My stomach crawled up into my throat—she’d never sounded like this before. Like she’d been strangled. I knew how that felt.
He’d strangled me once, too.
I had to do something, I realized. Puck had been right—the woman was a con artist, no question. But she was my mom, and she truly believed she was going to die. I heard it in her voice.
You can’t fake something like that.
I walked over to my Singer and sat down in front of it, fingers running over the black enamel and gold leaf. It was more than a hundred years old . . . The most valuable thing I owned. How much was it worth? Should I try to sell it?
I thought of Regina’s kind, loving face, the wrinkles around her eyes . . . the way she’d held me while I cried.
Priceless.
The Singer was priceless and I had no right to sell it—it wasn’t really mine. I was just using it until it went to its next owner, because a thing like that can’t be bought or sold.
Instead I went over to my tip jar counting the piles of quarters, dimes, and nickels. Twenty minutes later I’d determined that I had $122.16, counting the hundred bucks I’d gotten from Prince Handsy. Combined with my checking account that made $144.79—my entire cash value as a human being, and that was before I paid my power bill or filled my gas tank.
It would have to be enough. I’d call her in the morning.
“You okay?” Puck asked as I slipped into bed.
“Yeah, it’s all good,” I whispered, hoping it would be. He grunted and pulled me into his arms protectively. Not even the memory of Mom’s voice could keep me up after that.
—
There’s something wonderful about waking up in bed with a sexy man. Well, lots of wonderful things, not least of which was the way he flipped me on my stomach and fucked me from behind.
Yeah, that part was good.
Even better, though, was the big breakfast he helped me cook. I didn’t have any ingredients, a problem he solved by walking across the roof and raiding his own kitchen. Together we made eggs, bacon, and coffee, then sat down to each together like a real couple.
“So what’s your work schedule like?” he asked. “I know you have school during the day . . .”
“I go to school about twenty to thirty hours a week,” I told him. “It’s usually a full-time program, but they made an exception for me. For now, Teresa has me on nights, Tuesday through Saturday.”
He frowned.
“Doesn’t leave a whole lot of extra time.”
“I’m a busy girl,” I said, realizing this could be an issue. “There’s nobody but me, Puck. If I don’t pay the tuition bills, nobody else will. I’m not afraid to work hard.”
“How much longer until you graduate?”
“Probably six months, if things go well. Longer if they don’t. I knew it was a tough schedule when I started, but I don’t want to wait tables forever. Don’t want to move away from Callup, either. The options are limited.”
He nodded, still looking less than thrilled.
“So you have school today?”
“Yeah, I’ll need to start getting ready soon,” I said. “I want to get there by ten. That way I can leave around three, which gives me time to bake a pie for Earl before I go out to their place for dinner.”
He sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. “So you’re telling me I’ve been beaten out by school and a pie?”
I smiled apologetically.
“In my defense, it’s a huckleberry pie—last berries of the season,” I said. “I’d invite you to come with me, but I think I’ll need some time to explain this to them. This is a big turnaround for me . . . being with you, I mean.”
“I think they’ll be less surprised than you think. But I’m guessing they go to bed pretty early. I’ll come over after that.”
“That’s a pretty big assumption,” I murmured, sipping my coffee. He raised his brows and I had to laugh. “Okay, it’s not that big of an assumption.”
“I’ve got shit to do today,” he said. “So it looks like maybe I should get started. If I’m lucky, I’ll make it back in time to steal a slice of your pie.”
“That sounds really dirty.”
“That’s why I said it,” he replied, then leaned forward across the table, catching me by the back of the neck for a coffee-flavored kiss. There was something so controlling and possessive about the way he always did that. It should bother me. Instead it turned me on.
Fucked up.
—
Right on cue, my phone buzzed to life not long after I reached the main highway. Usually I’d wait to check my messages. Today I wanted to call Mom and let her know that I had money for her.
“Becca?” she asked, her voice a harsh and broken whisper. “Becca, is that you?”
“Yeah, Mama,” I said, whatever leftover glow I’d had from my morning with Puck well and truly gone. “I got your message. How are you doing?”
“Not so good,” she whispered. “You have to get me out of here.”
“I’ve got a hundred and forty-four dollars,” I told her. “I can send it today. It’s not enough for a bus ticket, but it should get you to a shelter.”
Silence.
“Baby, I told you I needed two grand,” she said. “I mean, I definitely want you to send whatever you’ve got, but it won’t be enough. Not even close.”
I closed my eyes and rubbed the bridge of my nose.
“Mom, that doesn’t make any sense. You can go to a women’s shelter. They’ll hide you until you’re healed up and can travel. We’ll save up for a ticket to Spokane and I’ll pick you up, take you home with me.”