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It wasn’t, though. It’s my stupid-ass brain going on the fritz again. I’d triggered something, and it really did a number on me. The worst part is, I don’t have a damn clue what it was.
“You need to leave now and never come back.” Those words repeat on a punishing loop in my head. It sounds like it was a warning. But of what?
Even worse, though, is the man’s voice that followed. “If you try to leave, death is all that awaits you.”
What the hell was that about? Turmoil swirls inside me as I war with wanting to know about my abuser and recover my memories. I deserve to know what happened.
Frustration threatens to suffocate me, but I draw in deep breaths in an attempt to soothe myself. I can always go to the library again and see if I can try to unearth more buried memories. Maybe that will help.
“That happen often?” Daniel poses the question casually, drawing me from my inner thoughts. “You not eatin’ good enough and passin’ out.”
“Never would’ve taken you for the mother hen, protective type, Danny.” Of course, I’m deflecting.
The curt, no-nonsense response falls from his mouth like clockwork. “It’s Daniel.”
So does mine. “Don’t care.”
“Does it?” he probes. “Happen often?”
“Nope.” Not really.
He remains by my side as we arrive at the road. Of course, he still does that visual sweep of our surroundings like he did last night. Without a word, he pulls the gate closed behind us, and it clicks into place, automatically locking.
We start walking along the side of the road and he places himself at my side, making himself the buffer between me and any traffic.
He’s so damn incongruous, I can’t figure him out for the life of me. How can he do something that thoughtful—and dare I say, gentlemanly—yet be the same bastard who pulled a gun on an innocent woman?
“You said nope.”
I frown but concentrate on the road ahead that’s riddled with cracks, potholes, and uneven surfaces galore. “What?”
“You said nope, not no.”
I toss him a glance that I’m sure says, Dude, you’re weird, before returning my attention to the road.
“Any other time, when you were certain about somethin’, you’d outright say yes or no.”
Don’t tense up. Don’t tense up. Don’t tense up. I repeat this silently, because the last thing I need is Sherlock Holmes here picking up on just how fucked up I am. “We’re turning right here.”
We make it another block—far longer than I expected him to be able to hold out—before he finally utters, “Please tell me that shit doesn’t happen often.”
“It doesn’t happen often.” I can at least say that without any hesitation. Mainly, because often can have a varied timeframe. My version of often is something that happens every day.
I motion for him that we’re taking the next left, and when Happy Mammy’s comes into view, I’m not sure whether to smile or grimace.
Mammy is older than dirt—her own words, not mine—and is one of those older women who was born with the motherly instinct but never had children. She always loved to cook and bake, but it wasn’t until her “beau” suggested she should open her own restaurant that she took the leap.
She’s one of the few people around here who will look me in the eyes without flinching and has never once made me feel awkward. I’d probably stop by for a meal more often if it weren’t for the two dumb shits who have a tendency to camp out there. Luckily, there’s no sign of them.
The hostess grabs two menus and leads us to a booth by the front windows. No sooner does my ass slide onto the leather seat than my eyes are drawn to the doorway separating the kitchen from the dining area.
A moment later, Mammy emerges from the kitchen. Wiping her hands on a towel, she drapes it over her shoulder and heads our way.
The older black woman beams at me like a proud mother, even though I couldn’t be more different from her.
I can make a mean pot of coffee and Ramen noodles like nobody’s business, but truly can’t cook to save my life. I’m at home with greasy car parts and a quiet salvage yard to myself, while this woman is the face of domestication.
“I know you aren’t tryin’ to get past me without givin’ me some sugar, darlin’.” Mammy’s tone is admonishing but filled with affection that wriggles deep, worming its way into my cold, black heart. She’s probably the only person who makes me wonder what it’d be like to have a mom—especially one like Mammy.
