Vicious Cycle(9)

Hers was the sad tale of a good girl who’d gotten involved with the wrong man. She’d been a warm, nurturing mother who kissed my cuts and scrapes and wrapped me in her arms when I had nightmares. She just hadn’t planned on my abusive old man getting out of prison, hunting us down, and then strangling her one night when I was seven.

She went in the ground, he went to jail, and I went into the system. From there, I ricocheted from one shithole to another. The anger and violence I’d inherited from my old man started surfacing when I hit puberty, and that’s when I went out on my own. Yeah, a thirteen-year-old kid couldn’t do much for himself on the streets but steal … and fight.

The ring is where Preach found me. Big for my age, I fought illegally in an underground circuit. For six months, I lived a hand-to-mouth existence, busting noses and cracking jaws, thinking no one in the fucking world cared about me. But I was wrong.

Fate is a funny motherfucker. Once upon a time, my mother had attended Preach’s church. In fact, Preach and Mama Beth had hidden her and me from my father when he was on one of his drunken rampages before he was sent to prison. We’d run away in the middle of the night when my mother found out he was being released. It was probably the worst thing she could have done. She might still be alive today if she had stayed. After all, we had shelter and protection when we were with Preach.

The angry part of me wanted to tell Preach to go fuck himself when he offered me his home. I had no love for holy men like him. As if he sensed that, he had rolled up his sleeves to show me his heavily tattooed arms. He’d given me his story—the good, the bad, and the ugly—and I never looked back. I once again returned to Preach’s house. He then legally adopted me, and I became the oldest of the Malloy boys. For the most part, Rev and Bishop didn’t give me too much shit. Sure, we got into a few scuffles and scrapes. You can’t add in a teenager to a family with a nine- and six-year-old and not expect problems.

Mama Beth’s small hand on my shoulder brought me back into the present. “Speak to me, son.”

I pulled away to stare into her questioning eyes. “Lacey is dead. Murdered.”

A tiny gasp escaped her lips. It had been five years since Lacey had been a part of my life, but Mama Beth knew her significance. “I’m so sorry.”

“There’s more,” I croaked.

“Sit down, honey,” she instructed, leading us over to the couch. Once I collapsed down on the worn sofa, I put my head in my hands.

“She had a daughter. … I have a daughter.”

Mama Beth reached over to take my chin in her fingers. She tilted my head to where I had to look at her. She cocked her brows at me, silently urging me to keep talking. “With Lacey gone, she’s my responsibility. Hell, my name is right there on the birth certificate. But the worst thing …” I raked a shaky hand through my hair. “The kid looks just like me.”

Blues eyes narrowed dangerously at me. “The worst thing? Don’t ever let me hear you talk negatively about this child again. You were blessed to create a life, David. There are many people in the world who are never granted that gift.”

My mouth dropped open, and I couldn’t help staring at Mama Beth like she had lost her mind. I had just told her the greatest nightmare of my life had come true, and she was giving me shit because I wasn’t dancing in the streets with happiness. She knew just as well as I did that I had no fucking business being a father. Anger that had started bubbling inside me welled over, and I reached a breaking point. “But don’t you get it? I don’t want her!” I protested, rising off the couch.

“I don’t think that’s an option.”

I shook my head. “I cannot be a father.”

With a mirthless laugh, she replied, “You are her father.”

“By DNA, I’m her father, but I’m not the kind of man to be a parent.”

“What you mean is, you’re too selfish and scared to take responsibility for your actions.”

I threw my hands up. “Oh no, don’t hang that shit on me. There is no way I can provide a stable environment for this kid.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Mama Beth challenged, “And just what are you suggesting?”

“I’ll take her down to Child Protective Services and put her up for adoption. Hell, she’d be much better off with two parents.”

“And how well did foster care work for you?”

My fists clenched at my sides, and it took everything within me not to pick up the statue of Jesus on the coffee table and hurl it at the wall. Trying to keep a lid on my emotions, I breathed in and out several times. No matter how pissed I was, I would not disrespect my mother in her home by flying off the handle. “Things might work out better for her,” I finally replied.