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“About eight years.”
“Ah, both of my brothers are a lot older. They were teenagers when I was born, and I think resented my presence.”
“Really? They didn’t look out for you? Protect their baby sister?”
I snort and shake my head with disbelief. “No.”
“Shit, Teller has ten years on his sister, and he’s always looked out for her the best he could.”
“I’m close to my cousin. He’s only a few years older than me. He’d protect me in school, but he got picked on too, so…” Why am I talking about any of this like it still matters?
“Actually, I don’t know why I’m surprised.” He hesitates as if he’s not sure he wants to continue. “I had older brothers too, but they took off when they turned eighteen. Didn’t give a fuck about me or Jezzie.”
“Are they…have you ever tried to find them?”
He pauses for an even longer time before answering. “Yeah, once or twice.”
I swallow hard, afraid to ask my next question, but unable to stop myself. “You said it’s possible your dad may have killed your mom…is it possible he…?”
“It’s possible.” He reaches for his glass and spins it in a slow circle. “I’ve thought of that too. It was one of his ‘wives’ who helped me escape?—”
“Wait, one of his wives?”
He shoots a sharp look at me that snaps my mouth shut. “I don’t know what else to call them. He had a bunch of women around we were supposed to call ‘Momma this or that.’ He’d refer to them as his wives. But there were other ‘elder’ type men around who had leadership roles too and other kids who came with their families.”
“So, do you have more siblings out there?”
“Probably,” he answers slowly, still turning the glass around and around. “Don’t really want to find out, honestly.”
“I don’t blame you.” Should I continue or drop it? He doesn’t seem happy talking about this. “You said one of them helped you escape?”
“Yeah.” He curls his fingers over his shoulder, tapping his back. “The last whipping I took was so bad, she was afraid he’d kill me.” A pained smile crosses his face. “She was a nice girl. Took a big risk to give me a few things so I could leave.” He shrugs. “Didn’t matter. I got to school and passed out from an infection. People found out what happened to me?—”
“Was your father arrested?”
“Nope.” His tone’s laced with a dull bitterness.
“What about Jezzie?”
“Didn’t have a mark on her.”
“How’d you escape, then?”
“Rooster’s aunt and uncle came and got me.”
His playful, confident demeanor has changed so drastically over the course of this conversation. His answers dwindling down to just the basics when there must be more to it. I’m used to counseling people in one specific area of tragedy. Grief and loss. This is so much more complex. What should I say?
Joining a motorcycle club makes sense. The complete opposite of the religious oppression he grew up in but also a somewhat strict and orderly organization where they dress similarly and have to attend mandatory meetings. Although, the intent with a cult is to control the person by restricting their thoughts and access to information, while the motorcycle club doesn’t restrict anything unless it could potentially harm the whole club.
Okay, definitely don’t point out the similarities—or differences— between a cult and an MC. He won’t appreciate that.
“Mrrrar.” Gretel twines her body around the legs of Jigsaw’s stool, then mine.
“Hey, girl.” Jigsaw leans down and scoops Gretel into one hand, lifting her into his lap. “I was wondering when you might make an appearance.”
I’m so charmed by the way he lets her rub herself all over his chin and the gentle way he pets her, I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t allow her near the kitchen counters. As if she senses me watching, she ignores our plates and the counter, and curls up in Jigsaw’s lap instead.
“She really likes you,” I say.
