Page 8 of Craved

I sigh. He has a point.

“Have you called yet?” Brax asks.

“No.” I don’t say that despite my bad ass job, my stellar skills, and my passion for taking down bad guys, I haven’t yet worked up the courage to simply dial up my ex.

“You didn’t screw up.” His voice is as soft as a blanket, and I wish I could simply curl up into it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie.

“Yeah, you do. I’m talking about before. When you met him.”

“You mean when I loved him.” There’s a hard edge in my voice. Hate, but not for Maxim. For me. For being such a goddamn fool.

“Whoever he is now, that isn’t who he was then.”

“Maybe not. Or maybe I fell in love with a monster, just like my mother did.” I close my eyes, wondering how I could have been so wrong. And the only consolation I can allow myself is that I won’t make that mistake again.

Chapter Five

Twenty-six years ago

“Goddammit, you stupid whore! You think you don’t have a job, too? I bring home the fucking money. You cook the goddamn food!” Crack!

I hear my mother’s sharp yelp, and force myself not to cry. I wish I didn’t have to breathe, because my father has magical powers. He can wake Mommy up or put her to sleep. He can make fireworks from stuff in the kitchen. He always knows when I try to sneak out of the house.

Most of all, I know he’s magic because he can always, always find me.

He says he will.

Then he does.

Then he hurts me just like he hurts my mom.

Except he never lets me have the candy afterwards.

“Idiot woman. Now I either have to be late or not eat at all. Do you know how much thought and concentration it takes to teach molecular biology to a bunch of stars-in-their-eyes grad students suffering under the illusion that someday they’ll make something of themselves?”

His voice echoes through our house, making me tremble.

“Maybe one in a hundred that comes through my classes has any potential at all. Yet I have to hold constant vigil for that talent despite the prattle of Dr. Green explain this, and Dr. Green, I don’t understand that. And I can’t fucking search out the cream while babysitting the chaff if I’m lightheaded with hunger, can I, woman?”

I hear a small noise coming from the kitchen. I can’t hear words, but I know there aren’t any. She’s making her begging noises. Her hand is out, silently begging for her candy. The candy I’m not allowed.

Once, two years ago, she didn’t swallow her candy, and I took it from the table. It was orange and shaped like a squashed jelly bean. I was eight, and I loved jelly beans. I knew I wasn’t supposed to have Mommy’s candy, but she hadn’t made any food all day, and my stomach was rumbly with hunger.

I’d just put the candy in my mouth when something hard smacked against my back, and I tumbled forward, spitting it out.

“Not ever again,” my father said, lifting me up by my hair. “I made that candy special for mommy. It’s good for her. It will make her better. You want her to be better?”

“Yes.” My voice was a scrawny, little whisper.

“I’ll buy you jelly beans if you’re good. And if you’re bad…” He still held my hair, and he tugged on it. Reminding me of the last time I was bad. When he’d cut it all off and I’d cried and had to lie and tell everyone at school how I’d been stupid enough to play with a bucket of tar and my dad had to shave my head.

“You understand me, Camilla?”

I’d nodded again, and then he’d pulled me to him so that I was sitting in his lap, my back pressed against him. He held me by the waist, and I could feel his breath when he bent forward to whisper, “You’re my good girl, Camilla. One day,” he added, sliding his hands over my chest, “I’ll thank you properly for being Daddy’s good little girl.”

Now, flat on my tummy under the chaise, I tremble with the memory. I’m ten now, and a lot smarter than I was then. I know my father’s a bad man. I know that’s not really candy. And I know that I don’t ever, ever want to be thanked for being his good little girl.