Page 30 of Castaway Whirlwind
Russell stops, then drops his hand from my neck. I miss the warmth of it. “That’s why you said ‘not again’?” I don’t know how he heard that. He guesses, “You were there when it happened?”
“Yes. Worst day of my life.”Today might have topped it.
“What happened?”
“He was making me run laps at my middle school’s track, and he was upset when I kept asking for a break. And then he just…collapsed like you did. He didn’t have a phone, so I had to run to a neighbor’s house, but I was so slow that by the time I got back, he was already gone. The ambulance couldn’t do anything when they got there.”
“Why was he making you run laps?” he asks uneasily.
Shame has me dropping my forehead on his round shoulder. “He found out I lied about how much money I’d made babysitting for one of my mom’s friends the night before because I didn’t want to give it all to him.”
Russell tenses. “Why would he,the parent, make you,the child, give him your babysitting money?”
Something in his tone makes me sit up straighter and slide my fingers out of his hair. “That was the rule. Everyone contributes to the household.”
“Chores? Sure. Money? Never. That’s not a child’s responsibility.”
I don’t like where this conversation is headed, and I bring my arms between us, crossing them around my stomach. “Easy for you to say, since I know your ex-wife is a physical therapist and makes plenty of money. But my mom just sat on the couchall day, doing nothing. She freeloaded, like she is now with my stepdad, so I had to help make up for it.”
There’s a brief pause where he opens and closes his mouth twice before asking with some reservation, “Does that mean you think Goldie is a ‘freeloader’ for being a stay-at-home mom? Or Dolly for not working now that she’s in school?”
“No,” I’m quick to answer, offended by the implication that I could ever think lowly of my best friends or that they’re anything like my mom. “It’s different with them.”
“How is it different?”
“They, you know, do other stuff to earn it,” I say with a shrug.
He seems even more upset when he asks, “How do they ‘earn’ it?”
I lower my voice, my stomach twisting with the beginning stages of nausea. “Sex. Whenever Wyatt and Davis want. My mom couldn’t even do that much.”
Russell slides his hands up to grip my biceps, his brows an angry slash. “How do you know that?”
“My dad told me.”
“Shi-oot, Layla, no.” Russell shakes his head, his fingers flexing and digging into my skin, hot fury pouring off him in waves, unnerving me further. “This just gets worse and worse. So much about you is starting to make sense.”
“What does that mean?” I ask defensively, my own anger pushing to the surface, masking the hurt that the more he learns about me, the more disturbed he gets.
“Your dad never should have discussed his sex life with you, especially when you were a child.Never. And what he drilled into your head, making you run laps to punish you for notgiving him your babysitting money—it’s not right. It’s abuse.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I twist to knock Russell’s hands off. “He wasn’t abusive.” I squash the tendril of doubt Russell has stirred up in the back of my mind. “He—” I’m interrupted by a heavy knock on the front door.
I shove off of Russell’s shoulders so I can stand, only now realizing just how long I’d been sitting on his lap.
“We’re not done with this conversation,” Russell says, getting to his feet and pointing his finger at me.
“Yes, we are,” I say firmly between clenched teeth, then take off running toward the door at the far end of the living room, closing it behind me. Pressing my ear against it, I try to listen to the conversation following suit, but the door isn’t hollow like mine, nearly soundproof.
I jump back a few minutes later when Russell pushes open the door unexpectedly, and I cross my arms over my chest to hide my breasts since I hadn’t thought to grab my clothes before running away.
He clears his throat, standing in the open doorway, his eyes dipping a few times to my chest and back up again. He hasn’t rebuttoned his flannel either, so my eyes keep wandering down, too, my core pulsing when he flexes his abs.Wow.
“That was Deputy Allen,” he says.
“Did the police find out? About me? Am I going to be arrested?” I’m rushing my words, too panicked to stop and think through how Allen would even know about my topless maid service.
“No. Gibson heard about the 9-1-1 call and sent Allen out for a welfare check. He’s gone now.”
