Page 128 of Their Cruel Play
The low glow of the TV set and the hum of voices comes from the living room. As I creep through, a lamp switches on. I freeze.
“You might as well come have a seat for a moment, Luke.” Harper’s mother. Fuck.
Time to face the music. I blow out a breath and walk into the lighted area, taking a seat in the armchair. Parents don’t usually make me nervous, but she’s not like most parents I know. This time I’m definitely caught.
Wincing from the ache in my side, I relax into the chair and lean my elbows on my knees.
“You got hurt?” Jennifer Davidson is a grown-up version of Harper with a few differences aside from her age. Her nose is a little wider, and she has a scar beside her lip. She has on long pajama pants and a cotton t-shirt.
Did she know she would catch one of us sneaking in tonight? Or did she know it would be me?
“Yes, ma’am.” I clasp my hands between my knees.
She gives me this look that instantly makes my back straighten. “Did you have it looked at?”
“No, ma’am. It’s fine.”
“Yeah, fuck that.” Jennifer stands and gestures toward the kitchen. “The lighting is better in here.”
She flips a few light switches as I slowly follow her into the kitchen. I don’t know what the hell is going on. But I just basically walked into her house uninvited so she’s leading this interrogation.
An emergency medical kit sits on the island. Maybe she did figure I’d be the one creeping in. Opening it, she pulls out a couple of latex gloves. “Show me.”
Fuck it. She’s not kicking me out. Yet.
I pull my t-shirt up to show her my bruised side. She’s shorter than me but most people are. She comes in close, and I get a hint of coconut before pain fires through me as she pokes at the bruises.
“Feels like your ribs are intact. Does it hurt to breathe?”
“No.” My teeth clench at the pain.
“Any blood in your urine?”
“No.”
Her dark eyes look at me sternly. “Is that all? Or did you get another injury?”
“I hit my head,” I admit. I’m not sure why, but her authority carries weight. At least more than my father’s and the other adults in my life.
Maybe she just thinks I got into a fight.
She grabs a chair and gestures for me to sit down. I feel compelled to follow her directions. When I sit in front of her, her fingers comb through my hair, looking for wounds.
“I remember you.” Her words are soft.
I say nothing, because what can I say? I don’t know what she remembers.
“The first time you were two. A toddler fracture and nursemaid’s elbow.” Her fingers find the sore spot, and I hiss in a breath. “The second time you were five. Bruises on your back and hips. You’d fallen down some stairs. Again.”
My lips press together. I don’t remember those times, but I remember the times after that.
Her fingers gently check the wound. “When you were eight, he got more inventive. Boys roughhousing was the new excuse.”
She touches the scar that ER visit left behind. “I tried to reason with the attending doctor, but he laughed me off. That’s the last time I was allowed to see you.”
She steps back and looks me over for more injuries. “Anywhere else?”
I shake my head. My breathing is a little shallow. As a kid, I never spoke out. I knew better. My dad had everyone in his pocket.
