Cracked Kingdom (The Royals #5)(46)

“Of what they’d say. What if I was a terrible co-worker and they hated me? I think I’ve reached my limit of how much I can handle being told I’m awful.”

“You were never awful. You worked other people’s shifts when you could. I don’t know how much you actually worked there. You told me once that they didn’t offer you as many hours as you would’ve liked.”

She falls silent, thinking about what I told her.

“You seem to know a lot about me. What else do you know?” she asks quietly, burrowing into my jacket as if the leather can soften the blows that she thinks are about to come at her.

“Not enough,” I reply, “But I’ll tell you anything you want to know.” I hesitate then, not for my own self-preservation, but because I don’t want to inflict more damage on her than she’s already suffered. I railed into her earlier about relying on other people’s stories, and now I’m offering to do the same thing and I feel a bit hypocritical. But it’s clear she’s desperate for answers, and I’ve never been able to deny this girl anything. I do, however, offer her another out. “Your doctor said we were supposed to let you remember on your own. It hasn’t been long, Hart. You sure you don’t want to wait it out?”

She takes a deep breath. Under my arm, her shoulders rise and fall with the inhale and exhale. “Earlier today, after seeing you at the ice cream shop, my plan was to move forward. I was going to forget about the past and forge new memories.”

“But something happened to change that?” I guess.

She sighs. “Maybe.”

“You can tell me anything. I’m not going to judge you.” My past is an ugly one and I’m afraid to tell her about it, but I’ve come to the conclusion that if I’m not completely honest with her, she’s not going to ever to trust me. She told me the night outside the French Twist that she needed someone to be straight with her. That has to be me, which means I have to confess all the shit things I’ve done in the past. But that can wait, because if I don’t get the hotdog inside of her before the talk, I bet she’s going to lose her appetite. I nudge her ass with my knee. “Up. Our food is getting cold and the Coke is getting warm.”

She jogs up the stairs without argument. I toss the bag on the floor, grab two glasses, and throw some ice in them. I eye the vodka bottle and decide that Hart may need a stiff drink.

She toes off her shoes and removes my jacket, laying it carefully on the floor. She scoots over to the middle of the room and starts spreading out our grocery snacks. Once she’s done, she inspects her prepaid cell phone. It’s nothing fancy, but at least I can contact her now.

“Hey, toss that over here,” I ask.

She does without hesitation. I punch my number in and then put it on her fave list. “There. Now any time you want a hotdog, you can text me.” I hand the phone over and push my bag behind her back so she has something to lean against. “But don’t get too used to this fancy treatment,” I tease, trying to lighten the mood. Her face is stiff with tension. “I don’t buy gas station hotdogs for just any girl.”

“I would hope not. It’s pretty much the same as asking them to be your girlfriend.”

“Nah, this is marriage stuff.” I bite off half the dog.

“How do you figure?”

“Girlfriend stuff is the planned-out shit because you’re trying to impress someone. Marriage stuff is the laidback things you really enjoy doing and you’re comfortable enough with the person that you don’t have to impress them.”

She thinks about this for a moment while she chews. “Did we do the planned-out shit before I lost my memory?”

“You remember dating?”

She gives me a half smile. “No. It’s more wishful thinking. I don’t know what happened between you and me.” She ducks her head. “In fact, I worried when I first came in that I was a teen hoe, taking money in exchange for sex.”

I choke on my food. I choke so hard, Hartley jumps up and pounds me on the back. My eyes water and I gesture for the soda, which she rushes to retrieve. I down half the bottle before my throat clears and I can finally say, “You thought you were a prostitute?”

“I think the preferred term is sex worker,” she replies primly. Her hands are folded on her lap and her jean-clad legs are pretzeled into a lotus pose. With her long black hair tucked behind tiny shell ears, it’s hard to imagine her as a “sex worker” as she puts it.

“Well, you weren’t.” My right palm has the calluses to prove it.

“How would you know?” She scowls adorably.

“When we reached puberty, Uncle Steve took each one of us boys to a whorehouse in Reno so we could lose our V-card to a professional,” I say flatly.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” I don’t know why I told her that. Maybe because it’s the least offensive part of my past and I’m trying to dribble out the bad parts in small portions so she doesn’t run screaming from the apartment. “You really don’t remember shit, do you?”

In the back of my mind, I had a kernel of doubt about her amnesia, but it’s real and it’s tormenting her. I want to scoop her into my lap and tell her it’s all going to be okay. If there was a way to shield her, I’d want to do that. Which is why I can’t be drinking anymore. I set the half-empty glass of booze away from me. I need to be here, mentally and physically for her.