FAITH
“Promise me something first.”
“Faith—”
“Promise you’ll let me finish. No interruptions, no legal advice, no big brother swooping in to fix things. Just … listen.”
He nodded, though it looked like it went against every instinct he had to protect me from the past. Like that was possible.
I began painting again so I didn’t have to endure the look in his eyes.
“The first time I was beaten, I was six.” My voice was steady, clinical almost, like I was reading someone else’s medical chart. “The first attempted rape, thirteen. Worst thing I’ve seen? My foster father’s brain splattered on the wall after he tried to kill me.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Faith.” I was pretty sure he must’ve known Blake had killed my foster father, but maybe he hadn’t heard about the details.
“Sorry.” I smiled, though it was forced. “Sometimes, I forget that people grew up with white picket fences and bedtime kisses.”
“Who beat you? Who tried to …” The words tore out of him, but he stopped when I glared at him. “Right.” He forced himself toroll a fresh streak of paint on the wall, pressing so hard that the roller squeaked against the surface. “No questions.”
I watched his jaw clench. Watched the way his shoulders had gone rigid.
Was that disgust? Already?
I hadn’t even gotten to the worst parts yet … the ones where I was the one making the bad choices.
My mind flashed to Jason. Sweet, idealistic Jason, who I’d let myself hope with. At the time, I’d been hiding the fact that I didn’t have a roof over my head, hiding the things I was doing to eat, so I shouldn’t have been so hurt when he caught me stealing food from that gas station. He hadn’t asked why. Hadn’t cared. Just looked at me and said, “I thought you were different, but you’re just trash.” When I tried to explain, he said I was just making excuses and left me. At a gas station. Alone. At night. That ten-mile walk back, I had nothing but time to think about how foolish I’d been to think he could’ve understood. And I’d wondered if he was right, if I was just making excuses for my bad choices.
Either way, that wordtrashburrowed under my skin and never left.
“After our parents died, Blake and I went into the foster care system. The first one seemed okay. Churchgoing, respected in the community. But the second one …” I shook my head. “Addiction and mental health issues hidden behind a perfect facade. When his demons came out, you could taste it in the air.”
I dipped my roller in paint again, painting as I talked, as if the motion would help the words flow. Discreetly, I watched Ryker for any tell that he was looking at me differently.
So far, he wasn’t. Maybe … maybe this would work between us. Maybe he’d prove all my fears wrong.
God, when had I started thinking of us as anus? Somewhere between his stubborn patience and those moments when he looked at me like I was worth saving, I’d let myself believe we might be inevitable. Now, watching him brace himself against mypast, I realized what a fool I’d been. I’d wasted weeks trying to be noble, trying to protect him from me, when I should have been laying a foundation. Letting him see the good parts first. The parts that might make the bad ones easier to swallow.
Instead, I was loading a shotgun with the worst of me and was firing both barrels at the one man I actually wanted to keep.
“One night, he got hold of something new. Drugs, I think. Different look in his eyes. When he started hitting me, I thought I was going to die.”
Ryker stopped painting entirely, the roller dripping lime green onto the drop cloth.
My voice dropped. “Blake had intervened. The bat, the sound of his skull … I can still smell the blood mixed with brain matter.”
Ryker finally moved again, but his strokes were mechanical.
“Blake doesn’t know what else our foster father did to me.”
Ryker went completely still.
I swallowed hard, fighting the nausea that always came with these memories.
I’d never told anyone this before. Hell, I’d sworn I’d take it to the grave, but if there was anyone I could trust with this particular brand of poison, it was Ryker.
Right?
“He was never successful. Was always too high or drunk.” The words tumbled out too fast, like I owed him an explanation. Like that made me strong during all the times that man had tried to make me weak.
