Because I’d worked through my feelings about my mother not wanting to be a mother a long time ago.
Lance had never tried to heal any of his wounds. He just kept pouring salt in them, letting them fester and rot him from the inside out.
Okay.
Maybe I hadn’t healed completely. Because I did still have a Lance-shaped wound in me somewhere. I hadn’t realized it was still there, eating at me, until I saw him again.
He looked a lot as I remembered: the black hair and eyes, the height, the cleft chin, the nose not perfectly straight… because I’d punched it the last time I’d seen him. The years had filled him out, though—broadened his shoulders, filled out his muscle mass, etched his jaw and cheekbones more sharply.
“I seem to remember your mother abandoning you too,” I reminded him.
Was it smart to goad your kidnapper?
No.
But when that kidnapper was Lance? Oh, yes, yes you did. He had it coming. And more.
“Or do you not remember her dumping you on my father and me when you were seventeen? Because she… oh what did she say? Oh, right. That she ‘just couldn’t take you anymore.’” The little smirk he’d shot me fell from his face. “See, my mom never really knew me. She left me because she had other plans for her life. Your mom left you because she had met you… and she just didn’t love you.”
“You stupid bitch—”
He took a threatening step toward me.
“Careful,” I said, shooting him a small smile. “I think we both know that when I’m not drugged, I can take you.”
“When we were kids,” he clarified. He had a point there. We hadn’t sparred since he was seventeen and I was fifteen. He’d put on a lot of muscle since then. And likely had more training. “You know I can take you down now.”
“You could try.”
Lord knew, I was the one with the most to lose here. And my father always made it clear that the person who was being attacked had a lot more motivation to fight to the death than the attacker.
Besides, I don’t think he wanted to kill me.
I mean, eventually, absolutely.
But this whole charade of chasing me, kidnapping me, then setting up clues and tools for makeshift weapons in the trash can? This wasn’t just about killing me. This was about proving some point. Then likely tormenting me. And finally, yes, killing me.
But he was a cat with a mouse.
He wanted to toy with me first.
It gave me time.
To get past him. To catch him unaware and take him down. Or for Caymen and the club to find me.
That last one seemed increasingly less likely. I mean, if this was linked to the current deal, or jobs I’d done recently, I imagined there was some thread they could find that led back to me.
But Lance?
Lance was so far in my past that I barely ever thought about him anymore.
My father and I had been in Michigan for another of his jobs. It was one of the longer ones, but it was over the summer, so I’d avoided yet another school enrollment.
And one day, there was a knock at the door.
There was Sherry, Lance’s mom, and a gangly, sullen teenaged Lance. With a duffle bag in his hand.
“I can’t take him anymore,” she said as soon as she saw my father. “He’s yours now.”
