Page 4 of The Satyr's Guilt
“You mean party like you do?”
Marta shook a finger at Denim but strugglednot to grin. “Hey. My guy and me get around.”
“Yeah. Right after you take care of everyoneelse.”
“This isn’t about me. It’s about you puttin’your past to rest. I’ve made peace with mine. Can you say the same?Now call the crowd to dinner.”
Denim rose and stuck the check inside theold cookie jar. “This will help get supplies for unexpectedtenants. I insist.”
“Stubborn girl.”
“I’m learning from you.” Denim headed to thebase of the stairs, yelling out to the residents.
Marta might be right. Denim had been funonce. She’d worn pretty sundresses, flaunted a lot of skin, bustedsexy dance moves, batted lashes at handsome guys, and laughed atunfunny jokes. Where was that girl? Would she ever appear again?She missed her.
In a room connected to the kitchen, threelarge tables formed a horseshoe. Today several chairs were empty.The missing women and children had traveled into town for the MardiGras activities.
“Leslie, it’s going to get very noisy inhere,” Denim warned the new arrival and her toddler when they camedownstairs.
Marta made introductions while boisterouskids and women poured in, scooting out chairs, carrying plattersand bowls of food from the counter to the tables, and greeting oneanother.
Marta sandwiched Leslie and Jeffie betweenherself and a long-time resident who chucked the boy under his chinas her own two kids made faces at him, getting him to giggle.
Denim leaned back in a retro slatted chair,crossing her arms over her chest while she watched. She did that alot at Marta’s table. Mashed potatoes passed from hand to hand.Jeffrey banged a spoon on his highchair tray. Marta shouted aboveeveryone’s racket, and all the women jockeyed to involve Leslie ina conversation.
They were a family, something Denim hadexperienced only in flashes. Her mother died when she was quiteyoung. No known father. A variety of group homes followed, but nonemade her feel welcome.
Her military unit ate together in the mess,shared stories, and bound themselves in a common cause, a war. Buta roadside bomb stole her closest buddies. Cops were alwaystight-knit, meeting for breakfast or popping into a bar after work,but she wouldn’t call any of them family.
“Denim, wake up. Pass the chicken,” shoutedMarta.
“Sorry. Spaced it.” She snatched the platterand passed left. “Anybody want the gravy?”
A freckle-faced boy mumbledyeswithhis mouth full. His mother threw a gentle elbow at him.
Yep. A real family.
For a short time, she’d had a grandmother.The white-haired woman had pushed into her life and shared anunbelievable story. For a while, the two of them were family, butthe older woman died not long after dropping the major infobomb.
The wild tale about Aeternals who oncewalked among humans led Denim to the Alliance Security Agency for ajob. After she joined them, she’d built a couple relationships.Only one close. That friend was … unusual. She couldn’texactly hang with Galena whenever or visit, kick back, and watchold movies at her place.
At the agency, Denim had also made thebiggest mistake of her life, but it was behind her now.Or wasit?Marta didn’t think so.
“There’s the doorbell.” Denim was unsureanyone else heard it. “I bet Lois left her key here. She wasmeeting a friend for lunch.”
It rang again. Leslie dropped her fork, herhand shaking. A normal response to stress. The fight-or-flightsyndrome.
Gotta love the adrenal medulla.
“Don’t worry, everybody, I got this.” Denimpushed back her chair and left to get the door.
That’s when the Titanic hit the iceberg. Aman fixed his ugly puss to the peephole. He was pissed enough to bea psychotic abusive A-hole. And each of the women in the diningroom had one. Denim pressed the intercom button. “Yes?”
“You got my wife in there.” He pounded onthe thick wood, his lips in a snarl and his brows drawn tight.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Denim knew the drill. She yelled into thekitchen, “Safe room. Now.” Chairs scraped across the floor, kidsand women cried, feet scurried, and Marta tossed around orders likea master sergeant.
