Silver Bastard(54)

“Figure something out,” she replied desperately. “Baby, I can’t get away without your help and I can’t stay here. I know I’ve been a crappy parent—I realize that. But I love you, I’ve always loved you, and I know you love me.”

“Mom, this isn’t about whether I love you. I don’t have the money and I can’t just make it appear out of the air.”

“Can you borrow it from someone?” she pressed. “Make some guy feel good, then hit him up for a loan?”

My stomach twisted.

“No.”

“You’re pretty, always have been,” she wheedled. “Why don’t you go to a strip club? You could earn that money in a night or two, send it down to me. I’d do it myself, but they’d never take me. Not like I am now. I’m too old, baby.”

I closed my eyes, trying to picture taking off my clothes in front of a crowd of staring men. No. No way. How dare she even consider asking me that?

“I can empty my tip jar,” I said. “But it’s not much, maybe fifteen or twenty bucks. I’ll send it to you tomorrow. It’s the best I can do.”

Her voice turned hard.

“He’s going to kill me,” she snapped. “What kind of girl lets her mother die because she’s too good to take off her clothes? You did a lot more than that down here, and don’t think I’ve forgotten how you cried when you left. You didn’t want to ride off with that boy—I forced you to go, to save your life. Now you won’t do the same for me?”

My stomach heaved, and I swayed. Why? Why did she have to do this?

“I’ll send you my tip money,” I repeated slowly. “There must be someone else you can ask, Mom. Can you steal some money from Teeny while he’s sleeping?”

“You’re ungrateful,” she hissed, hanging up on me. I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to steady myself, setting the phone on the table. What the hell was that all about? Should I believe her?

No.

It couldn’t be that bad. Mom was a survivor. If she really wanted to leave her husband she could just climb in her car and leave—I knew Teeny. He’d get mad, maybe smack her around a bit. Then he’d pass out and she could run away.

“Why would you send that woman anything?”

I jumped, turning to face Puck. He loomed over me, anger written all over his face, and my breath caught.

“I forgot you were here.”

His face darkened.

“Got what you want from me?” he asked, his voice mocking. Then he reached down and grabbed his dick through his jeans, squeezing it lewdly. “Because you left me hanging.”

Seriously? My eyes narrowed.

“My mom says Teeny is going to kill her,” I said, emphasizing each word carefully. “She needs two grand to get away and come up here. Your dick is not a priority, under the circumstances.”

“Bullshit,” he replied, snorting. “She needs two grand to buy drugs, or pay someone off so they don’t plant your stepdad in the ground, where he belongs.”

I shrugged awkwardly, because he wasn’t necessarily wrong. Not that I wanted to concede the point.

“She sounded different this time,” I said, and I hated the hint of weakness that crept in my voice. He probably thought I was a gullible fool. Maybe I was. Or maybe she’d finally had enough and wanted to get out. Could I ever forgive myself if Teeny hurt her seriously? “I want to save her from him.”

“Come here.”

“Why?” I asked. Puck raised a brow.

“We weren’t finished.”

“My mom just called and told me her husband was going to kill her,” I told him desperately. “And you still want to have sex? What kind of asshole says that?”

He stepped forward and caught my hand, pressing it down against the front of his jeans. His fingers wrapped around mine, squeezing his cock. Dark red stained his cheek, the white of his scar standing out. Sometimes I forgot just how scary Puck could be.

“The kind of asshole who knows she’s playing you. And yeah, I still want to have sex,” he said. “Been thinkin’ about it for five years, ever since I took you away from that hellhole. Remember? Because it was a hellhole and she’s the fucking devil. That bitch pimped you out and now you’re going to send her money? What the fuck are you smoking?”

I stiffened. Jerk. Of course, he wasn’t the only one I was angry at, but he was here.

“She’s my mom,” I told him. “And despite everything, I love her. I don’t know why, but I do and you have no right to judge me for that. I’m not planning to send her a bunch of money. I don’t have a bunch of money. But if I did, it wouldn’t be any of your damned business.”