Rock's Redemption(Insurgents MC Romance Book 8)(2)

"Why're you crying?" he asked.

The girl wiped her nose. "It's nothing. I want to be alone." Her brimming gaze held his.

"There's always a reason for crying."

She looked down and then buried her head between her knees. He shrugged  and turned from her, beginning to make his way through the bushes.  Behind him, her soft voice called out, "Wait. Don't go. Not yet."

He swiveled around, his gaze catching hers. Her lips quivered as tears  dropped from her eyes all over again. He hunched down. "You gonna tell  me why you're crying?"                       
       
           



       

Without a word she pulled up her pants, exposing angry red streaks across her white skin.

He whistled. "Your pa do that?"

She shook her head, her light brown hair falling over her shoulders. "My maman."

"Your ma?" He whistled again. "Does your pa know she does this?"

Again her head shook. "He knows she beats my brothers, but this is the  first time she's beaten me where he can see. That's why she made me wear  long pants. She's mean when she drinks too much tea."

"You gonna tell your pa?"

Her eyes widened in fear. "No," she breathed. "My mother said she'd  punish me severely if I ever tell him what she does to me." She bowed  her head in shame.

He watched her for a few seconds before he sat down next to her. "I bet  my pa is way meaner than your mom." He pulled up his shirt and, under  the moonlight, showed her several angry lashes on his chest-some new,  some healing, some scarred. He then pointed out the bruises on his arms  and legs.

"Your father did all that to you?" she whispered.

"Yep." His dark eyes narrowed. "I can't wait to grow up so I can go  away. My pa is always mad and he takes it out on me, my brother, and my  sisters. I can handle it, but when he beats my ma, I get so mad that all  I wanna do is slit his throat to make him stop. He's a bastard. Sounds  like your ma's not too much better. How many brothers you got?"

"Two-one older and one younger. I wish I had a sister though. My older  brother, Armand, is always telling me what to do. He's so bossy. My  younger one, Stephan, isn't like us. He can't learn like we do, but I'm  not supposed to tell anyone about him. I play with him a lot." She  sniffled and wiped her nose again.

"What's your name?

"Clotille Boucher."

"Are you the Boucher girl who lives in the big house on West Bayou Parkway?"

"Yes. How do you know?"

"My ma cleans your house. I've never seen you before. I've seen your older brother a few times. He wasn't too nice."

"Armand's like that. So you're Mrs. Aubois's son?" He nodded. "You look like your mother." He smiled.

They sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts until Roche  remembered the ham hocks. If he didn't get them, his mother wouldn't be  able to make dinner later and his father would be angry. He'd probably  beat her.

Roche jumped up. "I gotta get going. I've got something to do." He  shoved his hand in his pocket and felt the chocolate his mother had  given him earlier. He pulled it out and handed it to her. "Here."

"For me? Thank you." Shyly she took the thin wafer from his hand,  unwrapping the green foil slowly. She plopped the candy in her mouth and  a large smile crossed her face.

All of a sudden he felt awkward as the pretty girl watched him, her green eyes dancing. "I gotta go," he mumbled, turning away.

"What's your name?" she asked after his retreating figure.

He glanced backward. "Roche."

"It means rock."

"I know." Their eyes locked and, in that moment, a friendship was born.

* * *

They spent the rest of the summer sharing laughs, catching fireflies in  jars, and digging for worms on the bank of the Vermillion River. He  soothed her through the bruises her mother put on her in places her  father couldn't see, and she sat quietly by him as he breathed heavily  after a severe beating from his father. Together they found some solace,  some lightness in the midst of their violent and hurtful world.

Their friendship was frowned upon by Mrs. Boucher and her older son,  Armand. After all, Roche came from the poor section of Lafayette where  dilapidated shotgun houses dotted the bleak landscape. His father fished  and hunted for a living in the bayou while Mr. Boucher sat in his  office in a suit and tie and made multi-million-dollar decisions  pertaining to land development.

At first, Mrs. Boucher forbade Clotille from hanging around "the poor  boy," but when she'd realized it kept her daughter out of the house for  most of the day, she relented and poured herself another Long Island  Iced Tea. Not having Clotille around kept Mrs. Boucher from beating her,  and she welcomed the respite. She resented her daughter because she was  "Daddy's little girl" and her father gave in to her all the time. He  spoiled her, doted on her, and paid more attention to her than he did to  his wife. And the fact that he carried on with his mistress-the  putain-was more than Mrs. Boucher could bear. What was he thinking in  setting up a woman nearly half his age in a luxury house in one of his  developments in River Ranch? It was an embarrassment, something she  couldn't do anything about except punish her daughter for her father's  indiscretions and coldness. Each slap and sting of the belt on  Clotille's tender flesh was meant for Mrs. Boucher's husband. He'd kill  her for beating his precious daughter, and Mrs. Boucher derived an  inordinate amount of pleasure from knowing that.                       
       
           



       

So she let the two children while away the summer, surprisingly calm  when she learned that Roche would be attending the same school as  Clotille due to an open enrollment policy the city had passed at the end  of the previous school year. As long as she didn't have to see the boy,  she was content to pretend that he didn't exist.

* * *

Four years later

"Gaston, I will never agree to sell the land. It's been in my family for  generations and it's going to stay that way." Roche heard his mother's  soft but firm voice coming from the kitchen as he scrambled to get ready  for school. His father's loud voice bounced off the walls, and he knew  if his mother didn't finish serving breakfast soon and get out of the  house, she'd find his pa's fist on her face.

He wished his dad could understand that the land meant everything to his  mother. She'd inherited a large amount of it in the bayou, where an old  wooden shack with one room stood on the edge of the waters. When they'd  married, she'd put her husband on the title on condition that he never  ask her to sell the land. Now that oil and gas companies had approached  his parents, his father's agreement was only a memory. He kept  pressuring his wife to sell so they could finally have some money to get  them out of poverty.

Roche scoffed at his dad's argument; he wanted the money to gamble at  Cypress Bayou Casino in Charenton, buy booze, and purchase stinky  perfume for the women he screwed. Roche admired his mother for not  giving in to the pressures of his dad and the oil and gas companies who  were decimating the bayous.

A loud whack startled Roche out of his musings, and he rushed to the  kitchen to see his father backhand his mother across her face once more.  She whimpered and raised her arms to defend herself. Before Gaston  could hit her a third time, Roche grabbed his hand in midair. "Leave her  alone," he growled.

Gaston spun around, eyes blazing, face contorted in rage. "You want a  beating before school? I'll beat you so bad you won't be able to walk  for a week."

"Don't touch her!" Roche's voice sounded stronger than he felt.

His mother rushed over to him. "Roche, go on to school. You'll be late. I  can handle this. Your father and I were just having a disagreement,  that's all."

His older brother, Henri, walked in before he could reply. "Roche, leave  it alone. Pa's right anyway. We should sell the land so we can get out  of this shithole house. It'd be nice to have some money."

"Shut the fuck up!" Roche glared at Henri.

"Roche, your language," his mother said, her face tight.

"When you get home, boy, you're getting a beating you won't forget too  easily," his father growled. "Now both of you get out of here."

Roche glanced at his mother who nodded to him. "Go on," she said softly.  "I'll be all right. You don't want to be late for school."

Henri walked out and Roche followed slowly, his eyes pleading with his  mother's to let him stay so he could keep her safe. A knot twisted in  his stomach when he shut the door behind him.