Present
2022
Layla is extremely athletic, and I have no fucking idea who she inherited that from.
Maybe our mother was, too, before she got into drugs. I doubt Dad lifted anything heavier than a vodka bottle in his years, though.
Regardless, my little sister is the star player on her soccer team, and she just scored her third goal.
I jump out of my seat and clap like there’s a hornet in my face, but I refrain from cheering and screaming like I want to. I’d rather her parents think I’m an enthusiastic family member for another kid than wonder why there’s a random stranger yelling their daughter’s name.
“GO EMMA!” her mother, Margot, screams through the palms cupped around her mouth. Her husband and Layla’s father, Colin, is right beside her, cheering with the same enthusiasm.
I’m so grateful they kept the name I gave her. It’s what I would’ve named my own daughter, had I ever had one.
I knew that if I were going to keep Layla truly protected, then I couldn’t be carrying around a missing child as a missing child and blatantly calling her by the name being broadcasted across the news. While I tried to avoid the public at all costs, there were times it was inevitable. And I knew that eventually, Layla was going to grow up and learn her name, and I couldn’t risk her knowing who she was. It was necessary for her safety. And now, it’s essential for her to continue to live a safe, happy life.
Layla’s long blonde ponytail swishes behind her as she does the cutest little happy dance, her teammates running to cheer with her. My eyes grow misty, pride beaming from my chest so intensely I can hardly breathe around it.
It’s impossible for me to know who she is deep down inside, but I’m confident she’s the best fifteen-year-old to ever exist. Funny, smart, and popular. And from what I’ve seen, she’s so fucking kind.
Which is the only thing that truly matters to me. That, and her being provided for and loved the way she deserves to be.
But if the couple down the row from me is any indication, she has exactly that. Their expressions resemble mine. Pride, joy, and so much love, it hurts.
Or maybe it just hurts because she doesn’t know my love anymore, and I only had hers for five years of her life.
The game ends an hour later, and to no one’s surprise, Layla’s team wins, 4-0. The girls are assembled in a huge group, all cheering and screaming their delight.
And when her parents make their way to the group and embrace Layla in an enthusiastic hug, their mouths forming the words I love you and I’m proud of you, I turn and leave.
Tears sting at my eyes as they often do after her games. Whether it’s because she won, and I can’t be the one to celebrate her, or because they lost, and I’m unable to console her.
Regardless, I’m so happy for her. Because even though it’s not my arms that are wrapped around her, the embrace she’s in is no less loving.
This is literally the worst thing to ever happen to me, particularly in the middle of a goddamn Target.
“Marie, this is my mom, Winifred,” Cage introduces us, a shit-eating grin tilting his lips. I’d love nothing more than to smack it off, but I’m currently paralyzed.
I know my eyes are the size of golf balls, and if the equally mischievous smile on his mother’s face is any indication, it hasn’t gone unnoticed.
She can’t be much taller than five feet, peering up at me with hazel eyes. Her short white hair curls artfully around her nape and over her forehead, perfectly styled. Bright red lipstick paints her smiling lips, and she wears bedazzled black jeans and a leopard-print blouse.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I squeak, holding out a slick palm for her to shake. She scoffs and bats it away before pulling me into the warmest hug I’ve ever experienced.
My throat tightens, but I choose to believe it’s because I’m so relieved that she doesn’t have to touch my sweaty hand. When I pull away, I meet Cage’s gaze, only for my eyes to gravitate toward the box of condoms directly behind him.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I’m never going to recover from this.
After Layla’s game, I got a call from Legion informing me that I’d be receiving another drop tonight.
For the past month, Cage has been delivering bodies three to four times a week, and each and every time, he finds a new way to end up in my bed.
Aside from the incident in the barn, I started making him use condoms. And due to his insatiable sex drive, we ran through an entire fifty-count box already.
I’ve tried to convince myself this past month has been some strange, lucid dream, yet the bruises on my hips and ass have made it impossible to deny.
And each night, after he’d leave, I tried telling myself to keep it strictly professional from there on out, but the twinge in my heart let me know my body heavily disagreed.
