He did not move out of the way, in fact, he only crowded the card machine more, so it was impossible for me to put my own card in the slot. Unless I got physical with him in a grocery store, in broad daylight, seemingly unprovoked.
It was tempting to do so, really freaking tempting.
Pretty much the only thing that stopped me was the fact I didn’t really trust my own strength and I deduced that trying to move him would result in me making an idiot of myself instead of achieving my goal.
Because of this, he was able to swipe his own card without hassle.
He barely even blinked at the total that took my breath away. Then again, I was sure his hazel eyes had seen a lot more disturbing things than a huge grocery bill.
I guess I should have been relieved at the fact someone else had paid for something I couldn’t afford. That I wouldn’t have to put myself in debt when I had plenty of debt on the horizon.
But I wasn’t.
I felt humiliated and ashamed at the fact he’d deemed me a charity case and had felt enough pity for me—somewhere deep down in the dark recesses of his soul—to pay for food that he would only eat a small portion of and wine he wouldn’t even be drinking.
Tears prickled the backs of my eyes as the bagger finished with the food and Lance grasped the cart and wheeled it off without comment. Because of all the things the seemingly kind gesture made me feel, it mostly made me feel like my parents. It reminded me of the many, many times at the supermarket when their card was declined and they put on the right expressions, shoved the hungry daughter in the faces of a cashier or fellow shopper and somehow guilted someone enough into helping them out.
It was a skill that they perfected and excelled at.
One that disgusted me on so many levels. Mainly because my parents had the money, thanks to them figuring out ways to cheat the system in order to get all sorts of benefits they weren’t entitled to.
But all that money went to booze, drugs, and in my father’s case, hookers.
Something I learned about early in life and that was sworn to secrecy with my father’s harsh words, threat and a purplish bruise on my upper arm that took almost two weeks to heal.
That memory and the thousands of others I had of my childhood were reasons why I never accepted things from others, even those who loved me and only wanted to help. I always found my own way. I did it honestly. Because I wanted to teach my son. I wanted to give him memories that wouldn’t cut him every time something reminded him of them.
And as I was following the brutal, beautiful man through the parking lot, back to my shitty car with no AC, him pushing hundreds of dollars of charity, pain, and memories, I was being cut. The knife sliced through layers of flesh, scar tissue, right to the core of me.
Every step I took I bit the inside of my cheek harder in order to stop myself from crying. From leaking out all my trauma and issues onto the hot concrete of the parking lot, to stop myself from exposing myself to Lance.
The ride back was silent again.
This time it was a thicker silence. Darker.
I wasn’t worrying about vanity, or the fact that Lance’s hand almost brushed my bare skin. I was torturing myself with memories. I was emotionally flagellating myself with the bitter and ugly truth of what I was.
Who I was.
My parents.
I couldn’t even provide for my son.
Worse, I couldn’t even keep him, or myself safe.
The man with the grim, devastatingly handsome face and terrifying disposition was doing that.
But I didn’t think he’d keep me safe in the end.
Chapter Nine
I was happy.
It was that simple.
Anyone who’d lived a hard life would know that of all the complicated things in the world, happiness had the top spot.
Especially after the events of this afternoon, I would have told anyone that simple happiness was about as likely as me summiting Everest.
I underestimated the people around me. What good food, better company and a balmy evening could do.
Everyone from the diner had filtered in throughout the evening, after I’d texted them and informed them of the impromptu party.
The back yard had somehow been transformed only an hour after Polly and Rosie had arrived. Candles were lit, despite the fire hazard in California. I reasoned we had enough badasses around us to stop a fire before it began.
Fairy lights I’d never plugged in were strewn over the fence and turned on when the sun began kissing the horizon. Scents of beautifully charred meat filtered through the air, with Luke and Heath taking turns at manning the grill, with Bobby gleefully giving up the position. As good of a cook as he was—and he really frickin’ was—he existed on heat and eat meals and processed junk when he wasn’t working.