Page 36 of Daisy Chain
“You’re welcome.” Eating tacos isn’t exactly graceful, and I try not to let the food drip down my chin.
“I’ll have to arrange for my chef to cook for Natasha so she eats well. I’ve offered him to her before, but she refused. Keeps telling us she’s not a charity case.”
I take a sip of the dry, crisp wine—a faint tang of berries lingers on my tongue—and set the glass back down. “Why did you take Natasha in while pregnant? Shouldn’t you have called social services?”
He scoffs. “Fucking social services don’t give a shit about kids.”
“Evan told me a little about what happened when you were younger. How your mother wasn’t fit to take care of you, and you got put into separate foster homes. Luckily for him, he got put into a loving family. I’m guessing you didn’t?”
Kade pushes his plate away like the topic has made him lose his appetite. Mine has also vanished, and I set mine aside too.
“The people they put me with were assholes.” Picking up his glass, he drains the wine, and then he pours another.
Is this why he’s so hard and cold? Did they do this too him? Two brothers raised in different families. One is like a dangerous, stormy sky; the other, a bright, sunny day.
“Couldn’t your social worker tell you were being mistreated?”
He leans back in the seat and rests his elbow on the back of the chair, looking relaxed, yet I sense the tension vibrating from him. “To the social worker, everything appeared in order. My foster parents put on the charm. Expressed how much they adored us—”
“Us? They had more kids?”
“Linc and Ash.” He continues, “Bruises were always hidden under our clothes. They weren’t stupid to mark our faces. And we were threatened with a beating if we spoke up. Anyway, there was no point saying anything. They’d only separate us and put us into another shitty home.”
Nausea churns in my stomach at the thought of kids being abused. How can people be so cruel? “Is that why you took in Natasha? In case she ended up in another abusive home?”
“She needed a safe place for her and the baby. She’s turning eighteen soon; they would’ve kicked her out anyway. Then where would she be? Homeless with a newborn.”
I run my finger up and down the stem of the glass, needing a moment to take it all in. Evan was one of the lucky ones. Who knows what his life would have turned into if he had been placed in a home like Kade. “It’s amazing what you’re doing for her.”
“Just doing what anyone would do.”
No. Not everyone would take in a homeless, pregnant teenager they didn’t know. These men care. Through Kade, Lincoln, and Asher’s shared traumatic experience, they’re now helping ayoung woman in need. They’re making a difference in Natasha’s and Remi’s lives.
“So, what about you? What’s your story?”
I’m assuming his question is his way of deflecting from any more questions about his past. I shouldn’t pry; his childhood must be difficult to talk about.
I shrug. “There’s no story.”
He cocks an eyebrow like he doesn’t believe me. “Everyone has a story.” He rubs his chin, the stubble making a scratching sound. “Let me guess. You were raised by parents who are part of your local community. Your father’s a doctor, and your mother stayed at home to raise the kids and was president of your private school’s PTA. You’ve only dated boys who aspired to be doctors or lawyers. Now, sick of your straight-laced life, you’ve decided you want adventure. You want to try something dangerous before you settle down with your doctor or lawyer, buy a house in the suburbs and pump out three kids.”
Picking up my plate, I bring it to the counter, clear the food into the food disposal, and a little too roughly, drop it in the sink. I turn to face him. “You have no idea what my life’s been like.”
Rising from the chair, he ambles over to me. “I know it’s not tattoo shops and nightclubs. You couldn’t look more out of place if you tried.”
My back stiffens. “Maybe you’re right about that, but my life hasn’t been easy breezy. My mother died when I was six. There were no PTA meetings at school. I had an older aunt who helped my father raise me until she passed away when I was thirteen. By then, my father considered me old enough to take care of the house, get myself to school, and have dinner ready for him when he got home. Even though he put a lot of responsibilities on me, I always knew he loved me and was doing his best. Then, as I got older, instead of going off to college and following my dream career like all my friends, he needed me by his side, working atthe church when his assistant retired. He’s a pastor. And I’ve been working with him ever since.” My body deflates. “I know it can’t compare to what you’ve been through, but it still sucked.”
He moves in closer and leans a hip against the edge of the counter. “How did your mom die?” There’s a look of compassion that has softened his normally hard features.
“A drunk driver hit the car she was driving. I was in the back seat and apparently lucky to have had no serious injuries. I have no memory of the accident.”
“I’m sorry you went through that.” There’s sincerity in his tone. “If you’d gone off to college, what did you want to do?”
A longing sensation stirs in the pit of my stomach. “A nurse. I always wanted to take care of people.”
“I’ve seen how you handled Natasha’s labour. You have the knack for it.”
His compliment sends a flutter through my chest.