So, like any responsible thirty-four-year-old woman, I’m buying more condoms.
Just in case.
An otherwise safe endeavor. Until a presence sidled up next to me, a delicious scent invading my senses before a familiar hand pointed at a specific brand.
“I’d need these.”
My wide eyes slowly processed the glaring XL on the box, then Cage’s wide grin right in front of me.
Before I could utter a word, a sweet face had popped up on the other side of him, scolding him for trying to ‘woo a lady in such an egregious manner.’
“I didn’t know Cage had a new lady friend!” she exclaims warmly, pulling away only to capture my cheeks between her soft hands. “Oh, the beauty of you! Your eyes are quite sexy, you know that? And that bite mark, dear Lord, it must have come from a horrible person. But, dare I say, it makes you look very edgy, my dear.”
My mouth drops.
Cage sighs.
“She’s going through a phase of calling women sexy. Yesterday, she told me she wanted to start wearing leather pants again,” Cage explains. Despite his dry tone, his eyes glimmer with amusement.
Winifred releases me to shoot her son a disgruntled look. “That’s how I seduced your father, ya know. I was wearing these skintight leather pants and a bright red halter top.” She returns her stare to mine, excitement glittering in her eyes. “The girls never looked better, let me tell ya. His father took one look and had me bent over—”
“Ma,” Cage intervenes sternly.
She rolls her eyes and then winks at me, a devious grin curling her red lips. “Don’t worry, sweetie, I’ll finish the story another time. He gets sensitive when I talk about my sex life in front of him.”
A valid reaction, only I don’t voice that. Instead, I return her smile, albeit nervously.
“Yeah, I’d, uh, love to hear it,” I mumble.
“Great!” she shouts, startling a customer at the end of the aisle. I bite back a grin when the young blonde woman gives us a dumbstruck expression. Admittedly, it’s hilarious, and a laugh bursts free.
Winifred doesn’t even notice.
“Come over for dinner tomorrow night, and I’ll tell you all the stories. I used to be a groupie back in the day. And let me just say that wannabe rock stars are better in the sack than successful ones. Once they get rich, they feel like they don’t have anyone to impress.” She waves her hand airily.
“Ma—”
“Anyway, can you make it? I make the best peach cobbler.”
Her stare is full of so much hope, it’s literally impossible to say no. I flick a glance at Cage, finding a dark and almost taunting expression. He wants me to answer, which only sends my heart rate escalating to dangerous levels.
He’s obviously not feeling inclined to give me an out, and I’m unsure if it’s because he’s enjoying watching me struggle or because he actually wants me to come.
Either way, he’s a dick.
“Y-yeah, of course. I don’t have plans.”
“Great!” she bellows a second time and, once again, scares the same young girl, who has since wandered closer. She jumps, drops a box as a result, and scurries to pick it up, her cheeks now bright red.
Then, the frazzled customer tosses Winifred a bewildered glance, frantically tucking flyaway blonde strands behind her ear, and hurries off before she suffers from a heart attack at an age far too young.
“Cage would love to come pick you up,” she volunteers, not even bothering to check with him first. She turns to him. “Bring her over at six. And pick us up some of that good shit I like.”
My brows jump.
Cage rolls his eyes. “She’s referring to wine,” he clarifies dryly.
Winifred refocuses on me. “And, for the love of God, wear something comfortable. We’ll be sitting on a couch drinking and trash-talking my wonderful son, so please don’t feel the need to impress me with a silly dress. I guarantee the ones in my closet are sexier anyway,” she directs. She goes to turn away but then pivots back around. “Oh, and don’t let him talk ya out of using condoms. Raising kids is so 1950s. Here, if he’s anything like his father, then these should work.”
I laugh when she snatches the size small condoms from the shelf and chucks them into my cart without a backward glance, then bids me farewell.
Cage’s face morphs from shock to being visibly offended. “Oh, she’s got jokes.”
Winifred’s answering cackle can be heard across several aisles, and I’m almost positive that wherever the young blonde woman is in the store, it managed to scare her again.
