It’s so matter-of-fact, I do a double-take.

“Oh. I’m sorry. My mom’s dead too.” God, this is so weird. How can I be sitting here sympathizing with him? It makes no sense. “How did she die?”

“I killed her.”

What. The. Fuck.