I both want to smack and kiss that smile off his face.
“You’ve never been to a place like this before.”
My cheeks heat with embarrassment and I’m thankful for the dim lighting so he can’t see me. “Guess I’m not used to strange men doing things for me,” I admit. That’s better than confessing I don’t know how to function in fancy restaurants. I need him to believe I can be a part of his world, that I would fit in seamlessly, no matter what the situation is.
“The food here is fantastic.” His change of subject tells me he must sense my nervousness, and he tears his gaze away from mine, cracking open the menu. “I’m starving.”
“Me too.” Not really. I’m too nervous to eat, too freaked out I’ll screw something up and prove to Rhett I don’t belong here. I don’t belong with him.
“Do you have a preference for anything?” He skims the menu, his lips slightly pursed, a lock of thick hair falling over his forehead. I watch him instead of checking my meal options, captivated by his dark good looks, the way he sinks his teeth into his lower lip, as if he’s concentrating really hard. This is all supposed to be pretend, but why does tonight feel so real? I’m barely in and I’m already taking it way too seriously. He’s just so good-looking and charming and oh my God, what am I even doing?
Suddenly Rhett glances up, his gaze meeting mine, and his knowing smile tells me I’ve been caught staring.
My heart thumping out of control, I jerk my gaze back to the menu, squinting as I try to make out the minimal descriptions, trying my best to ignore the outrageous prices. Everywhere he takes me, I can’t afford. I can’t even understand what’s on this stupid menu since it’s written mostly in Italian.
Situations like this remind me that I’m completely out of my element, though I knew this from the very start. I somehow forgot, though, that the Montgomery family moves in a different stratosphere than mine.
I remember he asked me if I had any preferences and I finally answer him.
“Um, what do you recommend?” I can’t say spaghetti, because that is my favorite Italian dish, but it’s also the most common Italian dish there is. What in the world is antipasto? Some sort of appetizer? I can figure out insalata, and even minestra, salad and soup. Oh, I recognize fettucine alfredo, since I had that once at the Olive Garden. Dad took me there for my twelfth birthday, when things were better, and he was better too. When we had a little more money and we could splurge on special occasions, but that was it.
“Any of the risottos are good,” Rhett says, and I nod. Okay, I can do that. I’ve watched Hell’s Kitchen before—I actually know what risotto is, since Gordon Ramsey makes it all the time. My gaze jumps to the risotto section, and my eyes go wide when I see the prices. I can’t believe rice costs that freaking much. “Plus, all of their pasta is homemade, and it’s amazing,” he continues.
“Nice.” I nod, anxiety rising within me, making it even harder to focus. I don’t know what to get, and I’m afraid I’ll say it wrong when I’m asked what I want. I’m not in the mood to make a fool of myself tonight either.
One tiny mistake could ruin everything.
Snapping the menu shut, I smile at Rhett when his gaze meets mine once more. “Will you order for me?”
He appears surprised by my request, but he rolls with it. He’s so easygoing, it’s downright unreal. “Sure, if you’re okay with that. Are you interested in a particular dish?”
“I’m interested in whatever you think is good.” I sit up straighter and stretch my lips into a closed-mouth smile, trying to look like an agreeable date so hopefully he’ll want to see me again. God, it’s so difficult, striving for perfect all the time. “Surprise me.”
“Really?” He sounds excited and he raises his eyebrows. “You trust me enough to order for you?”
I don’t trust you for shit, I want to tell him, but I don’t. I can only imagine the hurt that would cross his face at my words. I get the feeling he’s not used to insults. He grew up having an idyllic, carefree life with my bitch of a mother showering all of her affection on him while I didn’t even get a scrap.
“I’m sure whatever you choose, I’ll love,” I say carefully, immediately wishing I could snatch back my use of the word love.
I don’t throw that word around lightly. Love isn’t a good or easy emotion. It’s painful and hard and only ends up hurting you.
