Page 103 of Party Girl: How a Naughty Omega Finds Love
“Never really had the chance to ask her, but I know it’s because of my dad.”
I glance at him, waiting for him to fill in the blanks. It would be rude to continue prying if he doesn’t want to share that much of his life.
“He would hit her.”
Sucking in a sharp breath, I put my hand over my chest. “You saw him do it?”
He nods, and my heart aches for the man. No child should ever have to see that.
“I’m so sorry.”
“You didn’t do anything.” He lifts a shoulder like it’s not a big deal.
“She left you with him? Did he hurt you?” I can’t help the flare of anger in my voice. Shitty parents can get fucked.
“He didn’t hit me.”
But his father did hurt him in other ways. Emotional and verbal abuse isn’t any better. Sometimes people like to brush that sort of hurt under the rug—so his father was a little mean— but those people either haven’t dealt with their own trauma, or will never understand what it’s like to have the person who is supposed to love you unconditionally intentionally wound you.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I check the water on the potatoes. Still not boiling.
“Do you?”
I think he meant to deter me, but it only seems fair to give him a little of my history, since what he shared was so personal. He didn’t ask me for the information. I’m a little more open with the thought of sharing.
“My mom used to hit me.”
His face remains blank, but his eyes squint a little, a hint of anger burning in their depths. I kind of like that he’s mad on my behalf. He doesn’t say anything.
“A lot, actually.” I laugh and face the stove, even though I’m not doing anything. I can’t look at him while I tell him this. “When her heat would come, she would lock me in the cellar.”
“The whole time?” he practically growls the question.
I chance a glance at him. “Twice a year for five whole days. There was food and water.”
He scoffs. “That doesn’t make that shit okay, Whitney.”
“I know.” I swallow and look away. “I know that now. For a long time I thought I was bad and deserved it.”
“You didn’t.”
“Neither did you.” I blink and take a deep breath. “Homemade macaroni or boxed?”
“Boxed is disgusting.”
“Hear, hear.” I laugh and we fall back into a lighter conversation of would you rather. Neither of us wanting to go back into the heavier details of why we’re so fucked up. I do understand him a little better now, and it’s nice to know I’m not the only one in the house with a crappy family.
The truce between us won’t change my mind. I’m still leaving so the pack can live a life they deserve.
* * *
Midnight arrives and I sit in the bed, glancing at the men. Hayden and Avi are asleep. I get up and use the restroom, waiting to see if anyone stirs. The door to the bedroom Trev and Asher are sharing is firmly shut. I wait a full five minutes before grabbing the backpack from the bedroom. I packed earlier while the guys were busy watching a basketball game. I only had a short amount of time to get it ready without them suspecting anything. I packed one change of clothes and made sure the key Granny gave me was securely nestled at the bottom. Grabbing Hayden’s phone, I slip out of the bedroom and move toward the front door. The floors don’t creak—I checked earlier. I only have to get out of the front door and hop the fence in the backyard.
The lock makes a soft snick when I undo it and I pause, heart hammering. Blood rushes through my ears as I wait for someone to rush out of the bedroom and catch me. No one comes. I release a soft sigh and ease the door open, carefully closing it and making sure the knob lock is engaged. Melanie’s house is dark, but she left on the light in the small courtyard. Her new pergola is constructed, but the rocking chair is still boxed up. I eye her windows, making sure no one is watching, before moving to the fence. It’s a short chain link and I hop it easily enough; years of running around with Lindsey taught me a few things.
I walk down the alley, going a few blocks before unlocking Hayden’s phone. The facial recognition gives me a hard time, but I watched him type in the passcode after dinner.
2222.
