Mary Anne makes a dismissive noise and waves a hand at Collins. “You deal with her. You’re the one who thinks her being at the benefit is a good idea.”
“She lives here. How the hell will it look if she lives here and doesn’t show up to support the campaign?” Collins says evenly.
“Give it up, Dad. I’m not coming to the fundraiser. I’m done doing the political daughter shit. I’m here, now. As your daughter to let you meet Rike. Now do you want to focus on that or should we go?”
The senator and Peyton glare at each other for a long tense moment, and then he huffs. “Will you consider it?”
“Will you drop it if I say yes?” He nods and she shrugs. “Sure. I’ll consider it.”
Brody snorts and I turn my attention on Peyton’s younger brother.
He’s got the same red hair, just a few shades darker, a wide grin, and mischievous eyes that are instantly likable. He’s the only one in her family she ever talks about. She likes her young, wild brother. I think he’s the only reason she ever goes home—even on her abbreviated visits.
“Tell me about yourself. What do your parents do?” Collins says as the waitress puts our drinks down. She takes our order and then scurries away and I have to face the question.
I shrug. “My mother was addicted to crack. We bounced around with her pimp for a while. She overdosed when I was six and I landed in the system. My father—well, he’s never been part of the picture.”
He blinks at me, and I stare, my face blank.
No one is ever completely comfortable with me dropping the info like that. And this guy—he doesn’t want me anywhere near his daughter to start with.
“Were you adopted, then?” Mary Anne asks.
“Nope. I was in and out of group homes and foster families until I aged out. Spent six months in juvie when I was fourteen for assault. When I turned eighteen, my best friend and I had a little bit of money saved up, so we got a place and that was that.”
She looks startled, and I smile. “Not exactly the pretty picture you wanted, right?”
“How serious is this?” Collins asks, his gaze on Peyton. He’s gone back to pretending I don’t exist.
“We just moved in together, Dad. Pretty fucking serious.”
“You know he’s using you, right? For your trust fund.”
“Fuck, Dad,” Brody sighs.
“What’s shocking, Dad? The fact that someone wants me or the fact that I’m not playing the dutiful daughter?” she snaps.
“I don’t need your daughter’s money, Senator. Frankly, I’ve tried to convince her to quit using it to pay for rent. I make more than enough to support us both. I’m with her because I love her.”
“Excuse me if I choose to not trust a violent felon,” he says coldly.
“That’s what everyone focuses on. My violent crimes. Peyton asked, you know. Why. The why is more important than the what, and I’d do it again. Every fucking time.”
The table is quiet and then Brody asks softly, “Why?”
“His best friend. Scott was being abused. He’d kept it quiet for a while, and pulled the attention from the other kid in the house. He made himself a target to protect them, and kept it from Rike because he knew how Rike would react.”
I close my eyes, and lean back. Let her tell the story.
“One afternoon, Rike shows up at the foster home. They haven’t seen each other in months—just emails to keep in touch and to make sure the other is safe. They’re all each other has, right? So he shows up at this foster home. It was a bad time—Scott was home with the bastard while the other kids were out and he’d managed to piss the guy off, not that it’s hard, you know. And Rike walks in on him beating the shit out of Scott. Scott’s covered in blood and piss, barely fucking conscious, and Rike—well, he’s smart. He knows it’s been happening for a while. He can read bruises like most people can read the paper. And he lost it. Attacked the guy with a glass bottle he found on the table. By the time they got Rike off the dude, he’d carved his face up and beaten him to a pulp. The guy spent a month in the hospital before he was tossed in jail. Rike should have gotten a fucking medal. Instead, he got six months and probation, and wasn’t allowed near Scott for two years.”
The longest two years of our life. We did what they said—mostly because I wouldn’t risk Scott being moved to another county. We made it work. And by then, we were so close to aging out, freedom was almost something we could taste.
We rode it out, waited until we aged out and put it behind us, as much we could.
It’s hard to forget something that put scars on your soul and body.
“Maybe, Dad, you should find out why you’re judging someone before you decide to write them off,” she says softly.
“You haven’t given us a lot of reason to trust your judgement, Pey,” he counters.
“Enough,” Brody snaps. He glances between his sister and father, scowling. “We didn’t meet here to fight. Dad, do you think you could manage to get through dinner without judging every decision she makes? You don’t have to like it, but she’s not tied to the campaign, so it’s not hurting you and she’s happy. That does matter a little bit.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. Turns to me, and forces a small smile. “So, aside from beating up abusers, what do you do with yourself, Rike?”
I eye him but he doesn’t look like he’s trying to find a way to trip me up. He looks curious and patient and hopeful. He’s throwing me a bone.
“I’m a songwriter,” I say, flashing a smile. “And I’m apprenticing with a local tattoo artist.”
Brody’s eyes widen and a smile twitches his lips. As her mother starts in on the problems with dating a degenerate, Brody shakes his head. “Good luck, man.”
Chapter 22 : After
Never anyone's only.
She said that, drunk and sad and
I wanted to scream.
My first thought is yours. my
smile and
Dreams and pleasure. I see you in every
sunrise
and teardrop and
birdsong.
Not my only.
Only my everything.
(Rike’s poems to Peyton)
He almost dumps me into the truck. His truck. “What are you even doing here?” I demand, and he slams the door in my face. I huff a sigh, twisting in my seat to stare at him as he climbs in the truck.
“What are you doing here?” I demand again, and he leans across the console, catching me by the back of the next and kissing me. It’s hot and hungry and forceful. There is no soft request; it’s a demand.
It always has been with him.
I bite his lip and his hand clenches in my hair, jerking just a little, riding a delicious line of pain, his tongue in my mouth, twisting and stroking.
“I should spank your ass for that shit. You can’t go there alone. They’re horrible for you. Promise me, Peyton?”
He never uses my full name, and it shocks me enough that I nod. He sighs, and sits back. “I’m not fucking you in my truck in your parent’s driveway. I love you too much for that. So put your seatbelt on and let’s go, because I do need to fuck you. Soon.”