Slashed (Extreme Risk 3)

“Oh, yeah?” I interrupt. “And how exactly do you know that?”

“Because she told me.”

“She told you? Really? How’d she manage to do that when her tongue was halfway down your throat? I mean, really, Dad.”

His eyes narrow dangerously. “Watch it, Cam.”

“All I’m saying is it seems an awkward time to talk. Besides, why do I have to watch it? You can’t actually expect me to want to have anything to do with her. She’s been gone for seventeen years without so much as a fucking postcard and now she’s back for a visit and—”

“It’s not a visit.”

Something in his tone gets to me, has my stomach clenching and my palms sweating. “What does that mean?”

“It means she and I have been talking for a couple weeks, trying to figure out the best way to proceed. She wants to move in, to get a chance to get to know you and your brothers again.”

I gloss right past the fact that he’s been talking to her—to the enemy—for weeks while I’ve been here cooking and cleaning for him without so much as a clue about any of this. If I dwell on that, there’s no way I’m going to recover from the hurt of it all. I stick with the snark, instead. After all, it’s so much easier to be angry than it is to be in pain.

“Again?” I demand after a long, incredulous pause. This isn’t happening. This just isn’t happening. It can’t be. “When did she ever know us?”

“She’s your mother and she belongs here with you and your brothers.”

“It’s not like we’re five, Dad. If she’s here for us, she kind of missed that train.” Still, I start to panic at the resolve in his eyes. “You didn’t say yes, did you? There’s no way you actually told her she could move back in here.”

“Of course I did. It’s her house—”

“??Her house?’?” I mimic. “Are you insane? It’s your house. You built it. You paid for it. She’s just back because she ran out of luck or money or whatever the hell she’s been coasting on—”

His face sets in grim lines. “Watch yourself, Cameron Michelle Bradley. I’m willing to give you some latitude here, but—”

“Latitude? You’re moving that woman back in here—”

“Your mother is moving back in here—”

“I already told you. I don’t have a mother.”

A gasp comes from behind him and for the first time I realize she’s followed him into the entryway. I get my first good look at her in nearly eighteen years. And though I despise her, though I want nothing to do with her, even I have to admit that trying to deny our relationship is pretty damn ridiculous. We look way too much alike for that. At least superficially.

Like me, she’s tall and skinny with bright red hair, green eyes, and a dusting of freckles across a nose that is identical to mine. Her skin is the same pale white as mine, minus the pink windburn on my cheeks. Even the way she’s standing is the same—spine straight, shoulders squared, right hip cocked out just a little.

Shit. No wonder my dad looks at me like he’s seen a ghost sometimes. I’m a fucking carbon copy of her. Well, except for the fact that I actually keep my word. And I wouldn’t be caught dead in that soft floral dress she’s wearing. Or all that makeup. Not to mention that I would never just show up somewhere and expect to be accepted back into the fold. The woman has nerve, I’ll give her that. And an ego to match.

“Apologize,” my dad grates out. “Now.”

The look I give him says clearly that that’s not going to happen. I am never going to apologize to this woman for anything.

“She doesn’t have to apologize—” she starts.

“The hell she doesn’t. I don’t care how old she is. No daughter of mine is going to disrespect her mother like that—”

“Are you kidding me?” The words burst from me before I even know I’m going to say them. “Are you fucking kidding me with this mother stuff? It’s like you’ve been brainwashed or something. Or like I’m being Punk’d.” I glance around wildly. “Is there a candid camera around here somewhere?”

If possible, my father stiffens even more and his eyes widen incredulously. Not that I blame him—I’ve never once spoken to him like this before, not even when I was in junior high and teenage mouth seemed to come with the territory. Then again, he’s never gone completely off the deep end before either, so I figure we’re even.

“Cameron—” Before he can get anything else out, she butts in.

Stepping closer—stepping too close if you ask me—she puts a hand on his arm and looks up at him with a gentle smile. My stomach rolls as his face softens with an answering grin. God. She’s one small step away from actually batting her damn fake lashes at the man—and he’s one tiny step away from actually falling for it.

“It’s okay, Jake. Cameron, please,” she says, reaching her other hand toward me. I stare at that hand—better than staring at her face with its wide, duplicitous eyes and fake pleading expression—and idly try to figure out what shade her nails are painted. Lavender? Mauve? Lilac? Whatever it is, it matches perfectly her dress and her ring and her sweater and her high-heeled pumps. For a second, the knowledge boggles my mind. How does she do that? How does any woman do it? Coordinate themselves so perfectly?