she added quickly. “Maybe I can help you.”
“Help me what?”
“Remember,” she said. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? For me to tell you about your past.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But why would you want to?” His expression grew somewhat hardened and wary. “Look, whatever happened back then…whatever I did…if I helped you, then, hey, great. You’ve helped me back, okay? We can call it even.” “Even?” she asked, bristling. When he
started to limp past her, heading for the front door , she grabbed him telekinetically and spun him around to face her. His eyes widened in surprise, and she shoved him back down onto the couch.
“Let me go,” he said, the tendons bridging his neck and shoulders suddenly straining as he tried vainly to move.
“No,” she seethed in reply, fists balled as she squared off against him. “You didn’t just help me.”
“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “Whatever. Let me go.”
“You used to piss your father off so he’d beat you instead of me. You did it on purpose. You didn’t care that he’d beat the shit out of you—beat you until you passed out from the blood loss and pain—as long as he didn’t hurt me.”
He didn’t have a smartass come-back for that. Instead, he looked bewildered again, and more than a little surprised.
“Lamar had a whip he liked to use with a long, thick, braided cord, do you remember that?” she demanded.
He shook his head. “No .”
“ The strap had a piece of steel, a ball bearing, tied at the end, and when it hit you, it’d cut like a knife,” she continued. “You’d bite your tongue so hard you’d have blood streaming down your chin, all so you wouldn’t cry out, so your bastard father would keep heaping his sick abuse on you, not me.”
She released him from her telekinetic hold, and he slumped in his seat, nearly falling sideways. Propping himself up on his elbow, he leaned against to sofa cushions for a long moment, not looking at her. “I…I don’t remember that.”
“ You used to let him take branding irons to you,” Naima snapped, her voice growing louder and sharper, and God, she wanted to grab him by the arms and shake him hard, make him remember. “He’d tie you up so your shoulders would be yanked out of the sockets or your wrists sheared open, cinch a rope around your neck so goddamn tight, you’d turn blue and pass out from lack of oxygen. All of these things—and hundreds more—so he’d leave me alone.”
She forced herself to stop, to shut the hell up, even though there was more she could have told him—so much more. She could have told him about another time they’d been tied together to the whipping tree. She estimated that she’d been in her early twenties by then, as it would be several more years before Aaron had helped to free her. On that occasion, after beating Aaron nearly unconscious, Lamar had then walked around to her side. He’d been sweating with exertion, his hair askew, his breathing heavy.
Naima had shut her eyes and whimpered in fright, balling her fists and steeling herself for the inevitability of the lash’s kiss against her spine. She’d opened them again in bewildered surprise when instead, Lamar had cut the ropes loose from around her wrists, letting her crumple to the ground in a trembling heap.
“Get up,” Lamar said to her, his voice low and hoarse.
As she’d stumbled to her feet, she looked up at Aaron. Semi-lucid, he blinked at her, heavy-lidded, dazed but coherent enough to be alarmed for her. “Father…” he’d gasped, but his voice had cut short as Lamar caught him beneath the chin the handle of the whip.
“Hush,” Lamar told him, his voice oddly gentle. Snatching the whip back, leaving Aaron’s head to droop down again toward his chest, Lamar strolled across the library to have a leisurely seat on his favorite sofa. “Put your mouth on him,” he said to Naima, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back, settling
“Help me what?”
“Remember,” she said. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? For me to tell you about your past.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But why would you want to?” His expression grew somewhat hardened and wary. “Look, whatever happened back then…whatever I did…if I helped you, then, hey, great. You’ve helped me back, okay? We can call it even.” “Even?” she asked, bristling. When he
started to limp past her, heading for the front door , she grabbed him telekinetically and spun him around to face her. His eyes widened in surprise, and she shoved him back down onto the couch.
“Let me go,” he said, the tendons bridging his neck and shoulders suddenly straining as he tried vainly to move.
“No,” she seethed in reply, fists balled as she squared off against him. “You didn’t just help me.”
“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “Whatever. Let me go.”
“You used to piss your father off so he’d beat you instead of me. You did it on purpose. You didn’t care that he’d beat the shit out of you—beat you until you passed out from the blood loss and pain—as long as he didn’t hurt me.”
He didn’t have a smartass come-back for that. Instead, he looked bewildered again, and more than a little surprised.
“Lamar had a whip he liked to use with a long, thick, braided cord, do you remember that?” she demanded.
He shook his head. “No .”
“ The strap had a piece of steel, a ball bearing, tied at the end, and when it hit you, it’d cut like a knife,” she continued. “You’d bite your tongue so hard you’d have blood streaming down your chin, all so you wouldn’t cry out, so your bastard father would keep heaping his sick abuse on you, not me.”
She released him from her telekinetic hold, and he slumped in his seat, nearly falling sideways. Propping himself up on his elbow, he leaned against to sofa cushions for a long moment, not looking at her. “I…I don’t remember that.”
“ You used to let him take branding irons to you,” Naima snapped, her voice growing louder and sharper, and God, she wanted to grab him by the arms and shake him hard, make him remember. “He’d tie you up so your shoulders would be yanked out of the sockets or your wrists sheared open, cinch a rope around your neck so goddamn tight, you’d turn blue and pass out from lack of oxygen. All of these things—and hundreds more—so he’d leave me alone.”
She forced herself to stop, to shut the hell up, even though there was more she could have told him—so much more. She could have told him about another time they’d been tied together to the whipping tree. She estimated that she’d been in her early twenties by then, as it would be several more years before Aaron had helped to free her. On that occasion, after beating Aaron nearly unconscious, Lamar had then walked around to her side. He’d been sweating with exertion, his hair askew, his breathing heavy.
Naima had shut her eyes and whimpered in fright, balling her fists and steeling herself for the inevitability of the lash’s kiss against her spine. She’d opened them again in bewildered surprise when instead, Lamar had cut the ropes loose from around her wrists, letting her crumple to the ground in a trembling heap.
“Get up,” Lamar said to her, his voice low and hoarse.
As she’d stumbled to her feet, she looked up at Aaron. Semi-lucid, he blinked at her, heavy-lidded, dazed but coherent enough to be alarmed for her. “Father…” he’d gasped, but his voice had cut short as Lamar caught him beneath the chin the handle of the whip.
“Hush,” Lamar told him, his voice oddly gentle. Snatching the whip back, leaving Aaron’s head to droop down again toward his chest, Lamar strolled across the library to have a leisurely seat on his favorite sofa. “Put your mouth on him,” he said to Naima, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back, settling
Similar Books
