Page 91 of Cakes for the Grump
“My father is a right bastard, and he raised me with those same uglybeliefs. To use for your gain, to never trust anyone, to squish those lesser and weaker than you under your boot.”
“You were a child,” I murmur.
“Until I wasn’t. When I got older and my shoulders started filling in, my dad said it was time for me to be a man and join our cause. He took me to a camp full of like-minded people.” He shuts his eyes. “The crap they spewed about the world made me sick to my stomach. That was the first time I looked around with horror. God, not before that, but then I did. And all of a sudden, I was ashamed. I wanted nothing to do with any of it. The money or the power.”
I’m stroking his hand. “It wasn’t your fault. You grow up trusting your parents to teach you what is right.”
“I didn’t fight him. Even after I knew it was wrong. I hated him, but not as much as I hated myself for not fighting back. Because anger doesn’t go in a straight line. When he was upset with me, his anger zigzagged into the direction of my mother.”
He tries pulling from me, but I hold on tighter. “Not your fault,” I say again.It’s not. Doing anything you can to stop your mother from getting hurt, I can’t imagine it. The burden.
“I couldn’t leave her behind, and she wouldn’t run away with me. And then she died. Drove herself into a tree, on too many medications.” His voice is hollow and I no longer like the surrounding darkness. I want him to be in the light.
He continues, “After the funeral, my father looked at his two children. Join me or you get none of this privilege, wealth, family name, status. My sister walked away. I stayed. Because he didn’t deserve to get away with it.”
“I’m so sorry, Luke.” I don’t know what else to say. My words don’t feel enough.
“The dementia diagnosis,” Luke sneers. “Someone up there is playing God on me. Laughing. He won’t even know I’ve finally used his own company and twisted it around on him. I won’t get the satisfaction of ruining everything, because he won’t know.”
With that, he stops talking. I don’t say anything either.
He sighs. “I’m a monster.”
“No.”
“Why wouldn’t you think that? I’ve made enough public appearances in support of my father that I look like scum. The public thinks everyproject I do is an image rehabilitation one. This conference will appear like one, too. Intel will think I’m playing them, but I need them to sign.”
“We’ll make them see,” I promise.
“We?” He takes his thumb and tilts my chin so I get a good look at him. “How can you hear everything I’ve told you, and still want to help me? I’m not doing this because it’s the right thing to do. I’m in it for vengeance. You should get out of here. You should run the other way.”
“No.”
“No?”
“You won.”
“I won? I won what?”
“Me,” I say. “I’m on board. I believe in what you are doing. I believe in you.”
He flinches. “Don’t make me out to be what I’m not.”
“I’m not,” I tell him. It’s the truth. “You have selfish reasons to do something with good consequences.” My dad comes to mind. “I’ve experienced the opposite. A person with good reasons whose actions have selfish consequences. So yeah, I’m okay with your reasoning. And don’t try to convince me to run away. I’m using you for your apartment and kitchen, remember?”
It is, I realize, the right thing to say. Luke is now fighting back his amusement. “Use me how you like, Rita Singh.”
“We’ll use each other,” I proclaim.
It doesn’t escape me that we’re saying these things to each other while sleeping in the same bed. It also does not escape my body. Despite the heaviness of our conversation, hearing Luke sayUse me how you likecauses a reaction. I wish I could squirm my thighs together, but Luke will notice. There isn’t much room between us.
Incorrigible to be thinking these thoughts.
Especially after what he has shared.
I twist myself so I’m lying on my back again, and facing the ceiling. I hear him do the same. A lot has been shared. A lot has been promised. His secrets are intimacies drawing us together.
This—this is heartrending. I’m still hurting over his past, but I’m also wanting him too. What a helix of sensations that should not coexist. Not to mention the unprocessed trauma dancing around in my head around my own adventures tonight.
