Good Girl(30)

“Good girl.” She swallows and smiles with a small blush. The color looks beautiful on her cheeks. I like seeing it. But I know my next question is going to take her happiness away. I need to know, though. “Tell me what happened, Ava.” I dip the spoon into the hot broth and keep my eyes on it as I add, “I want to know.” I bring another spoonful to her lips.

There’s not a trace of a smile on her lips. Or any other emotion. A bit of disappointment, maybe.

“What would you like to know?” she asks warily.

“I want to know the names of the men who hurt you. All of them.” I raise the spoon again, but she shakes her head with a small frown.

“I’m sorry; I can’t.” Her answer pisses me off. I know she owes me nothing. I grit my teeth knowing I’m still waffling on what I’m going to do when I finally see Abram again. But a very large part of me doesn’t want to let him ever see her again. I’d rather lie and say she was dead. I need to think of something and let her know.

“I don’t know their names. Not all of them.” I give her my attention and try to control my anger.

“How many? Tell me what you can.” I clench my jaw realizing I’ve given her a command. Just like I did earlier with Felipe. What the hell is wrong with me? I set the bowl on the nightstand and get off the bed with my back toward her. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me anything.” She doesn’t owe me anything, and if she doesn’t want to talk about it, she doesn’t have to.

“I think I’d like to talk.” I turn to look at her and stare into her blue eyes. I nod and clench my fists. I look at the bowl and then the bed. I don’t think it’s smart of me to sit next to her. This shit is getting to me, and she doesn’t need my aggression. But when I look back into her eyes, she’s begging me for comfort. She leans forward slightly and adds, “If it’s alright, I want to talk.” She noticeably swallows and looks back at the bowl of soup on the nightstand.

“Are you still hungry?” I ask. I quickly reach for it and climb on the bed to give it back to her.

“There’s more downstairs if you like it.” It’s just a can of homestyle chicken noodle. But it does smell good.

She takes the bowl eagerly and smiles. “I do like it. My mother made us chicken noodle when we were sick, too.” She spoons out the broth and blows on it before taking it into her mouth.

She seems happy with the memory, but the mention of her mother makes me sick. It reminds me of my own mother. Both our mothers were slaughtered.

“My mother did, too. Never from a can though.” I grin at the memory. “My mother loved cooking,” I say matter-of-factly, and settle on the bed next to her. This is better, I think. Besides, I’d rather talk about this.

She chuckles into the spoon and takes it greedily into her mouth. “My mother hated cooking. We had a chef. But not when I was little. Back then it was different.”

I try to recall what I know of her father, but it’s not much. I suppose her famila made more money later on in her life and that’s why things changed for her. With the right setup and connections, there’s a shit-ton of money to be made.

“A chef sounds nice.” She shrugs her shoulders and takes another bite.

“I like cooking. But it’s nice every once in a while.”

I huff a humorless laugh. “I can grill, and I can bake, but I tend to burn shit on the stove.”

She looks at me with a wide smile as she asks, “But it’s harder to bake, isn’t it?”

“Nah,” I lean farther back and rest my back against the headboard, “Baking is just mixing up a simple recipe and you pop it in the oven.”

“Oh, do you mean like Betty Crocker?” she asks, and I look at her with confusion.

“Of course, what did you think I meant?”

She sets the empty bowl down and tries to cover her mouth with her arm as she laughs while shaking her head. As I watch her shoulders rise and fall slightly with the sweet sounds of soft laughter, I realize how easy the atmosphere is between us.

This is Ava. I like this side to her.

“What kind of baking do you do?” I ask. I just want to keep the conversation going. I want this feeling to last.

“Like, fresh morning biscuits--” She looks reminiscent, and I interrupt to be an ass.

“They have those in a can. They’re called Pillsbury.” She outright laughs and swings her hand at me, playfully smacking me on the arm.

It triggers her, though. Her face falls and all sense of humor is gone. It’s as though I had the real Ava to myself, if only for a small moment. But now she’s gone. Replaced by the shell of a woman.