Wrong Question, Right Answer (The Bourbon Street Boys #3) - Elle Casey Page 0,111
what that meant to you as his mother.”
“Charlie’s dead because you killed him,” she nearly growls. “You can’t change that fact, no matter what you say.”
“I know. I wish I could undo what I did, but I can’t. But I’m sorry, regardless. I wanted you to know that. And I wanted you to know that I get it. I know why you can’t forgive me. I took a piece of you away, and that wasn’t fair to you or to Charlie or to the rest of the family, either.”
“Well, you’re right about one thing: you can’t change anything. And you’re sayin’ you’re sorry now?” She spits on the ground. “Get outta here before I make you sorry you ever lived.”
I look up at her, surprised by the tone in her voice and how eerily familiar it is. Charlie talked to me this way sometimes, right before he punched me in the face. A trickle of fear leaks into my heart.
“I just came by to apologize, Eunice. I’m sorry I upset you; that was not my intention. I’ll go now.” I take a step back.
She closes the distance between us to just five feet. “Oh, you’re sorry about that too, are you? Sorry?” She takes another step. “Let me tell you how much your sorries are worth to me.” She pauses before continuing with a snarl in her voice. “Nothing. Less than nothing. I’d like to take that sorry and smash you in the teeth with it.”
The hatred rolling off her in waves is so strong I have to step back away from it. I hold up my hands in surrender. “I don’t want any trouble from you, Eunice. I just came to apologize, and now I’m going to leave.”
She shakes her head, pressing her already thin lips together until they disappear. Her double chin waggles on her neck as spittle gathers in the corners of her mouth. She reaches into her purse and pulls something out.
“Nah, you ain’t leaving yet. I got a little something special for you right here in my purse.” She mumbles her last words. “Sorry, my ass . . .”
My heart flips over and spasms painfully when I imagine she’s getting ready to point a gun at me. But when her hand emerges from her bag, all I see is a short black stick.
She shakes her fist once and the bar extends itself.
Oh shit. My brain short-circuits. She’s got an extendable steel baton in her hand, and she looks like she’s going to enjoy using it. This wasn’t part of my plan. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m in so much trouble. I swore to Charlie’s ghost and myself that I wouldn’t hurt this woman. I came to apologize and that’s it. I can’t fight back.
My jaw drops open as I realize I’m about to get my ass kicked by a double-chinned granny. In all of my training sessions with Dev and the other guys, I was fighting off a man. Never once was I presented with a senior citizen as an opponent, nor a situation where I had to hold back. A crazy part of my brain is telling me that she’s the mother of the man I killed and I pretty much owe her my life in exchange for the one I took. It keeps my feet rooted to the ground when they should probably be pumping like hell, sprinting me into the next county.
She raises the stick above her head at the same time that she drops her purse on the ground. “I’ve been dreaming about this day for years. I’m gonna give you a little taste of what you gave my boy. You thought you felt sorry before? Just wait. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
She shortens the distance between us a lot faster than I would’ve expected her to. One second she’s four feet away and the next, she’s on me.
I used to be more agile before I had two babies in me. I try to duck, but I’m not fast enough. The steel stick comes around swiftly and whacks me in the side of the head.
I scream and bend over from the pain, my hand flying up to my ear. My head feels like there’s a giant bell ringing inside it. Something warm and sticky oozes through my fingers. Blood. I’ve never been afraid of bleeding before, but I am now. I share this blood with my children; I can’t afford to lose any of it.