Page 4 of Against All Odds

“That’s a very glass-half-full mindset.” I knew I was flirting, but then I wanted to.

“I believe in being positive.”

“I’m sorry about your divorce.” I couldn’tnotsay that since I’d overheard her conversation with her ex, and she knew I’d gotten the rest of the dirt from my companions.

She laughed. It was a ripple that went straight through, as the previous one had, to my cock.

“I’m not sorry at all.” Amusement danced in her eyes. “Have a nice day, Mr. Falkner.”

I watched as she expertly drove off.

She knew my name and where I worked; I knewhername and where she worked—this was a promising start. Maybe next time I was at the bank, which I’d endeavor to have a reason to be at sooner rather than later, I would seek her out.

CHAPTER 2

sable

Growing up, I was trailer park trash all the way.

The daughter of a drunk and a drug addict, I lived in Woody Creek on a forgotten dead-end lot, just like everyone who lived there. The eponymous creek ran close to where we lived, and I’d listen to the water rushing over rocks and pretend my mother wasn’t fucking her dealer a few feet away. Our trailer was a faded pale green. The roof leaked so badly that every spring, my dad, before he up and died, duct-taped a blue tarp over it, which flapped in the wind like a desperate flag, announcing to the world exactly how little we had.

Inside, it was worse.

The carpet was worn so thin you could see the plywood underneath, and the whole place reeked of stale beer and cigarettes.

My father spent most of his days slumped on a battered couch, nursing whatever he could afford fromthe liquor store in town until he graduated to hardcore drugs that he got from my mother, who, when she wasn’t passed out on her bed, was usually chain-smoking menthols, berating my father. Sometimes, she’d have enough energy to snap at me for looking at her wrong or for asking what was for dinner, which I stopped doing when I was around four years old and figured out how to use a can opener.

Most nights, she didn’t even notice I was there.

My father overdosed the summer I turned thirteen. I found him slumped on the couch with the needle still in his arm, the TV flickering static. I didn’t cry. I just stared at him, waiting for him to start snoring like he usually did when he passed out. But he didn’t. And I knew. I’d been waiting for something like this to happen.

My mother stopped coming home after that. She disappeared like smoke, leaving me in that rotting trailer with no money and no food. I lasted about three days before the neighbor called social services. I was glad she did. The foster care system wasn’t perfect, but it was better than starving in Woody Creek.

The one thing I hated about foster care was the loud voices—all my foster parents were screamers, while some were beaters. I was grateful I’d avoided the rapists. My mother used to yell a lot at me as well, which was why whenever Jack raised his voice, it took me aback. I just bowed my head when he did that for nearly eight years of marriage. Eight fucking years of trying to fit in and not letting anyone remember where I camefrom, eight years of being polite and gracious, of never losing my temper, always,alwaysconforming.

But that changed. My life changed with one sentence over six months ago.

“Molly is pregnant,” Jack told me about his assistant.

I nodded.

“It’s mine.”

I nodded again.

He’d come home late, as he had been for the past couple of years, and ordered me to take a seat in the living room because he had something to tell me.

Did I suspect he was having an affair?Yes.

Did I expect him to tell me that he’d knocked Molly up?No.

Did it hurt?Like a mother-fucking-fucker.

Would I let him know that?No.

I grew up in foster care, and I learned early on in life not to show emotions. Some people called mecold;Jack certainly did. I called myself practical.

Grow up like I did and tell me if you’d wear your emotions on your sleeve for all to see.

---