“My mother made us.”
“She put you in martial arts classes?” That would make sense. Lots of parents start their kids off in karate or something to get them to partake in a physical activity when they are young. But it was the tone of voice Luke used when he said those words that led me to believe it was something a more sinister than a loving mother putting their child in a sport.
“No.” He pushed out a deep breath, before connecting his gaze with mine again. “The sick bitch made Jacob and I fight.”
I curled my brows and reared my head backwards. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Over anything. If the dishes weren’t cleaned right, because I got a shitty report card, fuck, if it was raining and she wanted sunshine, she forced us to fight one another.”
“What the hell?” I asked the question more to myself than of Luke.
“She was twisted with a desire for control. To the world she made us out to be the perfect family, but when she didn’t get her way she’d yell, curse, make us fight, and when one of us refused, she’d resort to hitting us herself. Always body shots, though. Never in the face or head where it might be visible to someone else.”
“What about your father?” My throat tightened at the idea of Luke growing up with such a witch.
Luke shook his head. “He was off building his career and upholding the Reynolds’s name to give a shit about what his wife did at home.” He clenched his jaw.
“Reynolds. Like your brother.”
He nodded. “I changed my name after I dropped out of college. The Reynolds’s are involved in politics and shit back in Washington. I didn’t want to be associated with the bastards.”
I pushed out a breath, finally getting my answer as to why Luke and Jacob had different last names. And why their relationship seemed so strained. I still couldn’t fathom that life.
“Someone had to know what was going on. A teacher, other parents, somebody?”
He snorted and shook his head. “A teacher once asked me about the bruising on my ribs, he saw when I changed for gym class, but I told him I’d gotten it rough-housing with some friends.
“Jacob left when I was twelve. The physical abuse stopped then, but she still told me in one way or another I wasn’t shit. Every single day.”
I tightened my hand around his.
“I’m sorry, Luke.”
He shook his head. “Don’t sweat it. She’s dead,” he said it so cavalierly that I knew it impacted him more than he wanted to let on.
“When did she die?”
“Last year. I went back to Washington to make sure. Not the funeral. I couldn’t stomach that bullshit. People standing around crying for her when she was a witch in sheep’s clothing. I showed up at the gravesite after the funeral. My bastard father was there. Jacob, too.”
He shook his head and turned to lay on his back again, staring up at the darkness above. He placed our intertwined hands on his chest. I moved closer and laid my head on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry.” Those were the only two words I could think of to say.
“Don’t get all in your feelings. It happened a long time ago.”
Lifting, I moved up and pressed a kiss to his lips. “It shouldn’t have happened at all,” I said before laying my head back down.
“My mom left my real dad when I was still young. I don’t remember him that much.” My chest tightened. And I reached for the silver pendant around my neck.
Luke didn’t say anything, but he raised our hands and pressed a kiss to my fingertips.
“She remarried when I was seven and never spoke of my biological father.”
“Is that why you haven’t been to see her since you’ve been in San Diego? Don’t they live out here?”
I nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah. But my stepdad travels a lot for work and mom often travels with him. They’ve been out of town. My little brother, Mitch lives on the East Coast. He stayed there after college.”
“You’re not close with your family?” He asked.
