Page 13 of Sugar Free (Sugar Bowl 3)

As if she's trying to gauge my reaction to her words?

And then it hits me...she knows about JT being my father's son. I'm not sure how she knows, because fuck, I thought only my dad, JT's mom, and I were in on the dirty secret. But seems like everyone knows, and I have to wonder if Colin Townsend does too.

It's what I hate most about my family. The deceit and the lies and the cover-ups. Ironic that I'm perpetrating a cover-up myself, but that's different.

Then again, it's always different when it involves the one you love, right?

Because I don't have the time, inclination or mental fortitude to even begin to get into this with my mother, I play dumb. "I'm sure he's just upset over the shock of this. It's been hard on all of us."

She shakes her head almost violently to deny my denial of the truth she wants, and that's when her attention is caught by Sela standing in the living room. My mother goes stock-still and I turn to see Sela looking back at her like a deer caught in the headlights. She swallows hard and says, "Hello, Mrs. North. It's good to see you again, although I'm sorry it's under these circumstances."

My mother definitely has rude down to a science, particularly when she believes someone is beneath her. I tense up knowing she's not going to be nice to Sela.

And she's not, leveling her venom in a masterful way. She turns her back on Sela without even acknowledging her greeting. It speaks volumes that Sela's wearing a V-neck T-shirt that doesn't cover the vivid bruises at the bottom of her neck and my mother didn't even notice. Piercing me with a commanding look, my mother says to me with a shooing motion with her hand, "You need to have her leave, Beck, so we can talk privately."

I can't help it. It's inappropriate as hell, but I let out a bark of a laugh at the ludicrousness of this woman who birthed me. And then I can't stop laughing.

I laugh so hard tears form in my eyes and I almost double over, my stomach hurts so much from the hilarity.

My mother doesn't find it so funny and hisses at me, "Honestly, Beckett. You are being disrespectful."

Straightening up, I swipe at the wetness from my eyes, wind down the full-belly laughs to a chuckle before turning it into a smirk. "Disrespectful, Mother? You're seriously saying that when you just disrespected Sela in her own home?"

"We need to talk privately--"

"Or how about when you disrespected your own daughter by trying to keep her rape silent?" I growl at my mom, all humor over the situation having fled and replaced with scorching anger. Years of anger I'd let simmer.

My mother blinks in surprise, as I've never gone head-to-head with her before, not because I didn't want to, but because I was being respectful of her role as my mother. It appears my own respect has seemed to have flown away as well.

"Beck," Sela says quietly from the living room, but I hold a hand out, indicating for her to stay out of it. She closes her mouth, but out of my peripheral vision, I see her turn and walk down the hallway to our bedroom, giving my mother the privacy she requested.

But I don't take my eyes off Mother. They are locked and I'm loaded, the past twenty-four hours having created such a stressful burden on my shoulders it didn't take much for me to snap.

Just a quick little visit from Mommy Dearest.

"Or how about the disrespect you've shown to your granddaughter...your own flesh and blood?" I ask my mom quietly but with no less menace in my attitude. "Wanting her to be aborted."

My mother pales slightly but sticks her chin out aggressively. "I stand by that advice; Caroline didn't need--"

"You don't get to talk about Caroline to me," I say, cutting her off, and walk into her space. Leaning my head down, I come almost nose to nose with my mother, anger vibrating within me for all of the terrible ways my mother failed as a mother. "You don't get to talk about Ally. You don't get to talk about your worries about Dad, or the fact your house was once featured in Architectural Digest. You don't get to talk about anything with me, Mother. I'm done with you."

She gasps, bringing her hand to flutter at the gold necklace that sits at the base of her throat. "Beck...you don't say things like that to your mother."

I know I shouldn't say it, but she opened the door too wide for me not to. Besides, she clearly doesn't get what I'm saying or that she's been a miserable failure.

So I say it. "You're not my mother. Now, if you'll please leave."

