Page 41 of Unleashed

I get what she’s saying. I also get that it’s juvenile of me to think of her words the way I am. But something about Maren makes me think of things in ways I normally wouldn’t even consider.

This time when I grab the bat, she can’t easily pull it away from me, and as Maren tries to tug it loose, I grip tighter, using the connection to pull her closer. Close enough I can easily wrap my free arm around her back, keeping her body against mine as I lean down and say. “Feel free to whack me anytime you want.”

Maren makes a choking sound, and I assume it’s outrage. That she’s pissed I’ve not only camped outside of her house again, but now forced my way inside. But when I lean back, Maren isn’t spitting mad.

She’s laughing. Hysterically.

“Did you just seriously say I could whack you off?” One hand comes to the center of my chest, giving me a shove. “How old are you?”

Because I’m still holding on to her, the push she gives me does nothing more than shift both of our feet in a different direction. It doesn’t matter though, because she’s not actually trying to get away from me.

She’s giving me shit.

Shit I deserve.

Because it is pretty fucking ridiculous that a thirty-four-year-old man would use the term whack the way I just did. Ridiculous, and hilarious. Hilarious enough I start laughing too.

Maren blinks up at me, expression sobering almost immediately. “Are you laughing?” Her jaw is slack. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you do that before.”

“I laugh.” I laugh when someone is acting stupid. I laugh when I’m appalled at the audacity one of our suppliers brings to a meeting. I laugh when I can’t believe the bullshit I’m hearing.

All things that happen pretty fucking regularly.

But Maren is already shaking her head. Disagreeing with me. “You don’t laugh.” She shakes her head. “Not like this.”

I want to be defensive. Tell her she’s wrong. But there’s something different about how I feel in this moment. A lightness that doesn’t normally accompany my laughter. A genuine amusement that doesn’t normally happen.

And I don’t know if that’s good or bad since I won’t be able to indulge myself and experience this on a regular basis. I couldn’t even be on time to the meeting I begged Maren for today, so there’s no way I could ever commit to the sort of situation where we might laugh together often.

But I don’t get the chance to explain that to her—or myself—because a sleepy voice sends both of us spinning toward the small hallway leading to the back of the trailer.

“Maren, why are you being so loud?”

I stare in surprise at where the little girl I’ve watched Maren care for stands, rubbing her sleepy eyes, wearing a pair of pajamas covered in unicorns.

“Shit.” Maren drops the bat to the floor and rushes to the small child. “I am sorry, Z. I didn’t mean to be so loud.” She gently maneuvers the little girl back through one of the open doorways, leaving me staring after them.

I’m shocked. Not only at the sight of the girl she called Z standing and walking, but also at what the little girl called the woman I’m more and more confused by every day.

She called her Maren. Not mom. Not mama. Not mommy. Maren.

And it makes me wonder how much I don’t actually know about the situation I’ve thrust myself into.

As the seconds tick by, I’m feeling more and more antsy with the need to know what the fuck is going on. Grabbing the bat from beside the door, I work the surprisingly effective sock back onto the barrel, propping the weapon back into place in case Maren needs it, before stepping deeper into her home.

It looks very much like I expected. Clean and tidy. Furnished with items that are likely secondhand, but well-maintained. There’s not a bit of boring or beige to be found. The walls are painted in rich tones and the curtains are dark and floral. A collection of thriving plants swarms the eastern facing window at one end of the structure, and thick, dramatically designed rugs cover the cheap laminate flooring. It’s not only strikingly appealing to look at, but also comfortable and cozy. The kind of place you’re not afraid to sit on the furniture or relax.

It’s strangely similar to the aesthetic I requested from my interior designer. But while my house looks nice, I don’t think anyone would call it comfortable or cozy. It’s definitely not the sort of place people flop onto the sofas and stretch out their legs.

Not even me.

I hear Maren’s footsteps behind me and turn to face her, ready to begin asking questions. But the first thing that comes out of my mouth isn’t a question at all.

“That’s not your daughter.”

The statement doesn’t necessarily require confirmation. I might be an asshole, but I’m not stupid. I can read a room better than most people. Pick up on clues most people miss. But even most people wouldn’t have missed that little girl calling Maren by her name.

Maren stares at me for a second, like she’s weighing over her options. Finally, she sighs, looking annoyed. “No. Zara is my sister.”