Page 60 of Lucky's Trouble

My head lifts to look at him fully. “What?”

“She had a meeting with my mom, the principal, and the counselor to ask if I’d ever been tested for ADHD. My mom was beyond offended. Back then, people still had the opinion that doctors were over-medicating energetic little boys because they couldn’t handle them.”

“What did your dad think?”

“He thought I should get tested. He’s more even-keeled and logical than my mom is. You might’ve picked up on that.”

“Yeah, nothing seems to rile him up much, not even a family lunch with a stripper.”

He chuckles. “Anyway, he talked my mom into getting me to see the doctor, and obviously, I was diagnosed with ADHD. The doc prescribed some meds that helped a lot, at least with school and shit, but I was still me. I still didn’t fit into their perfect vision. I was, and still am, a rebel. That’s what the tattoo means. It symbolizes me living a life of freedom despite everything and everyone who tries to tame me.”

“I love that.” I cuddle into him again.

“Now it’s your turn.”

“That’s easy, I don’t have any tattoos.”

“I mean, it’s your turn to tell me what made you into who you are today.”

A jolt of panic crawls through my body, making my skin itch. “You don’t want to hear my sob story. Trust me, it’s not that interesting.”

“You’re wrong. I want to know everything about you until I know what you’re gonna say before you say it.”

I bite my lip until the closed cut opens, and I taste blood. At this rate, it’ll never heal, and I’ll definitely have a nasty scar. Not that I care—the only reason I put stock into my appearance is because I know that’s all I have going for me. Without my looks, I’m nothing.

“Why don’t you want me to know?” He turns to face me, keeping my leg hiked up on his hip and an arm around me.

“Some truths are better left in the dark.”

“What are you afraid might happen if you say it out loud?”

“Right now, you like me, despite the bruises and knowing what I’ve recently been through, but how much is too much? How much honesty will it take until all you see is the damage that’s been done?”

“There’s no measurable amount. I’ll only like you more knowing you went through it and are still here.”

God, there is so much more to this man than meets the eye. At first glance, he’s just a boisterous, obnoxious, intrusive, pestering prick, but underneath all that is the biggest heart and the most caring person I’ve ever met. I kind of hate him for how amazing he is.

“You know I grew up in an ultra-religious household.” I pause for his nod. “Well, when boys and girls turn twelve, they begin to have annual meetings with a church leader. These meetings are held in a private office with a closed door, just you and him.”

The corners of his eyes turn down as he studies me, probably already knowing where this is going. And he’d be right, but I power on anyway.

“The first time I went, I remember being terrified because I knew what he was going to ask, and those things felt too personal to tell a stranger. But my parents didn’t give me a choice; I had to go. So, I sat in front of this old man as he asked me intrusive questions, and even though it felt all kinds of wrong, I was honest with him. Yes, I had impure thoughts. Yes, I touched my body inappropriately because, on accident, I figured out it felt good when I rubbed a washcloth between my legs, so I did it each time I took a bath.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, rubbing a hand up my back.

“I left that meeting feeling so ashamed and gross.” It’s been a long time since I’ve experienced that feeling, but admitting all this to Lucky has it washing through me again.

“I can’t believe your parents would allow that.”

I huff. “Oh, they not only allowed it, but when that same leader asked to meet with me again the next week, they drove me there, despite me throwing a two-year-old tantrum over it.”

“Fuckin’ sick.”

“At that meeting, he made me sit next to him on a sofa. He tried to make his hand on my knee seem like he was giving me comfort as he read through scriptures, but all it did was make my skin crawl. And looking back, I see that’s the moment it all started. He told my parents I needed special counsel once a week because I was struggling with my faith. That was true, but it’s not why he wanted to meet with me. Slowly, he convinced me to let him touch me since I was already such a filthy girl. And I believed it.” My voice hitches, remembering how he preyed on my insecurities. I clear my throat. “Anyway, that went on for an entire year. We didn’t meet every week, but close to it. I think he thought people would get suspicious, but no one ever did. Or if they did, they didn’t do anything about it. He touched me, made me touch him, and made me put my mouth on him, but he never. . . you know.”

“Doesn’t make it any better.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I’m glad I didn’t have to find out.”

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