Home > Diamond in the Dust (Lost Kings MC #18)(10)

Diamond in the Dust (Lost Kings MC #18)(10)
Author: Autumn Jones Lake

I blinked. That wasn’t exactly reassuring. But weird shit always popped out of Jensen’s mouth.

The van lurched to a stop.

Bessy turned around and wiggled her fingers at me. “Bye, Logan.”

Man, her red lips were pretty. What were the odds I’d get to kiss her at the end-of-the-year dance next weekend?

Tom kicked the back of our seat again.

Ignoring him, I dragged Jensen down the short aisle, depositing him in the empty spot behind the bus driver.

“Later.”

“May the Lord protect you on your journey home.” A typical farewell from Jensen. And no, he wasn’t being sarcastic.

All was quiet on my street. No one walking their dog. No kids playing outside. Not unusual. A breeze picked up, rustling tree leaves along the sidewalk. Few cars drove the narrow one-way street in the afternoon, so I walked straight down the middle, kicking rocks along the way.

Did Mom get the job? I hoped she hadn’t lost her nerve after she’d dropped me off at school. How long would it take before we’d be able to afford to leave? I had a stash of birthday money hidden in a secret hole I’d carved in my bedroom wall. Maybe I’d give that to Mom to help. Would we get out before Dad’s next meltdown?

My stomach growled. Wonder what kind of snacks Mom might’ve picked up on her way home?

As I fantasized about Hot Pockets and Bagel Bites, and what hours my mom might be working at the diner, my gaze landed on our faded green house with the shaggy shrubbery clustered around the front steps.

Dad had stopped caring for the property years ago. I was old enough to pick up the slack. Maybe I should do that for Mom. It might cheer her up to come home to colorful flowers instead of all that drabness.

My feet stopped moving in the middle of our street.

Dad’s car was parked right behind Mom’s. Boxing her in, instead of taking his usual space next to her car.

Why the fuck’s he home in the afternoon?

My guts knotted into the size of a walnut.

I briefly considered turning and running toward the bus stop. But it would only prolong whatever was going to happen. Better to get it over with. Besides, if Dad was in one of his moods, I needed to be here to protect Mom.

That thought propelled me forward. My boots thumped over the pavement. I jumped the curb, landed hard in the grass, and continued running up the porch steps.

The front door was open a crack.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

No blaring television or music.

When things were good, my parents were always talking about something. When they were bad, they argued. My father’s voice could be heard halfway down the block.

Nothing but silence greeted me.

I glanced at their cars again before pushing the door wider and stepping inside.

A scent, something like burned copper and sewage, stung my nose and eyes, turning my stomach sour. My mind couldn’t process the smell before my eyes absorbed the horror.

Red.

Splashes of dark red on the walls.

Mom never painted in the living room. She kept her art confined to the small studio in the back of the house.

More details registered through my confusion.

Mom’s sneakers—dark green Chucks, decorated with little shapes and squiggles she’d let me doodle around the white rubber edges. Denim covering her legs. Smeared with more red.

Her small body slumped against the wall, arms flung to the side.

Her face. Her face. Her face.

I can’t.

I focused on her sneakers as I hurried to her side. My knees hit the hardwood floor and slid in something thick and sticky.

Her hand so cold.

Fingers so stiff.

Legs so still.

I couldn’t bear to look anywhere else.

My heart rattled, as if it wanted to escape this nightmarish scene.

Across the room, something else caught my attention.

My father. What was left of him. Sideways in his favorite recliner. Hand curled around the revolver in his lap. More red splattered everywhere.

Nausea churned my stomach.

I half-crawled, half-ran to the door and collapsed on the porch, throwing up over the side.

Someone said I was screaming or I must have been in shock. I couldn’t make out the exact words. All I heard was the silence inside the house. The stench of blood clung to me.

I drew in one raspy breath after another. I’d never wash those images from my brain.

Never ever.

 

 

Chapter Eight

 

 

Shelby

 

 

Quickly, I wipe the tears off my cheeks. My heart aches for Logan, but he won’t respond well to pity. Still, I can’t help wrapping my arms around him and resting my head on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. Willing him to understand how deep my love for him runs.

Whatever I expected was lurking in Logan’s past, this wasn’t it.

I’d do anything to take the hurt and painful memories away.

He absently runs his hand over my hair.

While we’re both quiet, my mind replays the story. I can’t imagine the horror of finding your parents like that. Especially his mother.

Oh my God.

No wonder Logan was so willing to rescue me the day we met.

And every other time.

Anxiety beats in my chest as painful pieces click into place. His need to rescue—to protect—probably comes from not being able to save his mom. The tragedy of it hurts.

My breath catches in my throat. I wrote a whole song about him being my White Knight.

Now that I know what he’s endured, that song almost feels like poking fun. Insensitive.

I should take White Knight out of my set list. Immediately.

“I’m so sorry, Logan,” I whisper in his ear. “I don’t know what to say.”

My words feel so inadequate.

He inhales a long, slow breath. “There isn’t much to say.”

I want to ask questions but don’t know where to start. Instead, I stroke my hand over his chest and cheek.

“You ended up at your aunt and uncle’s after that?”

“Yup.” He snorts. “Because of my petit larceny ‘record’ the cops briefly entertained the idea that I had killed my parents.”

What kind of monster thinks that of a kid? I jerk upright and stare at him. “What? How?”

“Easy answer and they wouldn’t have to do much investigating, I guess.” He shrugs. “Didn’t matter. My aunt shut that down fast. I was so out of it, I really didn’t care what they wanted to accuse me of.”

“It sounds like your aunt and uncle loved you and gave you a safe place to recover.”

“Yeah, after some time—and therapy that Aunt Em insisted on—I was happy.” His expression slips into the slightest frown. “At least for a little while.”

 

 

Chapter Nine

 

 

Rooster

 

 

Logan, 13 years old…

Hours after walking in on the brutal scene at home, the horrible scent still lingered in my nose and throat.

Would it ever go away?

Mom.

It seemed wrong to go on breathing, for my heart to keep beating.

How could she be gone? She’d driven me to school in the morning. We’d talked. She was so alive. We’d made a plan.

The police station was no more comforting than it had been the last time I’d visited. At least no one handcuffed me this time. They had taken pictures when I first arrived. And questioned me endlessly. When they realized I wasn’t going to say anything other than Uncle Boone’s phone number, they finally stopped.

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