Citrine (Deliverance #3)

1. Eli

1

Eli

Trigger warning: physical abuse on page in this chapter.

"You're far too pretty to spend all your time with us," Ms. Janis tells me. "And what's wrong with the boys if they haven't seen how sweet you are and made sure you stopped working yourself to the bone?"

I give her a big smile. "Now, now. Just because you have all the men wrapped around your little finger doesn't mean I have your skills."

She tilts her head back, her silver braids shifting and her dark eyes sparkling as she lets out one of her deep laughs. "My dear, you have every drop of the same charisma."

I snort out my disbelief. She's my favorite and I admit we spend longer than necessary getting her ready to start her day. I like hearing all her stories, getting updates on her great- grandchildren, and the gossip about the latest silver-haired fox she has panting at her door this week.

The movement on the screen pulls both of our attention back to the nature show she has on. "What do you know about that one, Eli?"

It's an adorable little fuzzball and I let what I know bubble out, pleased to not have to keep myself in check around her. "That's a jumping spider. Phidippus otiosus , maybe? People call them the cat spider because they'll stay on your hand."

She whacks me on the shoulder, her usual response to show me she's impressed, though it took me a few times to figure it out. "How do you do it?"

I know it's rhetorical, since she asks it every time, so I just give her another grin.

"Your parents must be so proud."

My heart falls, but I keep the smile on my face and change the subject. "What's Darian up to? And the girls?"

She tells me the same stories she told yesterday, unfortunately, so it doesn't distract me from the sudden pit in my stomach.

From comments I've received, most think my big smiles and willingness to listen means I've led a blessed life. People like me know that a shocking number of the kindest people come from the most pain. Because we went through hell and had to decide to become harder or softer.

I chose softer and sunnier as my armor.

I don't really think of myself as all that kind, but others see what I want them to see.

My pocket buzzes again, just like it's been doing since I clocked in and started my rounds. I didn't recognize the number as I left my grocery clerk job for this one, but I bet it's the same one. I go to wash my hands as she continues her story and take a quick peek.

Yes, the same person and I've missed fifteen calls. I'm about to turn off the phone completely when a text pops up.

Eliyana Smith. Stop ignoring me.

Only one person has the audacity to think I'm a Smith and not a Martinez.

" Diablos," I mutter under my breath. "How did she get this number?"

My hands are shakily tapping the screen as my mind tries to remember how to block a number when another message comes through.

It's an emergency. I need you.

"Just ignore her, Eli. Block the damn number," I hiss out.

I finally remember how, but my finger just hovers over it. My whole body is shaking now, heart in my throat as it pounds, but I can't make myself do it.

My padre loved her once. Would he be disappointed in me if I ignored a call for help?

I snort. "She ignored all of yours."

"What's that, dear?" Ms. Janis asks from the other room.

"Oh, nothing, just hit my hand on something."

She goes back to her recounting of how smart her grandson is, the same one she's been trying to set me up with, but I can't listen over the roaring in my ears.

Memories of pain and terror, warped by my subconscious attempts to protect my young mind, try to surge up, but I shut them down before they gain traction.

She never touched me, but she never stopped my stepfather. That it stopped short of sexual abuse was the only blessing. Words and fists hurt enough as it is.

I owe her nothing.

He isn't here. I swear. Just want to see you. Miss you.

My traitor heart squeezes and my eyes fill. How can you hate someone and love them at the same time? Why, oh why, do I miss her?

I'm typing a message before I can think better of it.

How long is he gone?

As the indicator lets me know she is replying, I recognize it's a terrible idea. I also know I'm going to do it anyway.

This better not get me fired or I won't even be able to afford that hinky bed share arrangement I just landed with the freaky chains coming off the bed.

***

She still smells the same. Chantilly perfume—far too liberally applied—cigarettes, weed, and fear. I know better than to squeeze her as we hug. Grunts of pain when I came to live here as a teen quickly clued me in to how often her ribs are broken.

