Page 4 of Cold as Stone
People look at me and see what they expect to see. A girl with too much curve and not enough shame. The kind who’ll follow in her mother’s footsteps because how could I not?
They don’t see the straight A’s. Or how hard I work to disappear. Or how I never let a boy kiss me—not once—because I don’t want to give them one more thing to talk about.
They don’t see me. Just her.
Lee gestures to the chair across from him, and I sink into it gratefully. My legs feel like jelly, and I’m not sure how much longer they would have held me up.
“Let me see your feet,” he says, slapping a hand on his thigh.
“My feet are fine?—”
“Kya.” The way he says my name brooks no argument. “Let me see.”
Before I can protest further, he sighs, sliding off the couch to sit in front of me. I open my mouth to argue but stop when his warm hands wrap around my ankles to place them carefully onto his lap. I wince as he examines the cuts and scrapes, his callused fingers surprisingly tender as they probe the worst of the damage.
“Jesus,” he mutters, looking up at one of the other men. “Duck, can you get the first-aid kit?”
“Sure, where is it?” Duck replies, already moving.
“Kitchen. Top cabinet above the fridge.”
Lee’s touch is impossibly gentle as he examines my torn feet. Duck hands him the kit and a bowl of warm water. Lee gently cleans the cuts, his thumb stroking soothingly along the arch of my foot when I flinch. The antiseptic stings, but his murmured reassurances and the careful way he dabs at each wound make the pain bearable.
“Nearly done,” he murmurs before applying the ointment.
When he wraps the bandages around my feet, his movements are precise and sure, as if he’s done this more than a few times. Which, considering his position in a Motorcycle Club, and his service history, I guess he might well have.
“Better?” he asks when he’s finished, his hands still cradling my bandaged feet.
I can barely speak past the lump in my throat. When was the last time someone took care of me?
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He nods once, then looks up at me with those piercing green eyes. “Now. Tell me what happened.”
I open my mouth, but the words stick in my throat. How do I tell Lee Armstrong—Emma’s brother, the man I used to have such an embarrassing crush on—that my own mother’s boyfriend tried to beat me?
“It’s okay,” he says, and his voice is gentler now. “You’re safe here.”
I stare at my hands, twisted together in my lap. “My mom was passed out,” I whisper. “Again.”
“And?”
“And her new boyfriend came over. Rick.” The name tastes bitter in my mouth. “He’s been staying with us for a few weeks now, and he… he looks at me sometimes. Says things.”
Lee goes very still. “What kind of things?”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Just… comments. About how I’m useless. A drain on them. Tonight he…” I swallow hard, forcing the words out. “He cornered me in the kitchen. He was drunk and—” I cut myself off, shaking my head violently.
One of the other men curses under his breath. Someone else mutters something I can’t quite catch, but it sounds angry.
Lee’s jaw is tight when I finally look up at him. “He hurt you.”
Just the one slap, but it was enough.
“I got away,” I say, avoiding his question. “I kneed him and ran. I didn’t know where else to go. Emma’s gone, and I don’t have any other friends, and I just… I remembered this place.”
Lee reaches out to catch my chin with his hand, turning my head to the left. I close my eyes, knowing he’ll see the handprint and slight bruise marked there.
