Page 13 of Wicked Promises (Fallen Royals 3)

“It was Matt Bonner.”

Past

The room was cold. The surface of the table in front of me was sticky. Spilled milk, maybe, or coffee that hadn’t been wiped away.

I avoided putting my arms on the table, keeping them crossed over my chest instead. The entire house smelled like spoiled food. Like death.

“Some lady is here for you.” The foster mom sweeps into the kitchen like she was the queen of the castle, and she didn’t notice it was rotting. “Not sure why anyone would want to visit with you. Did you even brush your hair this morning?”

I was fourteen, not four, but I didn’t bother pointing that out. I left my cereal—maybe that was the spoiled smell—untouched and went to the front door.

I yanked it open, more shocked than not to see my mom standing on the porch.

Houses like this always had porches. Big wraparound ones that made everyone else in the neighborhood jealous, but it was the inside that was bleak. Pretty outside, sick inside.

She fidgeted. There were spots on her neck, bruises. A scrape across her cheek.

I always took inventory when she showed up.

She hated me, but she checked up on me.

It was our little secret.

Her attention went from my face to the thrift store clothes, then down to my boots. They were falling apart. The laces broke the other day, and I had to duct tape them back together so I could keep wearing them.

Boots were more practical in everyday life than soft-topped sneakers. You could run in boots. Kick shit in them. Stomp on your enemies in them.

I cleared my throat.

Her gaze snapped up. “I heard you moved. How…”

“Shithole house,” I said, moving past her. Down the stairs, all the way to the sidewalk. It wasn’t often I got to take a deep breath of clean air. “The foster mom’s a bitch. Her husband is even worse.”

He leered.

They had sex in the middle of the night, the box spring squealing. She never made a noise, but he did. Grunts that filled our ears. The smallest girl would climb into bed with me, burying her head in my chest under the covers.

At my age, I knew about sex—but I didn’t want to think about it. And I definitely didn’t want to hear it almost every night.

Mom followed. “Karma’s a bitch, too.”

I snorted. “Gee, thanks.”

“They giving you an allowance?”

Part of me still wanted to be loved by my mother, and I would do anything to get her to stay. If I gave her money—like I had in the past—she would come back.

It wasn’t guesswork.

She would run out of money again, and then she’d show up wherever I was. Even if it was only for a few minutes.

But right now, I had nothing.

“Can you tell me about your adventures?” I stall. “Where you’ve been, or…”

“I’ve been dealing with a loss,” she told me. She kept tapping her finger against her arm. Crossed and uncrossed them. Shifted her weight. “And coping the only way I know how.”

I sighed. “What is it now?”