Her stomach would rumble as she watched me eat, but no matter how many times I told her to eat with me, she’d never take any. She told me it wasn’t her treat to share.
Something happened when I turned fourteen. My features started to mature. My face turned sharp and lost its innocence, and then I shot up a foot at a time, becoming taller and sturdier.
My mother’s love for me diminished. She started to look at me differently. Her hugs reduced, and then they were gone, leaving me craving affection and getting it from wherever I could. Namely in the arms of women older than me, who used me as much as I did them.
The love I had for my mom turned viciously into hate. How dare she treat her son like she had? She was a poor excuse for a woman, drinking heavily then putting her hands on the one person who loved her more than anything in the world.
I warned her. Once she had sobered, I told her that if she hit me one more time, I would hit her back. My warning went unheard.
The following night, Mom got her drink on. She was a lousy drunk, fuelled by bitterness and hatred. I moved to take the bottle from her. Her hand came across my cheek full-force. My anger spiraled out of control. I gripped her wrist and pushed as hard as I could. I watched in stunned disbelief as my mother stumbled backwards, falling to the ground with a thud. Breathing heavily out of my nose, I brought my arm back and threw the bottle of liquor at the wall beside me. The glass shattered and I ignored the way my arm stung, my knuckles seeping red.
I left that night. I left and never went back. I was fifteen years old. With only a backpack full of clothes, I hit the streets. I was an angry teenager on the loose, fighting my way through to my sixteenth birthday. I’d spent many nights on park benches, eating out of trashcans, and stealing clothes from people’s backyards.
One fateful night after a brawl, I was arrested. Who knew that would actually turn out to be a good thing?
The officer who arrested me spent hours trying to get something out of me—my name, how old I was, where I was from. I didn’t tell him anything, not at first, but then he told me about himself, about his sons, about his work, about how he was a foster parent to another young boy. He followed this up by feeding me.
At this point, I was about ready to be the man’s pet if he asked me. But he didn’t. Instead, he helped me find a place at a home for young men like myself. They nicknamed it Runaway Isle. It was ran by a woman in her thirties named Carla. I liked her the moment I met her. Her eyes smiled, even when she didn’t.
Carla put me to work with a tutor, and by the time I was eighteen, I’d gotten a job at a local hardware store and had completed my studies, resulting in my high school diploma. One night, I’d been held back at work and got back to Runaway Isle just after nine p.m. When I walked inside, I stopped in the kitchen before going to bed, because I’d worked through dinnertime. I was hungry.
One of the boys, Jack, who was seventeen, had Carla backed up against the fridge. Her eyes wide and frantic, I watched in shock as he held a knife to her throat while he palmed her body in places that Jack should not have been touching.
Obviously worried for my safety, Carla mouthed, ‘Get out,’ as tears trailed her cheeks.
Fuck that. This woman had given me a new lease on life. I was not about to abandon her. I silently unhooked a hanging frying pan and crept closer. When I was within arm’s length, I lifted the pan over my head and brought it down over Jack’s head…hard.
Jack made a choking noise then fell to the floor, his cock hanging out of the fly of his jeans. Carla let out a whimper and pushed herself away from the wall. I caught her before she fell and brought her into the living area to sit on a sofa. I called the police and they arrived within minutes.
An ambulance collected Jack and he was taken to the hospital with a police escort. Carla explained how Jack had cornered her and that he’d told her he’d been waiting for months for a moment alone with her. He’d planned to assault her. The sick fuck.
The police commended me on my actions, and Carla squeezed my hand in thanks. I was just glad it had ended before Carla had truly gotten hurt.
But Carla had been hurt. She’d been hurt in a way that couldn’t be fixed, and within months, she decided to close down Runaway Isle. It was heartbreaking. Many of the guys had become friends, but we understood why she felt she couldn’t do it anymore.
The boys were transferred all around, while the older ones were given the option to work and use our police contacts as temporary guardians. I went with the latter. I quit my job in hardware and went into construction, finding a shit-hole apartment that was about big enough to store a pair of shoes and nothing more, and went about my life.
I had no furniture, no bed, and barely enough food to eat, but I got by. What the experience did for me was make me appreciate what I had in the now. What screwed with me was just how appreciative I was of a certain friendship I’d made, and just how scared I was to lose it.
I dialed her number and waited.
“Hey.”
I smiled at the sound of her voice. “Hey. How was your day?”
“Ugh,” she groaned. My smile stretched wider. I loved how animated Mia could be. “You wouldn’t believe what happened. So, there I was, just minding my own business, when Ella tells me our event has been double-booked. There I am—freaking the eff out, mind you—and all I’m thinking is how badly I’m going to get my ass handed to me if I don’t fix this, right?”
I took a deep breath, and then exhaled slowly, letting her words flow over me, soothing me. “Right.”
Mia snorted. “No shit.” I chuckled silently at her enthusiasm. “So I spent the rest of the damn day finding a replacement, and guess what?”
“What?” I said as I folded an arm behind my neck, getting comfortable.
“I found something even better!” She blew out a breath. “It was like the gods of event planning were watching over me or something. Talk about relief. I was about one minute away from pooping myself.”
I pursed my lips in thought. “That could’ve gone badly.”
She chuckled then, and I wished I could see the way her face lit up when she did. There was something about Mia and her laughs. But nothing could beat the way Mia smiled when she was really happy about something. It was stunning. Simply beautiful.
There was nothing more I wanted to do than to lie with her, to tangle my legs with hers and hold her close, listening to her tell me about her day. The sad truth of it was I didn’t even feel the need to fuck her. I just wanted to be close to her, to place my head on her chest and listen to her fucking heartbeat.
Oh, man. I was becoming a total pussy.
But somehow, my need for Mia was more important. I knew this, because without thinking, I asked, “Can I come over?”
Without hesitation, she responded, “Of course.” She prattled off her address, and within minutes, I was in my car on the way over.
Just because I wanted to.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Mia
Rushing out of the shower, I dried off, throwing my towel behind me, and slipped on my pajamas. Not my ratty tee, but the mauve silky set I bought on my shopping expedition with Edita. The spaghetti-strapped tank felt amazing against my bare skin, and the shorts barely covered my butt cheeks, but this was Quinn I was trying to impress.
I stood then stopped as my stomach flipped. I placed a calming hand on it. Oh, God. Quinn was coming over. As in, coming over to my apartment. To my place of residence. Where I showered and ate, and where I did mediocre things like sleep!
Gah! Why did I feel like this was something special? Shaking my head at the fluttering in my belly, I sighed lightly and scolded myself mentally for making this more than it was. Maybe Quinn did this with other female friends. Maybe this was nothing to him at all except a way to pass time. Maybe he was bored and I was simply available.