Hell Breaks Loose (Devil's Rock #2)(33)

He sat up abruptly with a curse and reached for his ankle, ready to put an end to the torture. She stirred, coming awake slowly. “Wh-What’s happening . . . ?”

His fingers fumbled, but he eventually got the knot undone. “Go back to sleep,” he said tersely.

He strode from the room, careful to keep his back to her so she didn’t see his traitor cock. He marched into the second bedroom and yanked the bedding and pillow off the bed. Positioning the pillow in front of him, he returned to the master bedroom.

She was sitting up in the bed now, blinking those deep, endless eyes of hers at him as he flung everything down on the floor in front of the door. He didn’t even bother to hide his temper. He was pissed. At her, at himself . . . at how easily she got to him. He should tie her up tomorrow and drive into town and get his itch scratched by someone else, then he would put an end to this thing between them and put things in correct perspective. He was the captor. She was the captive. He wasn’t some sick f*ck that got his rocks off abusing women. He wasn’t like Rowdy or half the guys in prison.

“You’re sleeping on the floor?” she asked in a soft voice. Even that voice got him hard. Well, harder.

He settled himself down on his makeshift pallet. Even with the bedding, it was uncomfortable. His prison mattress was better than this.

“Yeah, I’m still in the room, so don’t think about making another run for it. It won’t go well for you.” He knew he sounded like a surly bastard, and from the way her brow furrowed she didn’t like it. Which was for the best. She didn’t need to like it. She didn’t need to know that he was cock-hard for her either.

He didn’t want her to think he was totally soft and without threat. A little bit of fear was a good thing. For both of them. She’d keep her distance that way, and God knew he needed that.

“Is something wrong with the bed?” she asked.

Yeah, you’re in it.

“Just go to sleep,” he growled.

It was a while before she lowered herself back down. He listened as she rustled around on the bed before finding a position she liked and going still. He listened, counting the minutes until her breath evened and she went to sleep. It was torment. He didn’t relish spending the next few days sleeping on the floor, but he would do what he had to do. Just like he always had. His life had been a series of unpleasant events, one after the other. Why should that change now?

Reid never expected life to be easy. He didn’t know what easy was, so it was natural that he shouldn’t look for something he didn’t know existed. Even so, he saw that other kids had it different. Better. Kids whose moms packed their lunches. Kids who got new shoes and talked about the vacations they took.

His mother worshipped at the altar of whatever drug was available. Crack, molly, heroin, meth. Whatever she could get her hands on. She was an equal opportunity addict. Whatever flavor the current man in her life provided, she gladly embraced. It enslaved her, made her weak, made her forget about her children living under the same roof with her.

She forgot about food. That fell to Reid. He’d scrounge for loose change under the car seats and couch cushions. He’d use that and whatever Grandpa gave him between visits. Not trusting to keep it in the house with Mom and her burnout friends coming and going, Reid would bury the money in the woods behind the trailer park in an old mason jar.

Once a week he’d dig up his money, take what he needed, and walk to the corner store with his brother. He bought the essentials, carefully tracking the cost. Peanut butter, a loaf of bread, some juice, a couple cans of soup. Just enough to keep them from starving.

Reid would feed his brother first, then venture into his mother’s bedroom, wade through the stale air that reeked of sweat and cigarettes. He’d force some water and peanut butter sandwich down her. Peanut butter sandwiches she never made him but he was an expert at preparing.

As shitty a mom as she was, he loved her. He held on to vague memories of being tucked in, her cool fingers brushing through his hair as she hummed him to sleep. There was that. She wasn’t all bad. Not as long as he had those memories.

The best thing she ever did was give her father unlimited access to him and Zane. They’d stay weekends with their grandfather. In the summer he would take them for weeks at a time.

Once, when Reid was eleven, his grandfather asked if he and Zane wanted to move in permanently with him. Things were pretty bad then. Mom less and less sober. The boyfriends not even that anymore. Simply men. Strangers that drifted in and out. Different but the same. They ignored Reid and Zane for the most part, which made them tolerable. They were actually easier to handle than the old man.

Whenever Tommy Allister decided to put in an appearance, Reid walked a tight rope. Tommy equated parenting to beating the shit out of Reid. He called it discipline. Teaching Reid to be a man. Punishing him because the trash was overflowing and he hadn’t seen fit to take it out. Or because the kitchen faucet had an annoying drip and somehow that was Reid’s fault.

The reason never mattered just as long as there was a reason . . . an excuse for Tommy Allister to beat the shit out of his oldest son. Mom never made a protest. She was usually passed out anyway . . . or too high to pay much attention to reality.

“I can’t petition to be your full-time guardian legally,” Grandpa explained when he offered to take Reid and Zane full-time. “I’ve made a few inquiries already. I’m old, and with my heart condition I’d likely be declined . . .” Grandpa’s voice faded as he stared out at the pond where they fished. Zane stomped along the bank, probably scaring the fish away. “Even so, your ma would let you boys move in. If’n you want to. You’d have to tell her it’s what you want, though. She’d need to hear it from you. Your dad might kick a fuss when he blows through town and decides to play at being a daddy, but he won’t follow through with anything. Never has.”