Page 23 of Selling Innocence

A week of living here, of dealing with these men, of abandoning my old life and pacing through this property. Other than my outing to the store, I’d been stuck within these walls. It reminded me again how lonely a house full of people could be.

How many times had I lived around others? So many staff members, so many underlings who worked for my father coming in and out of my homes, but they’d lacked warmth or a sense of family.

I thought I’d gotten past that.

No, that’s not true. Even after moving out here, my life hadn’t filled up any. I was too afraid of outing myself, of trusting anyone, so I never let any person close.I made friends at school, but they never came over to my place, we never met up outside of campus. Talking to them had exhausted me as I kept my lies in order, as I feared what might happen to them if I slipped up, so I’d maintained my distance.

At least my apartment had been quiet and empty, since I found far more comfort in that than in the noise of a house where no one gave a damn about me.

Cloth struck my face, obscuring my view. I moved it, realizing it was a cotton throw blanket, light enough to use in the summer. I glanced toward the house to find Tor sitting at the edge of the raised deck, watching me, his golden eyes seeming to glow even in the darkness.

“Thanks.” I shifted the blanket over me. It didn’t help with the chill—the cause of that sat far deeper—but it still made me feel calmer.

Tor said nothing, but thus far, he hadn’t. He’d watched over me a few times—everyone took turns—but even then, he’d stayed silent. He attended meetings with the other men, but he always remained on the sidelines, watching.

“Can you not talk?” I brought my gaze from him and back to the sky, to the open darkness, the bright white spots that shone down.

Something struck the ground beside me, and I frowned as I twisted to pick it up.

A phone?

It had no password and opened with a press of the button, a symbol at the top showing an unread text message.

A few clicks later, and it came up.

I can speak, but it hurts and is difficult, so I usually don’t.

I glanced up to find him staring back at me. Was he waiting for a response? Was this his attempt at conversation?

I’d certainly had stranger ones.

“I’m sorry. Were you born that way?”

He shook his head, then his fingers flew across the screen of the phone in his hand. His quickness said he usually communicated this way.

I had thyroid cancer as a kid. The surgery to remove it damaged a lot of the surrounding area. I can only speak very quietly now, like a whisper, and it hurts when I do, so I usually text.

“What about sign language?”

I know it, but few others do, so it isn’t all that useful. Mostly, I prefer to listen and watch.

A silence drifted between us, but I understood him better now.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable or heavy as it had. Now that I knew his quiet wasn’t just because he hated me—he might still hate me, of course—I could handle it better.

You look happier.

I smiled at the words, then spoke without looking up at him. “I don’t like silence from other people. It’s harder to read people when they’re quiet, and in my experience, quiet usually means mad. It’s impossible to try to keep someone happy, to make sure I don’t piss them off if they don’t say anything. I’m glad to know you’re quiet because of a different reason than that I’d pissed you off.”

The phone in my hand dinged. You’ve found quiet means angry? Do you mean you often dealt with people’s anger?

The question took me back for a moment, to living with my father, with Kyler Williams. He’d barely been a father to me, but he was the only one I’d had.

“Yeah, I have,” I admitted. As soon as I whispered it, though, I backtracked. “Don’t mistake me—I’m not some victim. I wasn’t abused by angry people. I was always well protected as a kid. No one ever even dared to spank me.” I laughed softly as I thought back, sorting through so many memories of my childhood.

My father had been an absent piece of shit, but others in my life? They’d filled that place. My mother—even if I didn’t remember her much—Nem, the Quad, even Jarrod later. They’d all watched out for me, best as they could.

“My father was a serious man who didn’t abide by mistakes or rebellion. He expected a lot out of me, and I don’t think I ever really lived up to any of it in his eyes.”

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