Page 88 of Property of Fang
Darla and I freeze. I don’t dare look to my left, should it spook The Kid from speaking again.
“Thanks.” Molly takes the picture, unaware of the shock that’s transpired across the table from her.
Darla kicks my foot under the table. I kick her back as though to say,“I know!”
“Do you like rabbits, Molly?” I ask Fang’s daughter the question, yet observe how Anna returns to her coloring as though nothing is amiss.
“Yep. Mom won’t let me have one, though.”
“Maybe the time’s not right,” Darla offers.
“What about you?” I say, cringing internally at how fucking awkward this is when we’re not supposed to know The Kid’s name. “Do you like horses?”
It takes Anna a moment to register that I speak to her. The Kid lifts her head and nods.Fuck it.
Darla sighs.
“Do you have a favorite color?” I press, determined to get her to loosen that tongue again. “Chestnut? Black? I like dapple gray horses.”
The Kid shakes her head, focus on her picture.
Nope.The boat definitely sailed on that double miracle. I return to my picture, yet my head is anywhere but in the pale blue hues of the petals as I color. What if he says no? What happens to me then? My dad is just as likely to tell me to go fuck myself as he is to walk onto Kings of Anarchy ground willingly. He may not wear the patch anymore, but Breed blood still runs through his veins.
I’d almost wager he’d consider rejoining the club should the presidency change and reparations be paid.
A bitter huff slips past my lips. I lift my left arm to brace my head against my hand, blocking Darla’s curious eye. The fucking club would, too, if Smoke was removed from the presidency; pay my father reparations for his ill-treatment over my mother’s debt. He’s done too much for them, been integral in so much of what shaped the Devil’s Breed into who they are today, that they’d be turning their back on who they are if they chose to leave the damages unpaid.
Some of the fuckers might even hail him a hero for stepping in to help Mom, even though he was never there during the worst of it.Iwas. I was the one who went without when she didn’t get paid. I was the one who felt the bone-achingly deep guilt at eating the bigger portion when my mom was across the table from me, collarbones proud beneath the fabric of her T-shirt as she ate her smaller bowl of food. I was the one who watched her fade away, guilt eating at me for not being able to do more to help the woman who raised me. Loved me. Cared for me.
He never once wanted to know what happened to me after she left. Never once asked if I was a boy or a girl. What my name was. Not until Mom reached out to him in a moment of desperation when her treatment was stalled due to unpaid bills.
Then the asshole was interested.
When it was too fucking late.
And I ate his fucking bullshit excuses up like they were the missed meals that my body so desperately needed.
The pencil tip snaps and skitters across the table top. “Whoops.” I flex my spine, disrupting the warm buzz of anger creeping across my skin, and look about for a sharpener.
“Here.” Darla takes the blunt pencil from me and rises from the table.
She makes her way into the adjacent kitchen, procures a knife, and promptly whittles away the end.
The Kid still adds painstakingly finite details to her image, while Molly haphazardly fills the body of an apparently lime green rabbit.
I’m starting to understand why she isn’t allowed one.
The Kid—Anna—halts her work abruptly and snaps her head toward the doorway behind me.
I swivel in the seat to find Darko staring at me, phone in hand.Thank fuck I explained what I need to do before he dropped me in it.“Here.” He offers the device, gaze flicking to Darla before settling back on me. “Take it to Chaos when you’re done. He wants to know how you get on.”
“Of course he does.” I accept the poisoned gift and set it beside the half-done picture.
Darko folds his arms, shoulders curled in. “You need to make the call now.”
The phone feels like the only goddamn thing in the room, ominous and impossible to ignore. “Sure.”
He turns on his heel and leaves as Darla makes her way back to the table. The woman’s gaze drifts over the device before she sets the sharpened pencil down for me. “Rip the Band-Aid off, Jenna. It’ll hurt less in the long run.”
