Page 3 of Fighting Chance

Although sitting inthisroom…I’ll never be able to feel safe.

Trying to rid my throat of the lump of emotion, I swallow, my nostrils flaring as it hovers, demanding to be let out in a scream.

I fucking hate this office and I fucking hatethatmemory.

A deep sigh escapes her. “Mr. Ashford.”

Despite her clear annoyance, I take my time, forcing myself to take a steadying breath as I flick my gaze to the aging woman behind the wooden desk, to the woman that I would love nothing more than to ruin.

Mrs. Sommerfield.

More like the Antichrist.

Demon.

Devil.

Satan.

Though I don’t think the devil even compares to this monster.

Mrs. Sommerfield is the “matron”—as she calls herself—to this hellhole of a foster home. For over thirty-five years, she’s never once done the right thing by the children who came through her front doors.

I would know.

I thought I would never see her face again, promised myself, in fact, that I would never allow her close to me again. Not after everything that happened in this place.

Fate, it seems, fucking hates me.

A muscle ticks in my jaw as I suppress the urge to call her every dirty name in the book. I note the irritation dancing along her features that she can’t keep at bay—the anger lurking in the corners of her eyes, her dipped brows, her tightening lips.

Yeah, she remembers me all right.

“Yes?” I all but spit.

Okay, so maybe she’s doing a better job at controlling her anger.

Hers, however, isn’t justified. She’s a horrid old woman who hates children and chose the wrong career path. I, on the other hand, am trying to quench my rage from how she never protected me.

“Did you hear me?”

Taking a shuddering breath, only to quickly exhale the mustystale air, I ask, “Can you repeat yourself.” My hands fist in my lap as I force myself to say, “Please.”

Her brow arches. “I see you finally found your manners.”

I give her a tight-lipped smile. “Only took…what was it? Over seventy whippings?”

Her beady brown eyes blaze. “We do not participate in such barbaric disciplinary actions in this foster home.”

“My memory begs to differ.”

She rolls her eyes. “Still got that mouth on you, boy?—”

“Man, and you better remember that I’m not some terrified little boy anymore, Matron, so get on with whatever you summoned me for so I can be on my way before I decide to call the authorities.”

I should have done it years ago, should have done it the second I aged out of this home.

But despite my declaration, fear won out. That, and shame.