Page 68 of From That Moment

I frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

Prior took a sip of his coffee, winced at the heat, then set it down on the coffee table.

“What I mean is that you are strength personified. You are brilliant, beautiful, and compassionate.”

My heart filled, and I had no idea where he was going with this. “I wasn’t asking for compliments, Prior.”

“I know. You never would. You do what you need to do to get things done. What I meant by being the person you need to be is that nobody needs to know every aspect of you at work. Many of those people will never be your friends. They’ll never be my friends. And we both understand that. It’s like how some people have work personas. Sometimes it changes who they are completely, but never with you. You are who you are, but you put out so much strength, that sometimes people can’t see beneath the layers. And I understand that. Especially with Benji around.”

“Don’t bring up his name in my house. I don’t want to even think about him.”

He hadn’t changed much since the last time he blew out of my office, but he also hadn’t outright accused me of anything recently either. I didn’t know if that was because I had threatened him, or if he waited to threaten me again. Perhaps he’d figured out that Prior and I were friends at least and didn’t want to upset a man he admired. I didn’t know, I didn’t really care, but I didn’t mind the reprieve either.

I let out a breath, needing to continue, but not sure how.

“You don’t have to say anything. We can just make out if you want.”

I burst out laughing, shaking my head. Then his lips were on mine, soft. I sank into him, needing his embrace.

The mug was still between us, so he pulled back, taking it from my hands and setting it on the table.

“Talk to me, Paris.”

“Her name was Tracey. She was so beautiful. We were both born blond, and my hair eventually darkened to what it is now. I don’t know what her hair would have turned into. I think it would have darkened like mine, but hers was always a little lighter than mine. Mine was a little more like corn silk. At least that’s what my grandma said once when we were little. Before she died, anyway.”

I could still remember my grandma saying that before she lit up her cigarette and walked away to go pour another glass of cheap whiskey.

Grandma had been nice, a drunk, but she never hit me.

Not like the others had.

“My parents were not good people. They drank. They did whatever drugs they felt like. I don’t know why they chose to become parents. In all honesty, even though my mom always said that we were planned because she wanted to have kids in her sober times, I didn’t believe it.”

“Paris.” Prior let out a breath. “No, I don’t want to interrupt. There’s nothing for me to say.”

“I’ve always heard the way you guys talk about your parents, how they’re not here now but were always there before. And they constantly visit.”

“You met them, right?”

I nodded. “When Macon and Cross were in the hospital. Yes. I didn’t get to talk to them, but I met them in passing. They love you so much.”

“They do. And eventually, I think they’ll move back to be with their grandbabies when they come, but they love us.”

“I don’t think my parents loved me. Or Tracey. I think they wanted us because it was what you were supposed to do. Either that or my mom wanted to keep my dad with her. That’s why I think she had Tracey. And I think I was an accident and am why they got together in the first place.” I let out a breath. “It doesn’t matter. But I had Tracey. She used to sing. She had such a beautiful voice, like a little angel’s. When Mom and Dad started fighting and would slap at each other and hit and scream, she would come into my room, and we’d hide under my covers. When we moved to the trailer and we had to share a room, she slept in my bed, and we held each other close. Even as we got older, we always had each other because we knew we weren’t going to have them.”

I let out a breath, the memories coming back so quickly I could taste them—the stench of whiskey on their breath, the feel of hands on skin when they pounded into flesh. I could still hear the air conditioner running on its last leg, the trailer shaking when the wind got to be too much.

“My parents started hitting me long before I can even remember. A swat on the butt here or there. And then when I got old enough to try and duck away, Dad hit harder. And Mom would help. He would hit and slap and use his belt. If dinner wasn’t served on time, or if we didn’t do what we were supposed to do, even if they hadn’t told us what they wanted. Then, sometimes, they got drunk and started having sex right there in the living room after fighting. And if one of us made a noise from our bedroom, crying or trying to do our homework, they would stop whatever they were doing, get dressed, and come and hit us because we interrupted what they were doing. When Mom stole Dad’s drugs once, he blamed it on me, and hit me so hard I broke my cheekbone. Child services came, but they lied and said that I had fallen off my bike.”

My hands were shaking, and when Prior reached out to hold them, I didn’t back away.

“I didn’t have a bike, Prior. I never did. We didn’t have that kind of money. And even if we did, it would have gone for drugs anyway.”

Prior didn’t say anything, he simply held my hands, rubbing his thumbs over my skin as I kept going.

“My parents always kept jobs, that was the one thing they were good at. It was only for drugs. And booze. Or whatever else they could get their hands on. They would have orgies in our trailer and bring over whoever they wanted to fuck and do whatever they wanted. They wanted to live a life that meant having fun, gluttony and everything they could possibly have. Somehow, they had kids in the middle of it. And when Dad got too angry, he would hit me, over and over again. And then Mom would join in. Sometimes, Mom would hold me down while he hit me harder and harder.”

“Baby.”