Page 18 of Riot's Thorn
His brow quirks. “Is it?”
I don’t want to give it more thought, but the question flitters through my mind anyway. I think back to our interactions, trying to remember anything off. I guess if we’re going to nitpick, when I was thirteen, I noticed he started to look at me differently. It creeped me out so badly, I told Dad, but he said Iwas growing into a woman and could expect to gain the notice of men. I thought it was a gross response, but technically, he was right. My boobs came in that year, and I got way too much attention from men of all ages.
But that’s not enough to convict him; being a pervy old man doesn’t make him a trafficker. My mind digs deeper and gets stuck on another memory, one I’ve tried to make sense of more than a few times.
“Each time I saw Bart, he told the same joke, but I never understood it. Dad and Grandpa would laugh, but I could tell it was forced. Actually, it was more than that. It clearly made them uncomfortable. It was around the same time Dad stopped making me attend any family dinner Bart came to,” I say, more to myself than him.
“What was the joke?”
I glance over at him and find his jaw set in a firm line, his brows pinched together. He looks angry as he rocks from side to side, waiting for my answer. I debate telling him because he’s practically vibrating with rage. Will he take it out on me?
Something tells me no.
“He’d say, ‘Maybe Parker should join us for one of our poker nights. She’d make a great addition.’ It made no sense. Whenever I asked about it, Dad just blew me off, saying it’s funny to think about his little girl with a whiskey in one hand and a cigar in the other.”
I never thought too much about it because it seemed plausible. But what does that have to do with trafficking?
CHAPTER SIX
RIOT
Iallow Parker’s revelation to sink in a little before continuing.
Parker.I finally have her name.
It suits her. I wish I were alone so I could say it out loud a couple of times and feel the way it rolls off my tongue, but there are more pressing matters. Like getting her to realize what a piece of shit her dad was.
“He was joking with your dad and grandpa about offering you up to one of his friends or maybe himself. Sounds like a real good guy.” I regret the snark immediately when she blanches.
“I must’ve been fourteen the first time I remember him telling that joke.” She’s speaking out loud, but her far-off stare and soft voice tell me it’s not for my benefit.
“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t have been the youngest person he sold for these parties,” I mutter.
She jumps to her feet and runs a hand through her hair—hair I know is softer than silk because I ran my own fingers through it last night while she was sleeping. “Wait. Does that mean?” She pales even more and wobbles on her feet. I hurry to her side and push her back to the sofa.
“For fuck’s sake, sit your ass down before you pass out.”
She doesn’t hear me, though. She’s just connected all the dots between Bart and the patriarchy of her family. “You’re lying.”
I shrug. “It makes no difference to me if you believe me or not. Doesn’t change the facts.”
“My grandpa and dad would never. They’re not like that.”
“The cops are going through your dad’s house right now, but Bart will find a way to stop them from finding anything linking them.” I don’t feel the need to remind her of what I did. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if all the guards Killer or I didn’t get to turn up dead just to make sure this doesn’t blow back on him. He’ll want to eliminate all threats.”
“Threats? You mean me too?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you even telling me this? Are you trying to make me want to stay here with you? Because fuck that and fuck you too!” The slap comes out of nowhere. Her hand cracks over my cheek, the force of it turning my face to the side. I lick the corner of my mouth, tasting blood.
I close my eyes, transported back to when I was ten years old. The smell of cigarette smoke and body odor fills my nostrils, making my stomach sour. When I open my eyes, it’s not Parker in front of me—it’s Mom. Dad just emptied Mom’s bank account and left again. I don’t know why she keeps letting him back in.
“It’s okay, Mom. We’ll be okay without him.” I sit next to her on the couch and try to cheer her up. She’s been crying for hours, and I can’t get her to stop. I’m worried she won’t be able to get out of bed to go to work tomorrow, like the last time Dad left. She lost her job then, and I’m sure she’ll lose this one if she doesn’t show up. Our landlord told us if Mom’s late on rent one more time, we’ll be evicted for sure. Then where will we go?
The hard smack across my face shocks me. “This is your fault, Lucas. If you hadn’t asked him for so many things, he wouldn’t have left. What adult wants to play with their kid? He was tiredof listening to you gripe. And asking him for ten dollars for a field trip was stupid. You know if you told your teacher you couldn’t afford it, she would’ve paid it herself.”
Normally when she hits me, I feel bad for upsetting her, but this time, I get angry. She knows I get embarrassed when I have to tell my teacher I’m too poor to pay my way. Just once, I was hoping I didn’t have to be the charity case the other kids teased me about being. Dad had the money; I saw it in his wallet.
