The Princess and The Jester - A.D. McCammon Page 0,76

him his life.

My mother gasps, her head adamantly shaking. “Oh god, no. Brody killed him to hurt me. If anyone deserves the blame, it’s me.”

The pain in her voice kicks all the anger and hurt out of me, and I pull her into my arms as she begins to cry. “Why did he do it?”

She leans back to meet my stare. “Come sit down with me. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

I nod and follow her to the couch, taking a seat next to her.

“Who was he to you?” I ask, part of me terrified to hear the answer.

“He was my high school boyfriend. As you know, my parents died when I was young. Your aunt and I grew up in foster homes never knowing what it meant to truly be loved.”

I bob my head, though she’s never told me much about what life was like for her growing up. Then again, I never really asked. It’s one of those things you don’t give a lot of thought to. As if your parents didn’t have a life before you were in it.

“When Brody started paying attention to me, I felt special for the first time in my life. But not long after we began dating, he became controlling and jealous. I told myself it was only because he cared so much about me. By the time the bruises became harder to hide, I was in full denial.”

My chest tightens at the thought of my mom young and afraid, covered in bruises with no one to turn to. I didn’t think it was possible to hate that man more than I already did.

“When I got pregnant with you, it was like someone flipped on a light switch. I might’ve let him beat me for the rest of my life, but the thought of him hurting you…”

Her words trail off as tears spring from her eyes again, and she takes my hand. “I loved you from the moment you were conceived. There was no way I’d let him or anyone else hurt you.”

The lump in my throat cuts off my air supply, my own tears falling now.

“So, I packed up my suitcase and caught a bus to Nashville. That ticket cost me every dime to my name, but I stayed in hostels and found a job waiting tables at a bar downtown. That’s how I met your daddy.”

Dad used to tell me the story all the time, about how he met my mom. The tale of a young musician who was on the wrong path until he fell in love was his favorite bedtime story. Though he clearly left out some important details.

“Nicolas would come in once a week for open mic night, and every week he’d ask me out,” she says, a warm smile lighting her face as she remembers him. “I finally told him I was pregnant, thinking it would put a stop to it. But he got me to agree to a friendship, and eventually that blossomed into something more. When he asked me to marry him, he said he wanted to be your daddy. For us to be a family. And that’s what I wanted, too.”

My parents went to the courthouse to get married. Didn’t have any official wedding photos. But I’d seen a couple of my momma wearing a white dress, her hands holding a bouquet of flowers and her belly round.

“Things were wonderful the first few years. Until your daddy got some notoriety.” Her features darken with sorrow again, causing an aching in my chest. I know how this part of the story goes. “All it took was one person snapping a picture of you and me with your dad for my world to come crashing down around me. I never told Brody about being pregnant, but he took one look at you and knew.”

People used to tell me I was handsome like my daddy, but I knew they were only being polite. We didn’t look anything alike. His dark hair and brown eyes were a complete contrast to my blond hair and bright green eyes. Still, it never occurred to me that he wasn’t my biological father.

“Brody showed up, making demands and threats, wanting me to come with him. Your daddy protected us though, and his friends in the police department ran Brody out of town. Or so we thought. And, well…you know what happened from there.”

Yeah, I know all too well. The bastard killed him. Waited for my dad outside of the