Page 142 of Redeeming 6

“Why not?”

“Because she can’t stand the sight of me,” I told her. “I remind her too much of my father, the rapist bastard himself.”

“He didn’t rape her.”

“He raped you.”

Another flinch. “That’s different.”

“Because he put a ring on your finger when you were still young enough to play with dolls, and that gives him automatic dominion over your body?”

“Joey.” She blew out a pained breath. “I wish you could understand.”

“If you’re referring to the perverted fixation you have with that man, then you can forget about it,” I told her. “Because I will never understand.”

“I don’t want to fight with you.”

“Who’s fighting?”

“You are, Joey,” she said with a sigh. “Every time I try to reach out to you, every time I try to pay you any sort of attention, you immediately go on the attack.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t if the experience wasn’t so fucking foreign to me.”

She shook her head sadly. “There you go again.”

“Jesus Christ, I can’t do right in your eyes, can I?”

“Do you want to know something I don’t understand?”

“Not really.” I shrugged. “That list is so long we’d be here for weeks.”

“I don’t understand how a boy who despises his father as much as you despise yours can follow him right down the garden path to addiction.”

“I’m not an alcoholic.”

“Worse, you’re a drug addict!” she cried out hoarsely.

“No,” I bit out, shaking my head. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” she cried, reaching for my hand. “You have a problem, baby.” Exhaling a shuddering breath, she added, “Yes, I know you’re back to your old tricks. I found the empty bags in your jeans.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You are way off the mark.”

“Bullshit, Joey,” she snapped. “I can smell the weed on your clothes.”

“So, I had a smoke. Big fucking deal.”

“And?”

“And nothing,” I snapped. “So, get off my back, Mam.”

“Then what’s this?” she demanded, reaching inside her pocket to retrieve the cracked plastic casing of a pen.

My stomach sank, but I schooled my features, too fucking ashamed of myself to admit anything, and never to this woman. “Looks like a broken pen to me.”

“Really? Because it looks like a makeshift straw to me!” She threw it down on the bed. “And I might not be the world’s smartest person, but I know damn well that you don’t need one of those for weed.”

I shrugged noncommittally. “I don’t know what to tell ya, Mam.”

---