“I don't get why this is so important,” I mumble, but I'm deluding myself if I think he's going to change his mind. I even understand why he wants to know. He stuck his neck out for me, going against Blade. He's entitled to know what happened. The problem is talking about it, reliving any of it, scares me. That's what it boils down to. I don't want to relive it. I don't want to remember how stupid, how weak I was. Those memories torment me enough and do it when I am not expecting it, at times when I have no control. My mantra, ‘today I will be stronger,’ is just a joke. I'm not stronger today. I am wondering if I ever will be strong. The shame of that fills me.

"Hayden?" Michael prompts me, and I pull myself out of my head with a sigh.

"I have, or I guess had, a half-brother."

"Had?" Michael asks, and his voice sounds off.

"The last note I had from him pretty much said that he had finally fucked over the wrong people. I haven't heard anything else, so I figured it all finally caught up with him.”

"You don't sound particularly broken up about it," Michael says. I should be annoyed at him, but he doesn't sound like he's passing judgment. There's something in his tone, but it's not judgment. I look up to find him studying me. "I take it you two weren't close?"

"I wanted to be…once I thought we were. I was horribly wrong," I answer, my head down as the memories from the past begin circling around me.

"Tell me," he asks, when I don't say anything further.

"I didn't have a particularly great life growing up. Mom was…in and out of rehab. Dad stuck around, probably longer than most men would have. He had a boy who was about ten years older than me. I'd like to say he stuck around because he knocked my mom up and cared what happened to me. I think though he stuck around so mom could help him raise his son. Not that she was capable of that. But my father didn't really like kids. He wanted Jack because he wanted a boy to carry on the family name. He didn't have any use for a girl. So when mom became too much to handle, he split—taking Jack with him."

"Your father was an asshole."

"Yeah, I think I have a knack for collecting them." I look up when Michael grunts, and I even find a way to smile at the offended look he's wearing. I reach up and touch his face gently. "Present company excluded," I tell him, and I actually mean it.

Michael bends down and kisses me. It's a brief kiss, but it somehow warms me. When it's done, he links our hands together. He squeezes my hand tight for a minute, then his thumb softly brushes against my knuckles as he waits for me to continue. Before Michael, I'm not sure I ever held hands with any man. Now, it's something I crave. With a sigh, I try to concentrate on what I was telling him.

It's not easy.

The story, my story is ugly.

It makes me feel ugly.

"What happened when your father and brother left?"

"Not a lot. Mom stayed high, sometimes she'd disappear for days. I was sixteen by then, and I pretty much raised myself."

"Fuck," Michael mutters, squeezing my hand tighter.

"To be honest, I preferred it that way. Living on my own, was easier. I had a job at a small diner, and I stretched what I made pretty far. Every now and then, my mom would make an appearance, but usually she was only after money. At first, I resisted, eventually it was easier to just give her some money to get rid of her."

"Jesus, Beauty," he says, kissing my forehead. It's a stupid nickname, but for some reason whenever he uses it, I actually feel beautiful.

"That was one of my first major mistakes though. Because all I did was train mom to come to me when she was in trouble. Sadly, trouble for junkies is really big trouble sometimes."

"What does that mean?" Michael asks, and his body is tense now. I wish I could reassure him, but there's no reassurance to be found in my life—especially when it comes to my family.

"Mom had a supplier after her. She owed him a bunch of money. He thought he would collect it…from me."

Michael doesn't say anything but the intense vibe in the room lets me know he understands what I'm saying. His grip on my hand is almost painful, but I like it. It grounds me to the here and now and keeps me from getting lost in my past.

"When I wouldn't agree to that, he demanded money. Money I didn't have."

"What…what did you do?" he asks, clearing his throat before finishing the sentence. I don't dare look at him. If I do that, I'll never get this story out, and Michael's not going to let me stop until he hears it.

"I made the second major mistake. I reached out to my brother. Jack and I had kept in touch here and there. Enough that I knew how to get him a message. I swallowed my pride and told him what was going on, and I asked if he could help get me away from my mother and her pimp…because that's what her supplier truly was, and he didn't like that I wouldn't agree to join his stable."

"Is your mom still alive?"

"No. She overdosed years ago."

"Good," he says, and that word sounds extremely cold, but I can't find it inside me to correct him. I take a shuddering breath and try to figure out how to finish the story, keeping the details to a minimum.

“Jack offered to get me out of there, and at the time, I was desperate. I didn’t realize he had his own agenda.”

“What was that?” Michael asks, and I have to fight with myself to give him the answer.

What will he think of me?