What Doesn't Destroy Us (The Devil's Dust #1)(3)

“We were at a party when some drunk men started harassing me and a friend. My friend sprinted off, but I wasn’t as quick. The nasty men advanced on me; I was out numbered. They pushed me to the ground, smacked me around and started to …” She takes a deep breath before continuing. “Well, that’s when your father showed up; he beat them to a bloody pulp.” She starts to chuckle at the thought, which I find frightening. “He made them get on their knees and apologize to me. One even pissed himself.” She shakes her head as if to clear the thought. “I rode to his house on the back of his motorcycle and thought it was the beginning of something special; thought being the key word. I dropped out of school and my parents disowned me after they found out I was dating someone from a motorcycle club.” She sighs heavily; so much regret is evident in her voice. I almost feel sorry for her.

“We were together day and night for about five months. Then I told him I loved him and he changed. He didn’t call me or talk to me for days, so I went looking for him and found him with some club whore. I jetted out of there on the first plane I could get.” She pauses and looks out at the loading passengers. “Anyway, I found out a month later I was pregnant. I didn’t want the same path for you, so I didn’t tell him. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. He made it pretty clear he didn’t want anything to do with me. So I made my way to provide for you, to make sure you took the right path; not like me or your father.” She finishes with tears in her eyes and takes a ragged breath. I can tell she doesn’t want to tell me any of this.

“Are you with me so far?” she asks as her spine stiffens and she sits up straighter in her seat. Pity mode must be over with.

My head is a complete blur of information. I am following her but feel my nerves fraying around the edges. “Actually I could use a drink,” I say, raising my hand to catch the stewardess’ attention. All this incoming information has me feeling catastrophic.

“Dani, no! What are you, a drunk?” she asks, eyes wide, shaking her head in disappointment.

“Oh, no, we wouldn’t want someone to think that, would we?” I mock. She’s always worrying about what others think about her; my behavior giving her the worst of her labels with a child who acts like her deadbeat dad.

She turns her head the opposite direction. ”Just like your father,” she whispers, annoyed. Only in my mother’s eyes would a beer render me as a drunk; even after hearing the crap she just laid on me.

“You going to tell me what happened to your face? And why you’re suddenly telling me about my father?” I ask, resenting her by the minute for keeping all this from me. I am never allowed to ask about my father. He is just a sperm donor as far as my mother is concerned. So I’m confused why she is spilling everything I have ever wanted to know now?

Snapping her head in my direction, she loudly says, “I’m getting there,” gaining attention from everyone around us, too. Lowering her voice, she continues. “When I left your father I was a waitress at a restaurant in New York for several years, but it just wasn’t enough. So, I started dancing in clubs for money. It was sleazy but paid the bills and bought you dolls.” She turns her head away again, avoiding eye contact.

“Whoa, you were a stripper?” I ask, shocked. Now my voice is too loud and causes everyone to turn in their seats to look at us.

“Shh, Dani,” she says, stabbing me with her eyes and gesturing with her hands for me to lower my volume. “I was an entertainer,” she says completely convinced there’s a difference in the two.

“Stripper,” I mumble under my breath.

I cannot believe what I am hearing; my mother was a stripper. I knew she was a “dancer”, but I never would have thought she stripped in a million years. When I was a kid and she told me she was a dancer, I thought she did Broadway shows or something. I can’t believe she’s been keeping all this from me. All I have ever been told about my father is that he is trash and doesn’t want anything to do with us. Well, apparently, just my mom; he doesn’t even know I exist. I didn’t know he was in a motorcycle club, or that my mother would ever be into a biker.

“Stevin started showing up every night and asking for me by name,” she says, grabbing me back from my frantic thoughts. “He told me I didn’t need to be in a place like that and I should let him take care of me. I hesitated at first, of course. However, the bills got to be too much to live in New York and my parents weren’t talking to me. Then Stevin and I started to connect, so I agreed. He gave me a job and provided things for you and me and I fell in love with him. Until last night, that is.” She closes her eyes tightly to avoid looking at me again. Tension suddenly creeps in the air between us, catching me off guard. I focus on her mindfully, trying to figure out why the sudden uneasiness.

“We were in Stevin’s office working late and his cell phone started ringing. When he answered it’s like his attitude did a 180. He told me to get my things and go home immediately. I guess I wasn’t fast enough, though. Two police officers came walking into the office followed by Stevin’s two security guards. I was at my desk shutting down my computer when I heard two gun shots. I ran into the office scared they had shot Stevin and his guards.” She pauses and scratches her forehead where I notice beads of sweat forming.

“When I saw the cops dead on the floor, I ran. I heard Stevin order his guards to chase me. One caught me and I fought back, only to be slapped by him. I kicked him in the balls and ran to the elevator,” she says, frantically. Her words are flying out of her mouth so quickly I can barely keep up.