That’s all love has ever done for me.
He points his index finger at me. “I promise you won’t regret this.”
I’m sure I will. I’m sure I’ll regret everything that will eventually happen between Rhett and me. But there’s no going back now.
I’m all in.
Five years ago
“Where’ve you been.”
The sharp voice sounds in the utter darkness just after I shut the front door with a quiet thud. Gasping, I whirl around and the lamp clicks on, casting dirty yellowish light on my father, who’s sitting on the sagging couch, clad only in a stretched-out white T-shirt and a pair of faded boxers.
“Out.” I clear my throat when I hear the squeakiness of nerves.
He gives me that look, the one shrewd and full of distrust. “With who?”
“Friends.” A boy. One my father wouldn’t approve of, and that’s what makes him extra exciting. After the Burper—my first sexual experience—I found someone else to be with. We’re not in a real relationship or anything, we just like to fuck. His words.
He thinks I’m some sort of miracle girl brought down from the heavens.
“You sure you don’t want a boyfriend?” Nathaniel asked earlier, right after he was done with me in the backseat of his car. He’s seventeen, a senior, a bad boy, a smoker, a drinker, a fornicator. He is everything I am not, yet wish to be. And he’s recruiting me over to the dark side, slowly but surely.
“Positive,” I told him, my tone extra dry. And bored. Always bored. Boys get their rocks off and girls get a boy sweating and grunting while thrusting inside their body. This one doesn’t care about my pleasure, just like the Burper. “Got a cigarette?” I asked him when I noticed he was staring at my tits.
He eagerly handed it over, probably hopeful I’d give him a blowie or a hand job, but forget that. He got what he wanted. He wasn’t getting it twice.
“What friends?” Daddy asks, his vicious tone bringing me back to the present. “You don’t have any friends.”
I’m offended, more because he’s right than by what he actually said. I don’t have any friends beyond one, and Alyssa and I don’t hang out that much. It’s hard for me to get close to anyone. I don’t trust easily.
“You don’t know them—” I say, but he cuts me off with a look.
“Them. You’re not referring to girls. More like boys. Or just one boy.” He spits the last word out. “Don’t bother lying. I know what you do when you leave our home.”
Our home? I almost laugh in his face. Where we live isn’t a home. It’s a shit-hole. A dirty, rundown trailer. We are the epitome of trash. I don’t let anyone know where I live for fear they’d never stop teasing me about it.
“You don’t know crap,” I mutter, turning to walk to the back of the trailer, where my bed is. But the trailer is small and my dad is somehow extra fast, because next thing I know, he’s stopping me from going anywhere, one hand on my arm, fingers pressing into my skin so hard I’m afraid I might bruise. I try to jerk away from his hold, but his fingers tighten.
Trapping me.
“I know more than you think,” he rasps, his gaze narrowed, eyes full of disgust. “You look like a slut. That skirt barely covers your butt.”
A gasp escapes me and my chest tightens. He’s never called me anything so awful before. “Let go of me.” I struggle to get away from him, but he only squeezes tighter.
“You’ve been with a boy. You smell like it.” He leans in closer and sniffs, his lips curling. “You smell like sex.”
I want to die of embarrassment. I want to punch him in the stomach, knee hi
m in the balls, do something to cause him even a fraction of the pain he just inflicted on me with his horrific words. I can’t even bother denying what he said, because he’s right. I probably do smell like sex. Sex and cigarettes and Nathaniel’s overpowering Axe cologne.
“You’re just like her,” Daddy says, giving me a little shake. My gaze meets his and I see all the anger and pain swirling there. This is a chronic problem. He’s always thinking of her, never remembering it’s me. “I couldn’t keep her satisfied. I can’t keep you happy either.”
His fingers go loose and I take my opportunity, pulling out of his grip. The tiny back bedroom is only a few steps away, but the distance feels like miles. I run toward the room, shutting the door as hard as I can right in my father’s face.
