Trouble at Brayshaw High (Brayshaw, #2)(37)

I spin back around.

He faces dead forward, his eyes locked on the judge.

I can’t see him fully, but the man can, and his fear shows it. He pauses a moment to lick his lips and discreetly slides his eyes to the guard. “Mr. Brayshaw, you were arrested and charged on one account of rape and grand theft auto and attempting to traffic cocaine, where you were found guilty, and sentenced to fifteen years. Served eleven. Mr. Brayshaw, step forward please.”

He does.

“Mr. Brayshaw, I have here, three letters of support from your local community. It seems you’ve made some positive changes, organized some outreach programs from your position.”

He pulls his lips between his teeth, and my stomach muscles tighten.

Why’s he fucking anxious?

The same second I think it’s gone.

His feet seem to widen despite the shackles holding them close, his shoulders expand, his posture straight. “I have.” His chin lifts.

“I’ve opened what used to be my groundmen’s homes to the youth, housing troubled teenagers or those who need to escape their living situations. All victims of some form of abuse. We have a boy’s and a girl’s home now, both up and running successfully for the last five years. We’ve also created a program that allows these teenagers to go to our schools and receive a higher level of education than offered were they come from. Our success rate for graduates through our program is very high and increases every year. I’ve learned a lot through the development. I’ve grown as a man and I’m proud of the work we’re doing.

“And it hasn’t just been me. My family has also begun the remedial process. In fact.” He nods his head slightly, like he’s convincing himself to continue on, and suddenly I’m not sure I want him to. “My sons are here today, one under unfortunate circumstance, the other two in support of us both.”

The people on the panel raise their eyes to the room.

“And the young woman seated between them,” the judge starts and an ache hits deep in my ribs.

I sit forward.

“She’s a resident at our all-girl’s home. We rescued her from her home just a few short months ago, where she suffered from abuse, both mentally and physically. She’s also a victim of sexual assault.”

I jerk around in my seat to look at Raven.

This can’t be fucking true. I read her file a solid ten fucking times. There is nothing in that thing that mentions sexual abuse.

“She has come with them today to show her silent support as she’s found comfort with my family and helped show them things I am unable to being locked in here. She’s brought a woman’s touch back into their lives, softened their hearts.”

The woman on the end slides her eyes back to Raven and curiosity has her scooting closer in her seat. “Is this true, do you live in this girl’s home?”

Shit.



What. The. Fuck.

My muscles work on their own and suddenly I’m standing.

The boys stand. Maddoc stands.

“Miss?” the woman tries again, but I ignore her, my eyes locked on the back of Rolland Brayshaw’s head.

He said Stockton. My home town.

“And she too.” My insides tighten when he speaks again, the familiarity in his tone now ringing in my ears and sending a sting down my spine. “Has learned from them. She understands now,” he pauses, clearing his throat. “The importance of finding people you trust.”

My airway is cut off, and fire burns up my tongue.

No fucking way...

He turns around to face me, the motherfucker boldly meeting my eyes and everything clicks. “She understands ... how family runs deeper than blood.”

“Are you fucking serious?” I think I say out loud, but I can’t be sure.

“Cap ... what is this?” Royce whispers.

Maddoc shifts like he’s ready to jump the little picket, but the officer at his side slides in his path, gripping his waistband where his gun hangs.

“Do you or do you not live in one of Mr. Brayshaw’s group homes?” The judge gets louder.

I narrow my eyes on the man who has yet to look away since the moment he spun around, not even to meet the eyes of his sons. He hasn’t even fucking blinked.

The man whose home I’m living in.

The man whose son I’m fucking, just like he used to fuck my mother at night.

The man who gave me my fucking knife.

I force my eyes to the judge. My voice is low, but it’s strong. “Yes.”

I shake off Captain when he tries to touch my arm, likely about to whisper something I don’t want to here. I shrug away. “I live in the Bray house.” Just not the all-girl’s house.

“Ms. Carver, do you wish to speak on behalf or against Mr. Brayshaw? Perhaps on your experience at the home, if you feel safe there. It could help us make a decision.”

The weight of Big Man’s stare is on me, but I can’t bring myself to look his way.

If I see demand in his eyes, I might do the opposite.

If I saw regret, I might walk away and never look back.

If I saw pain ... I might just fucking cry.

None of those are good and right now, this moment has to come from me.

I could lie, say that he’s a great man with a good heart when I don’t know this to be true.