King (Rogue Rebels MC 2)

She blinked at me, and I realized she had asked me to move over; she wanted to make herself some coffee, but I was blocking the counter.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, stepping aside.

Tessa poured hot water into her cup, and I realized she was actually making tea rather than coffee. I turned away and headed to the bench-seat in the corner of the room.

I took a long slow sip of the coffee while absentmindedly listening to the sounds of Tessa preparing her tea. In the forefront of my mind though, was Sarah. Just the mere thought of her brought a sting to my eyes. I blinked rapidly, threatening the moisture in my eyes to go away just as I had been for hours on end. I wouldn’t dare let those tears fall; I’d shed more than a lifetime’s worth of tears in my childhood already. All I could do was hope I hadn’t condemned Sarah to a similar fate.

Hell—it was those experiences that led me to the military in the first place. Unstable home environments could really mess with a kid’s head. And when a kid felt vulnerable, it was often far too easy for other kids to pick up on it. And needless to say, kids could be pretty damn cruel.

Sometimes in my nightmares, I still heard the taunts of jeers of my childhood tormentors. They used to call me every derogatory name in the book that revolved around questioning my manhood (or boyhood back then). Even worse, I never had the energy to fight back in those days. Spending the majority of my evenings fighting and defending myself from the revolving door of adults supposedly taking care of me often left me listless by morning when it was time to face other children. Assholes.

By the time I was a teenager, I decided that I needed toughening up. I joined the military the first chance I got. But not even the military could fully erase the hurt little boy that still resided inside of me. He was the reason I always felt reluctant to get close to anyone. He was the reason I had such severe trust issues. He was the one who lashed out and pushed people away whenever someone happened to catch my attention and draw me in. He wanted to protect me because in his experience, getting close to others only resulted in getting hurt.

Hopefully Sarah didn’t turn out the same way.

“I thought I was shaken up, but not nearly as much as you.”

I jumped at the sound of Tessa’s voice, as well as her nearness. I’d been so lost in my thoughts that I hadn’t even realized her joining me on the bench. She sat beside me, her legs crossed and holding a steaming hot cup of tea to her chest.

Earlier that day, I had purposely ignored her and easily noted her irritation despite her efforts to hide it. But now, her expression toward me was soft and gentle. She took a sip of her tea and then stared at her lap. “So, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I wish I was back on the night shift, that’s all. It’s easier. No kids.”

Tessa nodded and took another sip of her tea. “Working the night shift prevents you from encountering more cases like Sarah’s.”

I gripped my coffee mug tightly, not caring how it burned my hands.

“Why are you so affected?” Tessa asked.

“What do you me

an?” I said, feigning ignorance.

“By what happened to Sarah,” she said. I could hear the silent ‘duh’ she left out. “I saw the way you looked after she was taken away from her mom.”

I took a sip of my coffee. “I just...have a feeling what it’s like. Sort of.”

In reality, I knew what it was like all too well. I’m sure my expression when I was taken away for the first time had mirrored Sarah’s exactly. After the fifth time, probably not so much. It got a little easier each time, but that was only because I felt a little deader inside each time. Fuck, I had gotten dark in my adulthood.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Tessa tilting her head. “Do you know someone who was taken away? I mean, in your personal life?” she asked.

“Yeah. I guess you can say that.”

“Who was it?”

Me.

My situation had been the opposite of Sarah’s in some ways though. My mom passed when I was so young that I had no memories of her. I had been raised by my dad. He had brought women into our household who had exposed me to things no child should have had to endure. Things took an ultimate turn for the worst when he remarried. My stepmother abhorred me, and the feeling quickly became mutual. Unfortunately, my dad couldn’t function without women in his life, so he either turned a blind eye to the animosity between us, or was too naïve to notice until things escalated out of control. When my gym teacher noticed all the burn marks on my arms, that’s when all Hell broke loose. Those burn marks caused so much trouble that in adulthood, I covered my arms with tattoos just to hide them. But not even the pain I endured getting inked-up could match the pain and heartache those burns had caused.

Ms. McDowell may not have been on the shortlist for any Mother-of-the-Year awards, but at least she had shed tears at the sight of her daughter being taken away. My dad—he had stood there with a forced calm. When I began to scream and cry, he offered no words of comfort, he didn’t reach out for me. He didn’t yell at the people taking me away either. He just fixed me with a stern gaze and shook his head as if telling me to stop crying.

The last words he said to me before I was dragged out of the door of the shabby house I had called home for eight years was, “You’re all right. Don’t worry about it.”

I think what bothered me most was not knowing whether my dad just hadn’t cared, or if he was just trying to put on a brave face for my sake.