Page 35 of Bent, Not Broken

I chuckled, and the sound seemed to surprise him because he sat back with his eyes widening slightly. “Yeah.”

“Well aren’t you two just the cutest?” His mother’s floaty voice brought me back to reality and I swallowed the cheese I’d been eating, choking on it in the process. Standing abruptly, I nearly toppled Polunin over in his chair because he’d been sitting so close—too close.

“Do you have a bathroom I can use?”

“Hm?” She glanced up from the piece of blue cheese she’d been staring at between her fingers and pointed toward a glass door to the left of the table. “Of course, dear. We’re not wildlings. In the house, second door to the right.”

“Thank you.” I strode straight past Polunin, ignoring the pitiful pout he gave me, and headed through the door and into the bathroom. Like Polunin’s in his apartment, it was all gleaming tiles, feature walls, and large, overcompensating plumbing fixtures that had my inner dreamer’s mouth watering. But I refused to want expensive things like this, I had since money had caused Mom’s death and Dad’s delusion—or at least, that’s what they always fought about.

I took the time to splash cold water on my face and stare at myself in the backlit mirror, taking in the tired, weary appearance that plagued me. At least I looked better than I had months ago. I didn’t want to contribute my improvement to Polunin’s presence, but I think he might have had something to do with it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept as well as I had last night. The dreams didn’t come with him latched onto my back, and I worried how quickly I could become addicted to the cozy feeling.

Cursing my thoughts, I headed back toward the glass door, and stopped when I looked outside. Polunin had my phone in his hand, his eyes squinted thoughtfully. His mother said something quietly to him and he shook his head. Anger coursed through me, hot and violent, and I threw open the door, startling him into dropping my phone and turning toward me.

“Evan—”

“Why the fuck are you looking at my phone?”

“It buzzed, and I accidently saw the message about a parole meeting, and I thought—”

“You thought? Tell me, Polunin.” I stalked closer and snatched my phone off the table. “Do you think that because you have money you can do whatever you want?”

He blanched. “What does—”

“This—” I shook my phone at him. “—is none of your business. You had no right to even look at it.”

“It’s locked, I couldn’t! I only saw what flashed up on the screen when the message came in, and I was holding it so I could give it to you—”

“Bullshit.”

“Officer Slater.” Mrs. Polunin’s voice turned haughty, and for the first time since I met her, I saw a real mother take the forefront. Her gaze hardened and she stood. She wasn’t a large lady, maybe only an inch or so taller than her son, but she didn’t need to be my height to be menacing. “Madden was merely worried about you. If you cannot respect his concern, I’d ask you to leave.”

“No.” Polunin stood as well, his palms out toward her. “Mom, it’s fine. I can handle this.”

“I will not have him talking to you this way,” she hissed.

I snorted and took a step back. “No problem, I’m out.” I didn’t even turn around before Polunin grasped my elbow, and I had to shake him off, storming out toward my Ford near the portcullis where I’d parked last night. Polunin hopped off the walkway to the driveway, barefoot, almost running to keep up.

“Will you stop? Evan!”

I halted abruptly and spun on him, finger pointing in his direction. He’d only managed to pull up just in time, and the tip of my finger nearly touched his nose. “Don’t call me that. I’ve always been Slater to you, and us fucking doesn’t change a thing.”

“Okay, all right. Just listen.”

“What is there to listen to?”

“I can help you!” He threw his hands up, exasperation passing across his angular face. “Did you forget I’m a lawyer? If you have someone going up for parole, maybe I can put in some good words and—”

“No.” A tremble of fear slid down my spine at the thought of Polunin getting involved and my father somehow being released. “No, I don’t need your help. That old bastard’s going to stay in prison.”

“Who?” He stared up at me and something passed over his face, a raw concern that had my stomach churning. When was the last time someone cared about me? I couldn’t remember. I didn’t want to. This man was a smug asshole and I disliked him. How many times did I have to remind myself for my body to understand?

I stepped back. One step. Two. Three. As far away from him as I could to be able to breathe again. “It doesn’t matter. It’s none of your business and never will be. I’ll… call you.” I spun on my heel, and relief sunk into me when I realized he wasn’t following. By the time I got my truck rolling and hit the entrance to the driveway, I could finally breathe again.

Fuck.

I slammed my hand against the dashboard and the dark gray plastic creaked under the hit. This was wrong. So wrong.

I wasn’t gay. So why did I have trouble breathing while I drove away from him?