Silver Bastard

He stared at me, and for once he didn’t have a damned thing to say.

Nope.

Puck Redhouse just blinked at me like a big, dumb idiot.

“The door’s over there,” I reminded him coolly.

“You’re a real fuckin’ bitch.”

I shrugged.

“Better a bitch than a rapist. Get out.”

SEVEN

SATURDAY

BECCA

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I studied my reflection, looking for some clue as to how or why I was such a head case. The mirror showed nothing new, nothing interesting to indicate that I’d had one of the best orgasms of my life last night, followed by a complete emotional meltdown.

Oh, and there was ripping apart the man who probably saved my life. That was nice, too. A woman should really look a little different after something like that, yet here I was. Just the usual plain brown hair, boring eyes, and mouth that could probably do with a hint of lip gloss if I wanted to go out anywhere. At least my teeth were clean . . . I couldn’t brush away the memories, but I had damned fresh breath. That should count for something, right?

Of course a good night’s sleep would’ve counted for more, but I’d fucked that up, too. Instead I’d spent hours sewing furiously, my Singer’s hum filling the apartment as I shredded the salvaged materials filling my fabric bin. Nothing turned out right, no matter what I tried to create. They were all hideous and wrong, just like me.

I’d collapsed on the floor at five that morning, passing out from exhaustion.

The phone rang, and I grabbed it, expecting to hear Danielle’s voice. She’d promised to call me this morning once she woke up. We had a date to do our nails at eleven, a weekly ritual I’d come to treasure for a variety of reasons, not least of which was the opportunity to experiment on a willing victim who never complained when my design innovations failed to translate.

“Becca?”

“Mom?” I asked, startled. She’d been so angry last night. My argument with Puck kept replaying in my head. He’d been right—she’d hurt me so many times. Why should I be giving her any more of my soul?

Because you love her, my heart whispered. This sucked, because it was true.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she said, her voice subdued. “I couldn’t sleep all night. I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. You need to take care of yourself. I understand.”

“Are you okay?”

She didn’t respond, then she coughed, her voice sounding rough.

“I’m fine,” she whispered, and I knew she wasn’t.

“What did he do?”

“Nothing. I’m fine. You don’t worry about me. I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

“Did he hurt you last night?”

She hesitated again. “You know how he gets. I think he broke my arm. It’s all swollen, but I can’t go to the doctor. I’ll get one shot to leave, baby. I can’t waste it.”

A giant, vicious hand caught my gut and squeezed it hard.

“I’m going to count up the change in my tip jar,” I whispered. “I’ll send it to you. Maybe I can sell something.”

“It won’t be enough. Don’t bother.”

“Mom . . .”

“Baby, it’s over. You have to live your life. I love you.”

Then she hung up the phone. I stared down at it, stunned, then ran for the bathroom. I barely reached the toilet in time, and then I was heaving and throwing up until my stomach ached and throat burned.

I had to figure something out. I couldn’t let Teeny kill my mother.

Unfortunately, I had no idea how to stop him.

—

Nothing felt real after that.

I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I cleaned up the mess of shredded fabric and loose threads I’d created the night before. Then Danielle called, reminding me to bring over my laundry for our manicure date. I carried all of it down to my car, lost in thought.

What a crazy week.

First the job, now my mom . . . Oh, and Puck. What the hell was I supposed to do about Puck? Maybe I wouldn’t have to do anything about him—if he had half a brain he’d never talk to me again. Not after I exploded my crazy all over him like some kind of swollen, bloated tomato left to rot in the sun.

I glanced over at the doorway to Puck’s building, wondering if he was home.

I owed him an apology.

He’d been a dick, no question. But calling him a rapist went too far because it flat-out wasn’t true. He’d had no idea what was really happening that strange, life-changing night. He thought I was some girl he met at a party, some normal girl who wanted to sleep with him and I’d encouraged that impression. When he’d figured it out, he did the right thing even though leaving me would’ve been a thousand times easier.

He’d called me a bitch last night, and he’d been right.

Now I needed to act like an adult and own what I’d done. Would my temper ever stop getting me into trouble?

Walking down the alley, I felt caught between conflicting emotions. I hoped he’d be there so I could say I was sorry and get it over with. I also hoped he wouldn’t answer the door, because facing him was going to suck and I didn’t want to do it. What happened next was completely anticlimactic. I reached for the stairwell door only to find it locked. No buzzer, no intercom, no way of signaling someone upstairs that they had company. I looked around for his bike but couldn’t see it anywhere. Wherever Puck was, I had no way of contacting him.