Page 84 of Daddy's Wild Girl

Infect him?

What the fuck?

“You are not a disease,” he told her firmly. “I don’t want to hear you say that about yourself again.”

“Why not?” She still wouldn’t look at him or come close, but at least she was talking to him. It eased some of that tight knot in his gut.

“Because it’s not true. And because I care about you too much to let you speak about yourself like that.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry, baby, but you can’t tell me how to feel about you.”

She wiped at her eyes.

“Tell me what’s going on in your head, Bebe.”

“What’s going on in my head? What’s going on?” she reiterated, smacking the palm of her hand against her forehead.

“Stop it!” he said sharply. “Don’t hurt yourself. I don’t like it when you hurt yourself.”

“What if I deserve to hurt?” she whispered.

“I don’t believe that. What the hell could you have done to deserve being hurt?” he snapped.

“Plenty. I wasn’t the nicest person when I was a teenager. I was rebellious and selfish. Perhaps this is my penance.”

“Then all teenagers will have to be punished. Because that’s what teenagers do. They rebel. They don’t think of others. Christ, they’re kids and just feeling their way. It’s nothing that they should have to serve penance for. You were a kid. Baby, you don’t deserve to be punished, and I don’t like where your thoughts are headed.”

A car went past, and he hoped like hell that they didn’t stop or report them to the police. That was the last thing they needed.

“My thoughts . . . my thoughts are that I can’t believe she did that. And at the same time, I don’t know why I’m so surprised, you know? If she can exploit something for her own gain, then she will do it. And it doesn’t matter that I’m her daughter. I doubt it occurs to her to take my feelings into account. I don’t know what to do! Corbin, I don’t know what to do!”

“With your mother?” he asked.

“With these feelings inside me . . . they don’t have anywhere to go!” She stared down at her hands. “I’m shaking . . . sometimes I shake when I’m anxious. But that’s not what I feel right now. It’s . . . it’s rage! All I feel is so . . . fucking . . . angry.”

Okay. This was something he thought he could deal with.

At least she wasn’t hurting herself or thinking dangerous thoughts.

Well, he hoped not.

“So tell her,” he said.

“Tell her? How do I tell her? No, I don’t know if I can. She probably wouldn’t listen anyway. She probably wouldn’t care.”

“What would you say if she was here right now?” he asked.

“She’s not.”

“No, but you can still say it. At least then, it won’t be festering inside you. Get it out. Don’t let her win. Because that’s what’s happening. By letting her get to you, letting her hurt you, she’s winning. You don’t want her to win, do you?”

“No.” Bebe shook her head, her hair wild around her face. “No, I don’t want her to win.”

“So tell her. What would you say?” he asked.

She turned to him, her teeth chattering. She was cold, and he’d left both of their jackets back at the pub. Shakespeare had put them in a closet for them. Well, he’d kind of chucked them all in a closet.

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