Page 6 of Carmine

Carmine stared for a few seconds as he considered my request and then nodded. “I’ll ask Dad.”

“Do that. I’m going to take these samples and get them analysed. That’s more important than a chat,” I said and began striding down the hill.

Carmine kept up with me.

“Doc, I need your address.”

“Heron Cottage.”

“At the bottom of the Black Hills?” Carmine asked.

“Yes. Right in the line of a lava flow—should it happen. Ironic, really.”

“You like taking chances, don’t you, Dr Balfour-Cherlyn?”

“I took a huge risk three years ago, and it backfired despite me having data to back it up. No, Mr Michealson, I do not like risks. I believe in facts and tangible evidence, which is what I havenow. And even with that, I’m still a joke,” I replied, trying to keep my voice light and airy.

“Then they’re fools. Because when lava runs down our streets, you’ll be the one who told them. And you better make sure they remember that. And please, it’s Carmine. If anyone is Mr Michaelson, it’s my dad,” Carmine said firmly.

“Why’s it matter to you that I warned people?” I asked curiously. For somebody who’d just met me, Carmine seemed awfully invested.

“Because I hate individuals who are hateful and nasty for no reason except a ‘just because’. I loathe when idiots make fun of others because they don’t understand what’s in front of their faces. Nobody needs to tear someone else down because their opinions differ. It’s disgusting and not right,” Carmine said heatedly.

“Where were you when I needed a cheerleader?” I muttered.

“Probably in a game,” Carmine answered blithely.

Carmine’s quick mood swings made me dizzy, but I went with the flow.

“If you say so,” I replied and fell into silence. I liked silence. It was an old friend of mine. Something I was very familiar with.

Chapter Two.

Carmine

Dr Balfour-Cherlyn was a strange little thing, I decided, but she was also cute. She didn’t seem comfortable with conversation and appeared stilted sometimes when she spoke. I liked her name, though, Molly. Strangely, it suited her.

Out of the corner of my eye, I studied her carefully. Molly wore khaki pants tucked into hiking boots with cream socks just poking out and a long-sleeved tee despite the heat and carried a thick jacket.

Truthfully, Molly wasn’t the usual woman I was attracted to, but she was sweet. As in, next-door girl pretty. Molly had dirty blond hair tied back in a ponytail, she was tanned, no doubt from being outside all day. She had lots of freckles scattered across her cute button nose. She stood at average height, about five foot five, and was slim. However, she was clearly strong, judging by the heavy bags she carried. Molly wore a hat with a wide brim to protect her from the sun, and she had dark sunglasses perched on top.

Molly hadn’t smiled once during our conversation, and I had a sense that she’d been badly hurt. Her own words about being ridiculed and a laughingstock backed that up. Tragically, losing her reputation was just part of it. I guessed Molly had lost some people very close to her and felt that betrayal keenly.

I didn’t feel that Molly was the type of person who got along with others easily and maybe suffered from social anxiety. If you talked shop with her, I sensed Molly would converse fine, but ask her something outside her comfort zone, Molly would freeze. I might be wrong, but that was the impression she gave off.

As we walked in silence back to the car, I could sense Molly’s unease growing and couldn’t blame her. I was six foot four, and we were alone. Damn, if only I were as smooth as my brother Tye, I’d be able to reassure her. But like Molly, I had my own social anxieties. Which, considering how often I was in front of the media and in newspapers and gossip rags, was ridiculous.

Carmine Michaelson, twenty-six years old and the adopted son of the infamous Phoenix Michaelson. Eight years playing ball, and each of them ending with a spotless record. Handsome, muscled, and a part-time model, that was Carmine Michaelson. Or so people thought. I wasn’t a model, I just ended up on a lot of covers. If I was wanted half naked on a cover, I ensured I was paid well. I wasn’t a fuck boy for anyone. Not anymore.

I’d learned my lessons on the streets protecting Serenity and Harley. Reporters often asked about my life on the street and received a blank stare. That wasn’t their business. Everybody wished to know the ins and outs of my adoption, and again, fuck off. They’d no right to that information. All they needed to be aware of was a fucking amazing woman, who I call Mom, adopted me when I was fourteen. And then came along Drake in 2014, who gave us a father. I might have been eighteen, but I’d still needed a dad, and Drake was perfect.

The public had their idea of Carmine Michaelson, which wasn’t the true version. Not the truth of the street rat who’d scrabbled for food to feed Tye, Serenity, and Harley. Not the thirteen-year-old kid whose ass had been raped and cast aside. I soon learned to sell it when things were dire to get us all fed. I’d beg and steal before I bent over, but I sacrificed for my brothers and sister, and I would not change a thing. Nobody was aware of the nightmares that made me sweat and woke me at night.

Nor did they know that for the first year of my adoption, I waited for Mom to rape me each nighttime. I left my door open on purpose, my bedroom placed before Serenity’s, Tye’s, and Harley’s. If Mom had wanted to assault someone, it would have been me. She never came.

Not once. Not until I finally called her mother and realised I was truly safe. Mom then would come to my room and curl into a chair, never getting too close, respecting my fear and space. She’d sit there while I screamed out my nightmares.

Mom would sing to me, off-key, but she’d sing me back to sleep. The public remained completely unaware of that side of Carmine Michaelson. They thought I led a charmed life. But that hadn’t happened until I hit fourteen. Mom building me a baseball diamond was legendary, but her attitude was her kids had suffered enough. Now, Mom had money to make things easier for us, and she did. Mom didn’t care what she had to do to help us succeed at our dreams; she did it. Screw anyone who’d anything negative to say.

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