Kestrel (Hart Briothers #3) by A. M. Hargrove Page A

tell I’m skeptical. My body trembles as I stand there. He bends my
wrist and elbow and there isn’t pain.
    “I’m
sure it’s only a slight bruise, if anything,” I say.
    “Carter,
I’m so sorry. You’re right. There are things about me you need to understand.”
    We
walk the rest of the way to the car and when we’re inside, he says, “Without
going into too much detail, my father was a monster. He adopted my brothers and
me—there were three of us—as young boys. But what he really did was
he stole us from our mothers. He’d pick out women who worked in his casinos,
all of whom had gambling problems. He’d let them run up huge debts and then
he’d go to them with his solution.” He wiggles his fingers as if they were
quotations marks. “It would be a payoff of their debts in exchange for their
sons. The adoptions were legal, but not ones the women truly wanted. We were
abused and brainwashed. He was a real son of a bitch. So I have a lot of
issues, and touch is one of them. I’ve gone from craving it, to being afraid of
it, to dealing with it, to vacillating between all three. I’m at the point now
where if it catches me off guard, I react a little crazy to it. I’m really
sorry I hurt you. It was not intentional. I hope you understand that.”
    Processing
what he has just said to me is so hard. I can’t imagine having a parent that
abused me.
    “Who
does shit like that?”
    He
laughs. It’s a hollow sound. A sad one. “You wouldn’t
believe the stories if I told you.”
    His
hands are flattened on the tops of his thighs. I want to hold them.
    “Kestrel.
Give me your hands.” My hands are open, palms facing up.
    He
places his in mine. I take them and clutch them tightly. “I’m sorry for all the
hell you went through growing up. I hope one day, it’s behind you, and you can
live without any kind of reaction like what happened earlier.”
    “Believe
me, so do I. I’m working on it, but at times it seems I’ll take one step
forward and two steps back.” He gives me a grim smile.
    “You’ll
get there. Until now, I never would have guessed anything was wrong.”
    He
pulls his hands away, pushes the button to start the engine, and pulls the car
back on the road. My attempts to engage him in further conversation fail. For
the rest of the drive back to town, he’s taciturn.
    When
he pulls into my driveway, he says, “There’s this cocktail party I’d like you
to attend with me next week. Saturday night. I’ll pick you up at seven. We can go
to dinner afterward, if you’d like. Dress accordingly. And Carter, wear your
hair in a loose braid.”
    Speech
fails me. He’s given no hint of this whatsoever until now.
    “Give
me your phone.”
    I
hand it to him, and he enters his number into it and then sends a text to his
phone. After he gives it back to me, he gets out and walks around to my side of
the car. When he assists me out he says, “Call me if you need anything.”
    I
stand there like a fool watching him as he drives away.

 
    ***

 
    “What’s
up Doc?”
    “Oh,
God, help me!” Harper can drive a sane person nutty.
    “What?”
she asks.
    “Are
you ever going to stop with that?”
    “Nope.
You should be used to it by now. What’s going on? How’s it going with
StrongMeds?”
    “Awesome!
So, chica , I need a favor. I have to go to this work
function and I need a cocktail dress.”
    “Yeah,
I got you covered. When do you need it?”
    “By
Saturday. Can I stop by this week to pick it up?”
    “Sure
thing. Why don’t you come Tuesday after work and then we’ll grab some dinner
afterwards,” Harper suggests.
    “Sounds
perfect. I’ll call when I leave the lab. And thanks, Harper. You’re a wardrobe
lifesaver.”
    I
end the call and feel guilty as hell for lying to her. But right now, I just don’t
want the Harper interrogation. My brain couldn’t handle it at all. I have to
attend these work things occasionally and she’ll think nothing of this. And I
won’t have