Page 8 of Braving the Storm
“Didn’t do that for you, darlin’.” His voice is mocking.
In my life, I’ve had very few encounters with my uncle. He was always traveling, living the high life of the rodeo star, and my dadwasn’t exactly close with his adopted brother. Then things went from bad to worse between them for whatever reason when I was about sixteen, and dad told us to never have anything to do with Uncle Stôrmand ever again.
“Utter his name into this house, ever, and I’ll disown you.”I still remember how terrifyingly mad he was. Spit flecking at the corners of his lips. Flush reddening his cheeks. It was a formidable sight as a young girl. Certainly enough to make me wonder more than once what my uncle could have done that was so unforgivable.
And now here we are, alone together on the side of this mountain, and he looks ready to snap my neck.
Oh, god. Should I be worried about being here alone with him? Is he violent? A criminal?
Suddenly, the memory of his fingers around my throat fly back in, and my body heats involuntarily.
This is so fucked up. So. Fucked. Up.
“I just… I don’t know why you’re here.” I mumble. Running my touch over the chipped rim of the brown mug, I kind of like the way the sharp edge of the ceramic digs into my skin beneath the pad of my forefinger. It’s broken and yet somehow resilient, stubbornly still intact, looking like a relic from the eighties.
“Why I’m here?” He repeats my question, narrowing those impossibly blue eyes on me and tilting his head to one side.
“Yes. I mean… you didn’t know I was arriving… I only made the decision to come here myself on the spur of the moment.” Shrugging, my cheeks heat the longer he keeps glaring at me.
“I’m no fucking gentleman, but even I know it’s not exactly polite to throw someone out on their ass when we’re barely beyond the depths of winter.”
My mouth opens and closes. “What?”
“I don’t really give a fuck that you’re my niece, or family, or whatever, but I’m in no mood for this bullshit you’re selling… so, I’ll let you get a coffee and some food in your belly, then I’m taking you back down to Crimson Ridge.”
He turns and begins shunting the contents of the pan onto plates and aggressively opens a drawer with a loud thunk; cutlery clatters as he digs some knives and forks out.
All the while, my head is spinning.
Instinct has me moving before necessarily thinking. I’m up out of my seat and crossing the few feet back to the kitchenette without paying any heed to, or forming a proper plan, of how I wish to respond.
“Excuse me? I’m not going anywhere. Thank you for your help, Uncle…” Inwardly, I wince, hearing myself say the word out loud, especially considering the veryun-familialplaces my mind has drifted to since last night. “But I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Leave?” That drags a menacing bark of a laugh out of him. It’s a cold sound, one that echoes around this small space.
“You lot really are a piece of work. I bet Erik put you up to this, didn’t he?”
“Pretty hard for a dead man to put me up to anything.” I grit my teeth. I didn’t know if my uncle knew. He wasn’t invited to the funeral, and considering my father had cut him off from the family so ruthlessly, I assumed he probably wouldn’t have known, or if he did, simply didn’t care.
His broad shoulder lifts in a shrug. Is that his way of sympathizing? Apologizing? I don’t know that I exactly loved my dad, but he was my parent all the same, and with that comes a fuck load of complicated emotions when they’re no longer around.
No matter how much they hurt you while they were still alive.
My uncle turns and shoves a plate into my hands before pushing past me. A couple of bits of extra crispy bacon. Scrambled eggs. Toast cut in triangles.
Do I want to laugh? Cry? For years, the only thing I’ve been permitted for breakfast has been a green smoothie.
I don’t remember the last time I ate bread.
Such is the vanity of L.A. life in the glare of the Lane Media empire. Life under the fishbowl scrutiny of a million eyes and ahundred shutters clicking at every turn. I had it drilled into me as soon as I could walk that someone isalwayswatching.
Hence, I’ve spent my entire adult life armed with nutritionists, private chefs, and wellness specialists, who are all neatly packaged cult leaders bowing at the altar ofskinny.All hail the latest trend, and thou shalt let nothing pass thy lips deemed to be ‘unhealthy.’
God forbid you might be naturally curvy, no matter how many hours you spend in the gym or carbs you avoid.
My mama’s genes came through strong with me, and I adore that aspect of myself. It's always been others who seemed to scrunch their face while looking at my hips and thighs and boobs as if they were a complex calculus problem to be solved. Whereas my sister was graced with the gazelle-like bone structure passed down by my dad’s unknown lineage prior to being adopted. The two of us couldn’t be less alike if we tried.
I realize my uncle has seated himself at the tiny table over by the window, and if I’m going to cling to any hope of making sense of this, it looks like I’m needing to follow after him.