“Open the door!” He rattles the handle just as I turn the cheap lock to keep him out. He could bust right in if he wanted to, but he weakly shakes the handle for maybe another thirty seconds before he gives up and stomps away.
I push away from the door and go to my bed, collapsing on top of it with a muted cry. The room is small, and drafty, and I swear the walls are going to collapse on top of me when a slight wind picks up.
But it’s all mine. My father gave it to me instead of taking it for himself when we first moved into the tiny fifth-wheel a couple years ago. He said I was a young woman who needed privacy and my own space, and he was right. I cried and cried when we got kicked out of our old house, when I had to leave my bedroom behind. I was a wailing, hysterical mess, and I swear he gave me the only bedroom truly to shut me up.
I’ve learned since then I’ll do whatever it takes to get what I want.
“So tell me about your family.” The wine is making me loose, both my body and my tongue. I picked at the antipasto plate, so my stomach is mostly full of wine as we wait for our dinner, which is taking for-freaking-ever.
Rhett keeps trying to get me to talk, but I dodge all of his questions, doing my best to turn them back on him. Or I give him vague answers without ever really saying a thing.
He asked if I had any siblings and I wanted to say so badly, I’m sitting across from one right now, but I knew that wouldn’t go over well, so I told him I had none.
Now it’s his turn to answer my questions.
“What do you want to know about my family?” He raises a brow and it’s so sexy, when raised eyebrows shouldn’t be that sexy. I don’t even know what’s the matter with me. I’m not acting right.
I blame the wine.
“Everything.” I prop my elbow on the table and rest my chin on my curled fingers, shooting him an adoring look. It’s not really a lie either, because right now, in the flickering candlelight, his lips stained by the fancy wine he ordered, he’s adorable. “Do you look like your dad?”
“Not really. My older brother looks like my dad.” He shakes his head, then pushes his hair away from his forehead with an impatient shove of his fingers. “I look more like my mother.”
“Oh.” I didn’t want to bring up a sore subject, but here I am, blundering right into the topic of his dead mother.
“She died when I was five.” He frowns. “Or did I already tell you that?”
“No.” I shake my head. “You didn’t. You just mention that she passed, but I didn’t know you were only five.” I pause, take a sip of my wine. “How awful.”
“Yeah.” He smiles, but it’s weak. “I guess we have the dead parent thing in common.”
I return the smile, my body tingling with triumph. That had been the plan all along. Finding common ground with Rhett about our dead parents. But I should probably change the subject. “Are you close with your brother?”
“Yeah, we’re pretty close.” His smile grows. “And there’s my little sister. I’m really close to Addie.”
It’s like my brain short circuits at hearing her name. I always forget about the little sister. That’s because I don’t want to remember her. The daughter my mother stuck around for. The one who doesn’t even belong to my mother, yet she raised her anyway.
“It must’ve been so hard.” I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Your sister losing her mother at such a young age.”
He tilts his head, contemplating me. “How did you know about that?”
My stomach drops. Oh God. Did I mess up and reveal too much? “I, um. I just assumed, I guess. Or does your sister belong to your stepmother? Is she your half-sister?”
My heart is racing and I pray I didn’t say the wrong thing. I need to keep my mouth shut and let him feed me the information.
“My mom died after giving birth to my sister,” Rhett says quietly, his gaze going turbulent. “Let’s change the subject. I don’t want to get depressed over dinner. Let’s talk about you.”
Yeah. That’s a depressing subject. “You already know everything there is to know about me. There’s not much else to tell.”
“Uh huh.” His eyes are sparkling as he studies me. “More like you want to keep up the mysterious air.”
“You think I’m mysterious?” I’m truly shocked.
He nods, reaching across the table to grab my hand. “You either dodge my questions completely or you give me short answers. You don’t want to tell me anything.”
He’s so right. “That’s not true,” I lie.
“Whatever. It’s cool.” He squeezes my hand, and I swear he’s amused by me. “I like mysterious girls.”