Her bleach-blonde hair is piled high, hairspray making it stiff. Her heavy makeup makes the grooves that betray her age seem even deeper. She's far too thin.

She isn't wearing her usual long-sleeves and so I can see the bruised imprints of his large hands on her biceps.

Makeup and clothing cover up a lot, and my mind snags on the fact that she isn't hiding the evidence from me. I doubt it's unintentional.

It doesn't take long to see past the facade of their happy lives to the evil underneath. If you bother to look. Telling people about it taught me… not to.

People don't want to know. Not really.

I move away from her and sit down at the kitchen table. As much as I love seeing her, my body is signaling to me in every way possible that I should leave. Now.

I ignore it and don't leave. Just like she never has. My fifteen-year-old self had the courage, though. She's screaming at me to not waste the opportunity she gave me, but I'm an adult now.

I can do this.

Still, this is the first time I've been back here since I chose to be homeless. Any other time I've seen my mother, it has been in public places. My heart's pounding and I have to keep my hands in my jeans so she doesn't see how much they're trembling.

"What did you want? My next shift starts soon."

She huffs. "You work too much. How many jobs now?"

"Just three. Mostly."

I bite off my desire to tell her about them. About how tired I am. Or how I wish I had remained in school. She'd only get defensive and tell me I shouldn't have left.

As if I could have stayed.

I wish I could tell her how messed up it is that the streets were safer for me than her so-called home or that I found kinder people in alleys to huddle up with for warmth.

But of course, I don't.

She's picking at her nails, sitting back in her chair as she lights up another cigarette.

I don't keep the disgust off my face, but she ignores me. She knows they make my allergies go haywire.

Coupled with the music she always has blaring, it's a recipe for sensory overload.

I won't be able to stay long.

"I want to leave him."

She's said it all before, so I just keep my mouth shut. She'll ask for money next.

"I just don't have the cash."

I cross my arms in front of me and raise an eyebrow. When she reaches out to me to gain sympathy, I notice the track marks on her arms. That's new.

"I've given it to you at least five times. I haven't saved up again since the last time."

She slumps. "I thought you got a raise at the store?"

How the hell did she know that?

"I work a cash register. A raise barely pays for a cup of coffee. How about you start working?"

She shivers. "You know he'd never let me do that."

I let out a sigh. He controls everything. Most importantly, what money she has access to and what she can buy with it.

That he lets her buy drugs is just another way to keep her under his thumb. My empathy has been engaged, against my better judgment.

"I can spare a couple hundred. Just grab a bag and I'll take you somewhere."

She's shaking now. "I can't just leave all my things."

She isn't ready. She will probably never be ready, and no one can force that decision.

I had to make the choice for myself, and she'll have to do the same. If she ever decides to take the risk and accept the fear of starting over, I'll do whatever I can for her.

Anything she has will be mine, but not if it's going to destroy her.

I stand up, the chair rasping along the ground as my knees push it back. "I have to go to work."

"Please! Can you just send the cash? I'll figure something out."

I glance back to the evidence of hard drug use peppering her arms.

"No. I can't do that. If you want me to take you somewhere and pay for a few nights, I will. But I'm not giving you cash."

A low voice growls from behind me, instantly making my body lock up. "What the fuck, Noreen?"

Did he see my bike? I left it a block away, just in case. Stupid music. I should have turned it off when I came in.

Shit.

He must have snuck in. A waft of air brings the smell of his aftershave and my stomach heaves. I can't help but turn to him. My instinct to never let him behind my back is too strong to not override my desire to never see his face again.

He's livid. The same mask of rage that always preceded a blow… always there for something we did wrong.

No matter how trivial the offense, always that same level of anger.

"I knew you were up to something; you bitch. My buddy said to use cameras, and I fucking defended you. Said you would never betray me."

"You can't—" I try to say but he cuts me off.

