Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I didn’t know that.
Hell, I would’ve never assumed he was anything other than a perfectly healthy baby boy considering I know how physically strict the special ops divisions of the military are.
It means he beat the odds again.
Doing what he does best.
Defying logic every chance he gets.
“And after I was taken, she went to my room, lit a candle, and said a prayer, askin’ for the angels to protect me while I slept. Every. Night.” Watching the hue of his words shift has me thoughtlessly reaching over and delivering a gentle stroke to his bare shoulder. “And every night that I was trapped in that fuckin’ basement…scared…beaten…and completely alone, I would look up at the night sky through the tiny window out at the stars. Except…I told myself they weren’t stars.” He allows his gaze to meet mine. “That they were candles. Candles my ma had lit for me. Candles she had lit askin’ the angels to continue to protect me and to remind me that regardless of how fuckin’ terrified I was…things would someday be okay.”
Unfathomable sadness surges itself through my vocal cords cutting off my ability to speak.
“And I know the reason you can’t sleep – whether you wanna admit it or not – is because you’re scared.”
Tears threaten to build in the rims of my eyelids.
“But it’s okay to be scared.”
Is it?
Is it in this particular case?
It’s nowhere near the level of shit he’s lived through.
“We all…get scared sometimes, Angel Cake. Fear – much like hope – is jus’ part of what makes us human.”
Stilling my trembling jaw is impossible.
“So, I’m gonna do the same thing my ma does whenever she’s scared. The same thing my dad hates to admit he does when he’s scared. The same thing I pictured myself doin’ in my mind when I was out in the field, scared I really wasn’t gonna make it home that time.”
My vision briefly blurs from the water building in my stare.
“I’mma light this.” He tips the item towards me. “Ask the angels to protect you while you sleep. And then kiss you goodnight.”
“Us,” I airily croak, poorly fighting the overwhelming current of emotions trying to pull me under. “Ask them to protect us.”
Rather than demand he doesn’t need it or insist that he’s got himself covered, Slater simply strikes his thumb against the lighter I didn’t realize he was holding, fulfils the request, and leans over to plant his lips softly in the middle of my forehead. The instant they touch, my eyelids fall shut, and I swallow the urge to sob.
He’s right.
He’s so fucking right.
I am scared.
Scared that this wasn’t a fluke.
Scared that I’ll be attacked a second or third time.
Scared that I might actually die if it happens again.
Scared that something might happen to him, the person I love most in the world, because of something I did.
Something I didn’t mean to do.
Slater’s mouth lovingly lingers as his thumb gingerly sweeps away the tears I didn’t realize had fallen. “I will do whatever it takes on God’s green earth to keep you safe, Arley.” Heat from his whispered words wraps firmly around me like a weighted blanket. Convinces me to relax my shoulders and sink into the mattress. “Even if it means havin’ to light every candle on the whole damn planet.”
Chapter 8
Slater
**
I don’t want spam.
Not glazed.
Not with rice.
Not with mixed vegetables out of a can.
Not four nights out of seven.
I don’t want spam.
I hope someday I never have to eat it again.
“Eat, Charlie!” the man to my right barks at the same time his hand flies across the back of my head. “Your momma worked hard on this.”
Okay…but…my name isn’t Charlie.
And the woman to my left isn’t my momma.
Or my mom.
Or my mother.
Not my real one anyway.
She’s just the person who has been calling herself that for the past five years of my life.
My real ma?
She calls me Slater.
And my real dad?
He calls me champ.
I think he wants me to play sports.
His favorite is hockey.
Or…it was his favorite.
When I was home.
I don’t know what he likes now.
Maybe he hates it.
Maybe he hates it the way I hate stupid spam.
“What did I say, boy?!” the silver haired man bites a second time before hitting me again in the same spot, much harder.
Hard enough that my head bounces forward.
He always hits so hard.
And the ring he wears.
His…wedding ring, I think?
It always makes it hurt worse.
Much worse.
Slaps hurt.
But his punches hurt more.
That’s what will come next if I don’t force myself to open my mouth and eat.
That’s what always comes next when I don’t.
I should eat.
I can throw it up later like I usually do.
Tomorrow doing “school time” maybe I’ll get lucky, and the lady will make a sandwich.
But not a spam sandwich.
“Come on, Charlie,” the brown-haired lady quietly begs as her bruised, shaky hand pushes a dirty fork my direction. “You need…You need to eat.”