This caught her interest, as he’d probably expected. “What kind of commodities?”
“Speed? Crank? What’s your drug of choice? I can get it.”
At this point, she’d take anything. “I’m not picky.”
“Then I won’t even have to go back inside.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What, exactly, do you want in return?”
“Nothing too out of the ordinary. At least not these days. I enjoy a little BDSM. You?”
Pain, especially voluntary pain, wasn’t her thing. But he was offering her what she’d come for, and she wasn’t sure she’d find a better opportunity. “I’m not into anything too controlling,” she said to see how he’d respond.
He adjusted his smile in an all-too-obvious attempt to look more sincere. “Fine. A light bondage session, then.”
An image of Aaron came to mind. He never hurt her, not physically. He made love gently, sweetly, which would come as a surprise to those in Whiskey Creek who liked to think the worst of him. Already, she missed him, wanted to be with him.
But a girl didn’t always get what she wanted. Presley had learned that lesson at an early age.
“I’ll need some cash. I’m new in town, and I have to find a place to stay.”
He pulled a pack of cigarettes from in his jacket and passed her one. “I might be able to help you out with that, too. My girls make good money, and I keep them safe.”
So that was it. But as long as she got by, did it really matter? “Then our arrangement is more of an audition?”
He lit her cigarette. “I was just looking for a good time, but…who knows where the relationship might go from there?”
She covered her stomach with one hand. “I need an abortion.”
“Hazard of the trade,” he said without batting an eye. “I can arrange it.”
Except this wasn’t the type of unwanted pregnancy he assumed it was. She loved the baby’s father. It wouldn’t be easy to go through with the procedure. Her stomach tightened protectively at the mere thought of it.
If only she had another choice. If only Aaron cared about her. Just a little. She was thirty-three. If she wasn’t going to have a child now, when would she start?
Probably never. No one knew better than she did how unlovable she was. It was too much to hope for, too much to expect that Aaron would want to be a father to their child.
The stranger motioned to a Lexus sedan that looked as respectable as he did. “Let’s go.”
* * *
“If you suspect you might not have been born to Anita, what about Presley? Do you think Anita could’ve stolen Presley, too?” Dylan had to admit that Christmas Eve wasn’t the best time to talk about this, but he’d been burning with curiosity ever since Cheyenne had first shared her doubts. And they had plenty of time and privacy tonight. Since all the restaurants were closed, he’d made a salad and grilled a couple of steaks for dinner. Now they were enjoying a glass of wine, curled up together on her couch. He’d wanted to take Cheyenne to his house for the evening; he thought the presence of his brothers and all the activity might take her mind off her troubles. But she couldn’t stop hoping that Presley would walk through the door, relieve her worries and possibly refute what she believed about Anita’s death. That hope kept her anchored to her own house.
“She’s most likely Anita’s biological child,” she said after a few seconds of deliberation.
“Why do you think so? She doesn’t look anything like her. No more than you.”
She slid her hand under his shirt but the movement was more about comfort and contact than desire. “There was always a certain affinity between them. One that came naturally. One we just didn’t have.”
He smoothed the hair out her face. “In other words, Presley was Anita’s favorite.”
“By a long shot. And I couldn’t blame her. Presley was far more flexible and forgiving. I don’t know why I couldn’t be the same. I’ve often felt guilty about the resentment inside me, but…I haven’t been able to overcome it. I think it’s because she never felt a moment’s guilt over how she behaved. If she’d remained healthy, nothing would’ve changed.”
“Do you know anything about Presley’s father?”
She leaned forward for a sip of her wine before putting it back on the coffee table. “No more than I know about my own.”
“Where did Anita typically meet men?”
“Besides bars? Begging in the streets. At Laundromats. Homeless shelters. Hanging out around sex shops or those peep-show places. Rest stops. Drunk tanks.” She twisted her head to smile ruefully at him. “All the places one usually hopes to find love.”
He laughed. “God, what a life. How many cities did you live in growing up?”
She settled against his chest. “Too many to count. We never stayed in one place for long.”
“Because your mother couldn’t find work?”
“She did odd jobs here and there, but they never lasted. She couldn’t get along with her bosses for more than a few weeks or months. Or she abused the system—called in sick too often, stole from the till, handled her personal business on company time. More often she wasn’t even looking for gainful employment. She was just hoping for a handout or a quick…transaction so she could get by and keep moving.”
How had Cheyenne and Presley coped with such a mother? He’d heard rumors about Anita, of course, ever since they’d come to town. But he hadn’t really clued in to what might be going on in their lives, not until recent years when he’d started noticing the pretty blonde next door who wouldn’t give him the time of day. Soon after, he learned quite a bit about Cheyenne, thanks to Presley and the things she said during her many visits to his house. “What was she looking for?”
“I wish I could tell you.” There was a shrug in her voice. “The grass was always greener somewhere else. She felt the next place would be easier. I quit trying to figure it out once I realized that even she didn’t know what she was looking for.”
“Was the grass ever any greener?”
“Not until we moved here. We were in New Mexico before. It was terrible for us there. Then Phoenix for a brief time, and that was even worse. Whiskey Creek felt like home to me from the very beginning. But she probably wouldn’t have settled down, if not for being diagnosed with cancer.”