Silver Bastard
Page 84

No, that’s a lie.
I expected her to save me.
I expected her to put me in the car and start driving far far away.
Instead, she cried and I cried but when it was all over, nothing changed except Teeny visiting my room at night. Then he’d started sharing me with his friends and there’d been more blood.
Catching the edge of the Singer’s wooden cabinet, I steadied myself. The legs were wrought iron—stunningly beautiful in their own right. The whole fucking machine was art and it was perfect and creative and it had no fucking place in my life.
None.
I staggered to my feet, then reached down to lift the entire thing up. It was heavy, but not too heavy for me. I wasn’t some useless, delicate little girl who’d been spoiled and fussed over. Nope. I was strong. I’d survived rape, I’d survived Teeny, and I’d damned well survive losing my mom.
It took two tries to raise the Singer high enough, but I managed it.
Then I turned to the window. The sun was shining down across the mountains, bathing me in light just like it’d illuminated the Singer earlier.
Mom would never see that sun again.
Hoisting the machine, I threw it through the curved glass with a scream. The shattering sound broke the air and it was more beautiful than I could’ve imagined. Vaguely I realized there were shards of glass in my hair and my clothing but I didn’t give a shit.
Nope.
My work wasn’t done yet.
I reached for the fabric bin, hoisting it next. On top were the squares I’d started cutting for the Jacob’s Ladder quilt. Stupid, stupid, stupid little fuckers . . . I dumped out the plastic tub through the window, then tossed it through to join the shattered machine on the street.
“What the hell is going on?” someone shouted. I looked down to find three very startled people staring up at me.
One of them was my former boss, Eva. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was open. Combined with her heavy makeup and fake red hair, she looked just like a clown. A nasty, hateful clown. I flipped the bitch off, then reached for the plastic chest holding all my craft sundries and bobbins. The lid flew free as I chucked it, sending threads and ribbons flying out into the air like an explosion of colorful textile fireworks.
Suddenly my stomach rebelled.
Too much pain, too much anger, too much adrenaline. Breakfast was coming back up, and it was coming up fast. I ran for the bathroom and missed, crashing into my kitchen table in the process. That’s where I threw up the first time, a disgusting mixture of half-digested food and fresh blood from my nose. The second time I made it to the sink.
I stood there, panting and crying. People were still yelling outside, then I heard someone pounding on my apartment door.
The enormity of what I’d done hit.
I’d destroyed Regina’s sewing machine.
The same machine I hadn’t been willing to sell to save my mother’s life. What the hell was wrong with me? How could I ignore my mother’s suffering to protect a fucking machine?
Dear God, how was I going to explain it to Regina?
I stood slowly, ignoring the pounding on my door as reality crashed around me. Teeny had murdered my mom and he was going to get away with it. I’d never even get her ashes unless I paid him off.
No.
Just . . . No.
The thumping on my door continued, but I didn’t pay any attention, because suddenly things were so incredibly clear. How come I hadn’t figured it out earlier? I felt a hysterical laugh trying to force its way out as I ran into my bedroom and grabbed a backpack. I had to work fast—any minute someone would call Regina and Earl, tell them that I’d lost my mind. That I’d thrown their precious family heirloom into the street.
Maybe they’d forgive me for that. Probably. That’s the kind of people they were. Now wasn’t the time to find out, though. I had way too much to do and I couldn’t risk them stopping me—the last thing I needed was to drag them down with me as accomplices. I started grabbing clothes and stuffing them into the bag. Leaning across my bed, I picked up the cigar case on my bedside table and shoved it in, too.
Bathroom.
Brushing my teeth with one hand, I grabbed my toiletries with the other. Shampoo, conditioner, razor. Makeup. All of it went into the backpack, which I threw over my shoulder. My purse still hung from the little hook on the wall next to my door. It had my money inside—fourteen dollars. Pathetic. That wouldn’t even fill my gas tank.
But I knew where I could get more.
Flinging open the door, I nearly ran Eva down as I pushed past her. She shouted something at me, which I ignored. Eva didn’t matter anymore. None of it mattered. My little blue car sat waiting for me out in the alley. She’d been good to me, and now I needed her to be better—we had a long drive ahead of us.
All the way to California.
And when I got there? Well, then I’d use my other family heirloom from Regina and Earl to kill Teeny Patchel. End this shit once and for all.
I couldn’t wait.
THIRTEEN
An hour later I pulled up to the Vegas Belles Gentlemen’s Club. The adrenaline and initial explosion of anger had faded, leaving me tired but determined. My phone had been blowing up the entire drive. Regina. Earl. Danielle. Blake. Even Darcy tried to get in touch. Apparently my tantrum was the biggest thing to hit Callup since . . . Well, since my fight at the Breakfast Table last week.
Oops.
Not that it mattered—I had a job to do, and I’d worry about Callup afterward. Odds were good I’d never come back here anyway. I couldn’t risk making Puck an accomplice any more than I’d risk Regina and Earl—he’d already spent enough time in prison. The thought of leaving hurt, but the thought of Teeny continuing to live hurt even more.