Page 19 of Riot's Thorn
Except when I touch my hot and tender cheek, I feel stubble. That’s weird. I look down at my body and see I’m no longer a boy. I’m a man, a big man. Much bigger than Mom.
Narrowing my eyes at her, I watch as her pissed-off expression turns to fear, and I like the way that makes me feel too much. She’s used violence against me ever since I can remember, even back when I was in diapers. I have vivid memories of her making me take it off before she beat my ass. Malnourishment kept me skinny and weak, even through my teen years, which meant I’d never been a physical match for her.
Until now.
This is the body of a man with muscle tone and bulk. I grin and wrap my hand around her throat, pushing her back until she’s flat on the couch. I straddle her waist, and my other hand joins the first.
How does it feel, Mom? Do you feel pathetic? Helpless?Well, good.
Her eyes widen as all the times she’s hit me, yelled at me, or ignored me come rushing back, and the only thing I want is to punish her. I tighten my grip and slam her head into the cushion, wishing it were concrete. Kids should have moms who love them and take care of them. That’s what my friends’ moms do. I’ve seen it.
“Riot.” Mom’s lips move, but it’s not her voice that croaks out my name. Besides, who’s Riot? I’m Lucas. “You’re going to kill me.”
Maybe that’s what I want. You’re no good for anyone anyway.Her mouth parts, and her tongue lolls out to the side. Her legs kick, and she tries to twist, but it’s no use. She’ll never hurt me again.
“Parker,” she croaks. “I’m Park?—”
I blink, and this time, when I open my eyes, I don’t smell cigarettes; I smell my favorite lemon cleanser. It’s not Mom’s throat I have my hands around, it’s Parker’s. Fuck. I release her and fall to my ass next to the sofa, crab-crawling backward so I can shrink into my corner.
She chokes and sputters, dragging in huge lungfuls of air. Fat tears stream down her bright red cheeks, the fear she feels thick in the air. It’s been a long time since the memories have taken over my mind, but it’s also been a long time since I’ve let anyone close enough to speak to me that way. The slap must’ve been a step too far, too close to the abuse I suffered for years.
Parker rolls onto her side, meeting my concerned gaze. “Kill me. Please. I don’t want to do this anymore. Please.”
Her hoarse pleas do something to me. My insides are all mixed up and uncomfortable. When I get like this, my skin aches so badly, even having clothes touch me is painful. If I were alone, I’d strip naked and tuck myself deep into my corner where it’s quiet and dark. But I’ve traumatized her enough for the day.
Again, this woman has me feeling things I can’t explain, but instead of getting pissed about it, I feel. . . I don’t know. Bad, I guess. Really fucking bad.
I wish there were an instruction manual for being a human. I’d look up how to deal with her so I didn’t fuck it up. Parker’s nothing like my mom. If she was, she’d be coming at me with fists flying for being an ungrateful shit. She definitely wouldn’tbeg me to finish the job. Not even choking would make Mom beg, and I know that for a fact.
Ben and Amy run over to me, picking up on my stress. They climb up my chest and take turns nestling under my chin. My rats have always been the only creatures to ever understand me. I’m grateful for my time behind that dumpster because it brought me my only friends. Ben and Amy aren’t from the dumpster, though; they’re from a pet store, but they care for me the same way.
Parker’s hands move from her throat to cover her face, and I see the damage I left behind. My mouth goes dry, and my words get caught in my throat. Mostly because I don’t know what to say. I get no enjoyment out of marking her this way.
An idea pops into my head, and I set my rats on the ground and stand.
“I’ll be back.” I push my feet into my boots and grab my wallet and keys. I reach for my cut but decide it’d be better left behind for what I have in mind. “Feel free to try and escape. You won’t be able to. But even if by some miracle you do, I’ll hunt you down. You’ll never be free of me.”
With that final threat, I leave her crying on the couch. The timing is probably bad, but if I can pull this off, maybe she’ll forgive me.
The black sedan I took to Parker’s house is gone. I’m sure Rigger didn’t want to give the cops a reason to pull one of us over, so the car was probably crushed into a cube at the salvage yard. That’s fine. I was going to take my bike anyway.
The ride is over way too quickly. Usually, time on the road helps clear my head, but how the hell can I clear it when I don’t know what I’m doing? I know what I should do, though. I should kill her. Take her to the desert, put a bullet in her head, and be done. It’d be easy, and then things could go back to normal.
There must be something wrong with me because even thinking about having her on her knees and aiming my gun at her makes me sick. I can’t do it, and fuck, if it doesn’t piss me the hell off. Goddamn it! This is so stupid. She’s nothing special—just some girl with bad eyesight and an attitude problem.
If that’s true, then why does electricity run through my veins when I touch her? Why do I crave her company? Why am I walking through the apartment complex where she lives? No, where sheusedto live.
This place is nice as fuck, with a whole community center and indoor pool. Her building is a two-story duplex that probably costs more per month than I paid for a year’s worth of rent in the trailer park. The cops would’ve been in and out by now, looking for clues. Since I know they wouldn’t have found any, there’d be no reason for them to monitor the place, but I still make sure no one is surveilling.
For a while, I just observe, looking to see if shadowed figures move across the curtains or if lights flip on and off. If there’s any sign of someone being home, I’ll have to come back another time, but after an hour, I feel comfortable moving closer.
Walking around to the back, I hop over the small, fenced area where they have a patio set and a gas barbecue. The shades on the sliding glass door are open, giving me a full view of the open-concept living room, kitchen, and dining room.
Parker and her friends aren’t especially tidy. There are dishes on the counters and in the sink. Blankets are strewn over the cream-colored leather sectional, and wine glasses litter the coffee table. What I don’t see are people. Either her roommates are in their rooms, or no one is home.
“Only one way to find out,” I mutter and jimmy open the slider.
I open it slowly so it doesn’t make any noise. Instantly, I’m hit with the scent of perfume. It tickles my nose, but itsmells nothing like Parker, so it’s more an annoyance. Standing perfectly still, I listen for any signs of life, but it seems as though her roommates aren’t here. Even so, I walk on light feet through the kitchen and into the living room.