"Don't you dare try your fancy talk on me, you ungrateful fuck," he hisses out at me.

I wasn't planning on it. It's not like he's ever listened anyway.

His fists clench and my mother keens out a low cry. "Of course I wouldn't! I was just trying to get some money. For that new bike part you want."

I whip my head over to her, my heart clenching. Is that where all my money has gone? To him?

Damn. That feels even worse than thinking she spent it on drugs.

"Don't you fucking lie to me, whore!"

He takes three long strides over to her and punches her hard on her left cheek, driving her to the ground.

I'm instantly shaking, no longer able to keep my cool as memories flood back. I've never seen him hit her there. He always chooses somewhere that's easy to hide. Just like he did for me.

He kicks her while bellowing out and I rush forward to pull him off.

At just over six feet, he is a good six inches taller than me and much broader. It takes him little effort to shrug me off, ensuring there is plenty of force behind it to send me reeling back.

The back of my head clips the edge of the counter as I fall.

In the few moments I take to shake it off, he's busy kicking her. She's curled up with her knees up and her arms over her head to protect her most vital areas.

He's going to kill her. It's never been this bad.

I'm scrambling up and headed back to their bedroom without conscious thought. The gun is where he always keeps it and I snatch it out, pull the slide to load it, and rush back to the kitchen.

I raise it just like my padre taught me and bark out a warning. "I'll shoot. Back off."

He spares me a quick look. "You don't have the balls, girl."

He finds out just how wrong he is after he makes contact with her hip, and she screams out.

The retort of the Glock is almost deafening in the small kitchen as I squeeze off a couple of shots. Two answering wounds bloom on his chest as he staggers back toward the mudroom, a look of disbelief on his face.

Then my mom is screaming, but for another reason altogether.

"No, no, no! Don't die, baby!"

She has her right arm pulled tight to her. It's visibly broken. Her face is streaming blood, and yet she's applying pressure to one of his wounds with her good arm.

Desperate to save the life of a man who was trying his hardest to end her own.

I'm still standing in shock, my arms at my side, the gun still in it, when I hear the sirens. My heart jumps, urging me to flee, but that would be the worst thing to do right now. He was going to kill her.

Surely that will be obvious?

I put the gun on the ground near the hallway and move to the other side of the kitchen. As far away from my sobbing mother as possible while also moving away from the weapon so they don't shoot me on sight.

From there, it's a blur of movement. Cops come in and secure the weapon. Paramedics work on my stepfather. They move my mother and me outside.

She resists them, screaming the whole time, but once we get out, she whips around to me, pointing.

"She was the one who beat me. Arrest her!"

The words feel like a knife in my back as I stare at my mother, disbelief etched into my face.

"I was saving your life," I spit out. "Why would you say that?"

I feel like shaking her and take a step forward, but two officers grab my arms, their grip like iron.

I strain against them, desperate to close the distance between us. No clear idea of what I want to do if I get to her. I just need to make her see sense.

"She's lying!" I shout, locking eyes with her.

I thrash in the officers' hold, my muscles burning with the effort. Her light brown eyes, so much like mine, avoid my gaze. Blood streaks her eyebrows, a stark contrast against her pale skin.

The blare of the ambulance has already drawn the neighbors into the street, their stage whispers cutting through the air like the earlier gunshots.

My voice softens, pleading. "Why are you doing this to yourself, Mom? Why?"

Over her shoulder, paramedics wheel my stepfather's body out on a stretcher. His eyes flutter open, lips moving as if in prayer. He's still alive.

I should have aimed for his head.

She glances back at me. Guilt flickers across her face. A ghost of the mother I once knew. Yet, she turns back to him, her choice clear.

As the officers drag me toward a squad car, the betrayal settles in my chest. The weight of it all bears down on me, and a single tear traces its way down my cheek.

After they roughly push me into the back seat, I stare at the white zip ties contrasting against my olive skin.

I'm a criminal.