Claim - Page 68

“I’m glad you did, too.”

I took his hand. “Do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“Hold me.”

27

BEAU

I’d changed the music to some low, slow jazz. Very New Orleans.

I was lying on my back on the couch with Bell snuggled in my arms. Her back was pressed into my chest, her fingers lazily stroking the tats on my arm.

My earlier tension had slowly drained away. Holding her eased the terrible anger and fury at Carr.

And at myself for not keeping her with me. Of being too much of a coward to take care of her properly.

Bell was right. She was alive. No one had been hurt in the fire. Dante had checked in with the owner of the boarding house, and the woman had insurance. Kavner had leaped into action and organized shelter for the women staying at the boarding house. They’d have a safe place to stay.

I played with Bell’s damp hair. The dark strands smelled like my shampoo. It certainly smelled better on her than me. With her hair out, I realized just how long it was.

Her fingers moved over an old, raised scar on my arm.

“Did you get this in the Army? Or when you were a mercenary?”

I released a slow breath. “No.” I paused. “My mom stabbed me with a kitchen knife when I was five.”

Bell’s gasp was sharp. “What?”

I looked at the dark ceiling. I occasionally talked to my brothers about my childhood, but usually I gave my parents the least amount of mental time or energy as possible. “Both my parents had drug and alcohol addictions. They grew up poor and disadvantaged.”

“That must’ve been hard on you.”

“Yeah. Thankfully, there was just me.” I’d had no other siblings who’d had to suffer. “Our house was chaos.”

Bell pressed her face to my chest, offering quiet support. I held her close and felt as though a box cracked open inside me.

“The place was always stifling hot in the summer, and freezing in the winter. There was no money for heating or cooling. I went hungry a lot. I had to steal money out of their wallets. Then I’d roam the neighborhood.” Anything to get out of the house. “They had people coming over to get high all the time. People coming to buy drugs.”

“God,” she whispered.

“If I got in their way, I usually got a slap.” As I’d gotten older, the slaps had gotten more frequent and harder. “I turned into a big kid pretty quick, and I ate a lot. My parents resented any money they had to spend on me.” They hated anything that might delay their next fix.

She made a choked sound.

“Shh. I survived, angel.”

“Nokid should have to survive that.” She paused. “How did you end up in foster care? When your mom stabbed you?” Bell’s voice sharpened. “I hope they locked her up.”

So fierce. I smiled. “When child services checked in, she told them that I’d fallen on the knife. They believed her.”

Bell cursed.

I stroked a hand down her side. “It was a few years later that I left.” Chaotic images ran through my head—people, high on drugs, lying everywhere in the house, horrid smells, loud music. My parents strung out.

“I need it, Ray. Ineeda hit.” My mother’s stringent voice.