My heart skips a beat at his words, at the way he’s looking at me. His thumb is sliding gently over the top of my hand, and I’m caught up in the spell Rhett is casting over me. He makes me want to forget. About my fucked up life. About my plans for revenge. None of it matters if I can just sit here for the rest of the night and stare into his beautiful brown eyes.
“Have you always been so independent?” he asks when I still haven’t said anything to him.
“I guess.” I shrug, uncomfortable with how closely he’s watching me. I’m not used to someone paying attention to me like Rhett does. “I’ve always had to take care of myself.”
“No parents? You just magically appeared?” He’s teasing me, but it rubs me the wrong way.
“My father is dead,” I say bluntly. “And my mother left when I was very young.” I clear my throat, so much emotion forming there it’s difficult to speak. “Like, I-don’t-even-remember-her young. I was practically a baby.” I pause, checking on Rhett’s reaction and he’s enthralled. I continue. “My parents got into a terrible fight.”
“Did he hurt her? Did he ever hurt you?” Rhett breathes. His nostrils flare and his eyes blaze with anger. He’s squeezing my hand so tightly I have to carefully pull away from his grip before he accidently hurts me.
“No, no. Nothing physical.” I think of the few moments when my father did actually hit me, but it never amounted to anything. He was too scared, too weak. “My parents hurt each other with words. Or at least, my mother hurt my father with words. He claims he never did anything wrong.”
He had to have, though. No one’s perfect. And while it still hurts that he’s gone, and his pain has become my pain, I know he was in the wrong sometimes too.
But my mother was worse. She never came back.
“Emotional abuse can be more painful than physical,” Rhett says, and I’m tempted to scream at him, What do you know about abuse? But I don’t.
“Words hurt.” I offer up a grimace of a smile. “And I guess the words my parents tossed at each other that one particular night were spectacularly painful. My mother packed up a few things and left.” Another pause, to let my words really sink in. “She never came back.”
“Never?” Rhett sounds so doubtful.
I slowly shake my head. “I haven’t seen her in twenty years.”
“She’s never tried to find you?”
“No.” My voice is sharp and I clear my throat again. “Never.”
“Have you tried to look her up? Seems like anyone can be found through a Google search these days.”
“Oh, I’ve tried, b
ut I can’t find her. There’s no trace of her.” His question, the skeptical expression on his face, he’s making me feel stupid. Who wouldn’t try to find her long-lost mother via Google? “I believe she changed her name.”
“What’s her name?”
Nerves make my stomach flutter and twitch, the consumed wine suddenly threatening to rise. Has she ever admitted her true name to her current husband? Her stepson? Her new family? “Why does it matter what her name was? That’s not her name now.”
“Maybe I could help you.” He leans forward, full of eagerness. “I could do some extensive searches, maybe even hire a private detective—”
I hold up my hand to stop him from saying anything else. “I don’t want to find her.”
Rhett frowns. “But you just said you tried to find her.”
“Years ago, in my early teens, I was desperate to find her. She became almost…mythical to me, and I thought she could, I don’t know, rescue me. Like I’m living in some sort of wretched fairytale and I need my long-lost mama to save my life.” I’m trying to make a joke, but Rhett’s not even cracking a smile. “But after all the searching and coming up with nothing, I realized she doesn’t want to be found. Not by me, not by anyone.”
“Do you think she scrubbed her name?”
Now I’m frowning. “What do you mean?”
“You can scrub your identity from the Internet. Pay someone to get rid of any and all references about you until…poof.” Rhett snaps his fingers. “You don’t exist anymore.”
Oh. Right. I know about this, considered doing it myself, not that I had much of an Internet footprint. With no phone and no real social media trail, Jennifer Fanelli didn’t have much of an existence. I didn’t participate in any activities at school, I had no real friends…yeah. I’m like a ghost.
Her Defiant Heart - Monica Murphy Page 6
