She was a ghost to me.
She was some story my father told me when I had finally asked about her. She was his sad eyes falling on mine, his hand landing on my shoulder. “Your mother didn't want to be with us, baby girl. She had other plans for her life. And they didn't include us. That doesn't say anything about us. It doesn't say anything about you. It says she was a very selfish woman. Do you understand me, Summer? It was her loss.”
That was what I knew of my mother.
Aside from knowing that I had her eyes and hair.
That was it.
She was selfish.
She didn't want me.
But there she was, standing five feet from me.
She didn't look that different from her picture. Her face wasn't as full as it had been when she was younger. She had some crows feet beside her eyes. But she looked mostly the same. Youthful. Beautiful. Her red hair was pulled into a loose barrette at the base of her neck. She was short, like me. Slight, like me. In fact, she was a perfect representation of what I would look like in twenty or so years.
Except I wasn't going to live that long.
She was wearing a pair of black slacks, heels, and a tight white long sleeve t-shirt. Her head was tilted, looking me up and down.
“Daniel, darling,” she said, looking over at Not-V. Daniel. His name was Daniel. That was somehow so much less terrifying. And also, my mother's voice was nothing like mine. Mine was smooth, girly. Her's was more throaty, lower, a bedroom voice. It was really weird to be leaning that while I was standing cuffed in her kitchen, years after I gave up thinking I would ever meet her. “What has happened to her face?”
Daniel cleared his throat. Martin shrugged and answered. “She tripped.”
“Oh, is that what it's called?” I asked, glaring at him.
To this, my mother laughed.
The sound shocked my attention back toward her.
“Summer,” she said, giving me a smile. “It's so nice to finally meet you.”
Alright.
Let's just say my anger managed to break through my shock.
“Couldn't have dropped by when I was chained to a chair in the basement having one of your lackys carve into my back? Or perhaps late at night when they would come into my room, climb on top of me, grab at me and tell me all the ways they were going to rape me?”
At that, her face hardened. As did Daniel's I noticed as his eyes shot daggers at Martin.
“Deke, man,” Martin said, shaking his head like he wasn't a part of it.
“Really? It was Deke who told me that girls like to get it from both ends at once? Funny, cause that sounded a lot like you,” I shot back. I was beyond caring about pissing anyone off.
“Summer, darling, no one was going to rape you,” my mother soothed.
“Really? Because judging by the look of surprise and anger on your face, you had no fucking idea what was going on under your own roof at night. Please do try to convince me you have any kind of control over the situation. Or your men for that matter.”
To this, she smiled. Warmly. It could only be described as warmly. “You know, I was worried about leaving you behind. Leaving you with Richard. I thought he would squeeze every bit of independence and spirit out of you. I guess I was wrong.”
Oh, god.
She was right though.
She was so right.
He had done that. He had done that without me even realizing it.
I was his little yes-man. I did what he said. I never fought him. I never even thought about disobeying him. I was terrified of the prospect of letting him down. I was his god damn trained puppy.
The only reason I found my independence and spirit was from being held captive. By her. How fucking sick was that?
At the same time though, whatever my father had done to me, nothing, literally nothing would even close to being held against your will and starved, beat, sliced open, and humiliated at the hands of your own mother.
“Whatever Dad may or may not have done, he never had someone lay a hand on me,” I said, my chin lifting.
“Oh, darling girl,” she said, reminding me of my father. They both called me that. And it was, on both their lips, incredibly condescending. “Haven't you learned yet that there is far worse damage to inflict on people other than the physical kind?”
“Sounds like you're speaking from experience. How's the skin trade, Mom?” I asked and saw a flash cross her eyes before she pushed it away.
“Martin,” she addressed instead, looking at him. “Would you please show my daughter to her room? It seems she needs some time to think about how to speak to her mother.” She paused, her eyes going to Daniel as a second thought. “You go with them,” she said pointedly, obviously no longer trusting Martin alone.
Thank God for small miracles.
“Will do, V,” Daniel said, jerking his head at Martin who walked up to me, shoving me back toward the hallway.
I stumbled up the steps, Martin's hand banging between my shoulder blades every few steps while Daniel followed a few steps below. And I found myself wondering about the man I used to think was V. The man who delivered the orders about what was to be done with me. They weren't his decisions. They were my mother's. And he only put his hands on me once. Then jerked back from me like I had burned him.
What the hell was his deal?
He wasn't the viscous skin trader I thought he was. But he was someone important. Someone my mother trusted.
And if he was part of the inner circle, why wouldn't he get his hands dirty?
Were the higher-ups like... above that?
The door to my room was opened and I was pushed inside. Martin reached into his pocket, getting a key to the cuffs and unlocking one of my wrists.
And, well, let's just say I was getting a little sick of being a good prisoner. The second my wrist was free, my arm swung out, the bottom of my palm slamming upward underneath his nose and I heard a sick, satisfying crunch before he reared back, cursing.