She stares at me a moment, and I might have considered her potentially part human if she'd have at least the moral grace to look as if I hurt her feelings. Instead, her eyes go cold and she squares her shoulders. "I'll have a talk with your father about this."

I turn from her and open the door. "You go right ahead and do that, Helen."

I have to literally bite down on my tongue not to throw JT in her face. I want to say, "You go right ahead, Mother, and talk to Dad about all of this. Ask him about JT too. You want to know why he's so upset, ask him about JT and what he really means to him."

But I don't.

The minute I said I was done with her, I meant it.

I'm done.

My heart aches for Beck.

For many things and in many ways.

But hearing him tell his mother he was done brings about a sadness that feels like a heavy, suffocating blanket upon me. I can't imagine, because my mother was wonderful and there's not a day that goes by I don't think of her and wish I had her back. To think that Beck's maternal experiences were so horrific over his lifetime, that it would be a relief to cut that poison from his life, is almost too unbearable to even consider.

I leave the sanctity of the bedroom behind once I hear the door shut behind his mother and find Beck in the kitchen. The oven door is open and he's checking the chicken.

"I think it's done," he says, sensing my presence behind him.

"Let me see," I say as I walk up, put a gentle hand on his back, and peer in the door beside him.

It looks about done, but I won't know for sure until we cut those puppies open and see if they're cooked through. Beck grabs two pot holders and nudges me aside with his hip, pulling out the pan of baked chicken. It smells delicious and I'm starved, even though the events of the last few minutes have left a sour taste in the back of my mouth.

I pull a fork and knife from the cutlery drawer and cut into one of the breasts. As I pull it apart to look at it, Beck says, "So...back to our original discussion...what else did you and Caroline talk about at lunch today other than going to the police, which I'm assuming is a subject that's been thoroughly discussed and won't be discussed again?"

My jaw drops slightly and I turn to look at him. "Don't you want to talk about what just happened with your mother?"

Beck tilts his head to the side and gives me a sympathe

tic smile. "Poor Sela," he says with gentle mockery that's not meant to hurt but to let me know he finds me silly in my concern. "Wanting to romanticize a nonexistent mother-son relationship."

I huff out a curse and swat him on the chest. "I'm being serious."

"So am I, babe," he says before leaning in for a quick kiss. His eyes are somber but his tone is oddly light. "You saw me do something I should have done a long time ago. I cut the poison out, and frankly, I feel better for it."

My skeptical look rings through loud and clear, but I give him some concession. "If you're sure, then fine. But if you want to talk about it, lay it on me. I've got loads of advice and sweet sentiments to get you through."

"You are a silly girl," he says, and turns to the cupboard to grab two plates. "But seriously...what did you and Caroline talk about?"

"God, you're like a dog with a bone," I grumble as I take a plate from him and put a chicken breast on it. I set that down on the counter and take the other. "But if you must know, we skirted around the edges of our respective rapes. I think we'll probably discuss details in the future with each other."

"Go on," he says as I hand him another plate with the second chicken breast. He turns and puts a few pieces of tomato and mozzarella, which still need to be finished off with basil and balsamic, onto both plates.

"What do you mean, go on?" I ask evasively, as I go to the fridge and grab the fresh basil. Like a coordinated team, Beck grabs the balsamic sitting beside the stove top.

"I mean, tell me what was said about me," he says in exasperation. "And don't try to pretend I wasn't discussed."

I shrug and begin shredding basil by hand over the tomato and mozzarella while Beck drizzles balsamic. "She wanted to know how you were holding up. I told her you were fine."

"You lied to her."

"Because I know you're not," I affirm. "But she doesn't need to know that."

Beck nods but remains silent. We grab the plates, forks and knives, and head into the dining room, Beck pausing to grab two bottles of water from the fridge. We sit and start on our meals. I'm beyond famished and know the way I'll shovel the food in will not be pretty.

As he cuts into his chicken, Beck says, "There's an awful lot of lying going on."

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