Page 1 of Small-Town Secrets
1
Laurence
"Idon’t havetime to do the dishes right now.”
"What are you talking about? That was our agreement!" My cousin Gregory glared at me as if the anger in his eyes should be enough to make me do his every bidding.
Two years ago, it might have been.
Now?
There was a trickle of apprehension going down my spine, but I wasn’t going to let that force me into cowering before him. Twelve months of therapy had taught me how to resist that instinct.
"I know what our agreement was,” I said as calmly as I could, focused on my own breathing rather than the danger signals my cousin exuded. “I’ll do the dishes later. After I get my kids from school and make dinner for all of us." The way I did every night.
"Your bratty kids can wait for a few minutes." Gregory held a dish rag out to me.
"So can you," I said, surprised at my own bravery as I ignored the dish rag and walked past him. By this point I was sure that when Gregory had offered that the kids and I could stay with him until I found a place for myself, he'd expected past-me to be moving in—a meek omega who could be easily intimidated to do whatever he wanted.
"Be careful I don't throw you out," he hissed at me. "See how much your brats would enjoy living in the streets."
I stopped and looked at him. He couldn’t just throw us out. "What happened to family being there for each other?" The generous sentiment he'd offered me when my children and I had moved in with him only a couple of months ago.
"Just do the dishes."
"I will. Later." With that, I left the kitchen before he could get to me. There was a limit to what I was willing to put up with anymore—and a limit to how long I could pretend that his threats weren’t getting to me, even though I knew they were idle threats. Gregory wasn't going to throw me and the kids out. If only because his mother would be pissed with him if he did. Aunt Stephanie didn't care about me, but she cared about public opinion and that was good enough for now.
Still, life would have been a lot nicer if I could have somehow made enough money to rent a place for just my sons and me.
Wouldn't that be heaven?
After my abusive asshole of an ex, Chris and Tyler didn't need more toxic alpha role models in their lives and Gregory certainly wasn't helping.
With a sigh, I grabbed the keys to my beat up old Honda from a low table by the door. My fingers shook as they closed around the keys, but that would stop in a moment or two. I only had to push through the anxiety setting up camp in the back of my brain. My sons and I were safe. I’d made sure of that by leaving my ex. No one would ever harm us again; I wouldn’t let them.
All I needed to worry about now was getting my piece of crap car to work. Trying to start it was always a bit of a gamble, but I didn't have the funds to take it to a shop—never mind buying something better. All the money I earned at my job working at the town's flower shop went toward clothing and feeding my twins.
To my luck, the car didn't bitch too much that afternoon. Good, because I was already running late thanks to my cousin and I didn't need the other parents running their mouths at me.
No matter how hard I tried to be on time, though, when I reached the school, the kids had already been let out and all the other parents were loading their offspring into their cars.
Well, almost all the other parents.
As I walked toward Mrs. Wilhelm, my sons' teacher who was waiting at the gate with my boys, I was intercepted by another father. Wonderful. I forced a smile on my face as I saw Mr. Hall walk toward me. I was in for a lecture, wasn't I? When other parents wanted to talk to me, I usually was.
I loved my children, but they weren't the angels they liked to pretend they were.
"Mr. Hall, nice to see you," I made myself say even though all I wanted to do was grab my boys and head home.
Mr. Hall's face was drawn into a frown that didn’t relax when I greeted him. His eyes lingered on the scar on my cheek—a burn—but I pretended not to notice. My scar took up most of the right side of my face. It was difficult for people not to stare, even when they were trying to be nice, which Mr. Hall wasn’t. "We need to talk about how you're raising your sons," he said shortly.
Of course we did. "I'm sorry if they've picked on your—"
"They've put crickets in Stacey's lunchbox. Do you think that's funny?"
"No, of course not. I will talk to them."
"You say that every time and nothing changes!" Mr. Hall took another step toward me, getting all up in my face, the way alphas did when they wanted to be scary. Part of me wished I was brave enough to spit at him.
