MINDER: Olallie's Offering (Mum's the Word Series Book 2) Page 2

  “Angel? ANGEL! WHY THE FUCK DID YOU STOP SINGING YOU STUPID BITCH!” I’m sure the neighbors a few miles down heard his holler.

  Crimsyn has her hand in mine, and I don’t let go because if I do, I get into trouble. Tears begin to force themselves out of our mother’s eyes.

  It hits me that it might be the last time we see our mother alive. Her mouth opens to sing again, and she closes the window, her figure slipping back to the ground.

  Angel does survive that night, but we don’t know it until two days later. Crimsyn runs to her open arms, and I stay back a bit. Watching any signs of where she flinches with contact.

  She doesn’t grimace, and I feel a sensation of hope.

  His love outbursts don’t end until I turn 8.

  Full school days, I guess the teachers started to catch on when the bruises weren’t fading. They hauled my father away as he spits in the faces of uniformed officers.

  Patch came into our lives, he held my hand and let me sit in the front of the cop car. My mother’s tears wet my hair, but I didn’t need her comfort. We were finally safe. Protecting my mother and little sister paid off, I wasn’t constricted on the breath.

  I decided then that I didn’t want to love anyone; it looked like it hurt too much. Even if I wasn’t receiving the love, I wouldn’t want to hurt another person with that type of emotion.

  We grew up better, we moved into a bigger house. A house my English grandparents approved was suitable to come and visit. Crimsyn cried for daddy, who’d been sent to serve his sentence up the hill behind the Krause mansion.

  I told Crimsyn, he couldn’t hurt us anymore. But she only cried harder, she missed the bastard.

  Soon, after Patch came into our lives and he never left, I took a particular interest in him becoming my true father.

  When Angel got pregnant with my brothers, I knew it was fate. We were all meant to be a happy family finally.

  Understanding that going through a hard life earned us this simple one. It was hard not to look over my shoulder and see if someone was out there keeping score.

  Isidro or Issy, as all his friends called him. My dad was behind bars for the next several years. It was the first time I prayed his temper would work in my favor. I hoped he would stay there until the day he died.

  Then we would be free from the reign of his fury. And maybe Angel would stop looking at me like I would one day grow into the monster.

  That’s the thing about fathers and sons. Bred to be best friends, have a bond more influential than any other. But I hope, in our case, the assumption was false. Still, her eyes lingered on me a few seconds too long, waiting to see what I learned from the man who day after day broke her.

  Chapter 3

  OLALLIE

  My mother’s funeral reminded me of a fading rainbow. Her older sisters painted on streaks of tears, as they acted like doting aunts. Some cry hysterical, the chair next to me creaks under the weight of her despair.

  I let out a giggle at their dramatics. Silently wondered if the sisters were mourning Luna’s demise or the remainder of their parents who had fallen.

  They seemed strange, unfamiliar hugging close to one another. Clung to a sadness where I felt the only thing Luna’s siblings missed out on was a few hours of their time. Maybe they were trying to make up for the shunning they gave, especially after I was born.

  This is where the darkness becomes a part of me. It must be that way when tragedy hits to close to the spectator. I wanted to climb into her soft velvet-lined coffin. Cuddle next to her, hoping the box would keep us both warm forever.

  There wasn’t comfort out here. Looking around, trying to see the one person I could find comfort with easing my pain.

  He would know what to do.

  But, Asher wasn’t anywhere. Not in the waves of people who made noise, I was grateful not to acknowledge. Covering my ears, hoping the visions of strangers would be erased. One aunt pulled my hand away, and I shoved her away, lost in the background.

  No way of knowing how I got there, panic starts to spark. Who do I belong to now? Was it the hypocrites of relatives or a father who shoved me in the back seat, welcoming me home?

  "I thought you got rid of her." Those are the first words Lennox Krause; my father says to me at age 7. Of course, my ears don’t hear it, but he pronounces the words like he is surprised about my soul being in my body.

  2 ½ years after our encounter, my mother dies. All relatives that were associated with her were drowned out by wasted patience.

  Lennox has been gifted the child he didn’t want. A golden token of a child he took advantage of, while she opened him up to heal. Held me at arm’s length, pushed me to undergo scans, tests, to see if I could be a candidate for the cochlear implant. He said it would help him. But what he didn’t say is how it would enable me. Put my mind through a further flex of someone else’s control and power. I agreed. At 10, I laid flat as I counted back from 100 on my fingertips.

  The surgery took roughly four hours. When I awoke, my skull ached. I put my hand to the side of my head. A bandage covers behind my ears. I focus my eyes and see it’s him. The first real noise I can associate with a body is his, and not my mother’s, not even the avenging angel Asher’s.

  He comes forward, asking me how I feel. I look down at the side of my bed and hate myself for doing it, but I attempt to nod. I didn’t know if I expected to hear miracles when I awoke, but the silence still surrounds me, and they remind me it’ll be a couple weeks before the sounds start to intensify.

  I tap a W to my chin, and my Lennox nearly trips, getting to the side table to pour me some water. I see his excitement as the doctor says everything went as planned, and we will be back in a couple days to put on the outer layer of the device.

  He doesn’t notice there is a vacant place where a smile should be on my face. The doctor continues to talk to me, and I stare out the window, trying to find the colored sunset. Two taps on my leg, the middle-aged man, signs to me what a great gift I have received.

  I didn’t want it, I try to flick my hands, but I stop. Because the only one that had my best interest died for their loyalty. My fingers touch my chin, and I open my palm toward him, thanking him.

  Two months later, I was greeted with initial crested suitcases with a map printed off in faded printer ink. Lennox appeared with sunglasses and a tan. His blonde hair almost white to the unholiness he was providing.

  It’s the first time I see him smile.

  Chapter 4

  LAWSON

  “Angel, could you change the detergent you use to wash our clothes?” We are walking through the grocery store—my two toddler brothers fighting over a toy in th shopping cart.

  “What smell would you prefer, Lawson?” Angel hums a response, a smile that has been plastered there for years now, never wavering.

  She feels every ounce of gratitude for being saved.

  “He likes a girl at school and doesn't want to smell like a cholo.” Crimsyn looks up from the magazine she’s been reading.

  “Shut up, Crimsyn!” My little sister is a stuck-up brat!

  I’m about to start 8th grade and want a new reputation, other than the kid whose dad is in prison.

  “Smell like a cholo? You don't smell like a homeboy. What does that smell like, drugs and desperation?” Our mother laughs to herself, an inside joke that we try not to discover the hidden meaning. Probably has something to do with Issy. But we don’t bring up his name, at least I don’t.

  “Mom, this girl, her friends said he smelt like a dirty Mexican.” Crimsyn, who has equal depth to her darkness of skin. Her brown eyes much more angled. But she rolls her eyes at the comment.

  “You do realize if I’m a dirty Mexican, then so are you! You are such an idiot sometimes!” I shove my hands in my pockets, waiting for the ass-chewing I’m going to get for calling my sister names.

  “I AM NOT A DIRTY MEXICAN!” Crimsyn practically screams it at the top of her lungs. Dropping the magazine and turns her back to me.

  Angel looks at me, with some anger trying to cover her pity. Her choices resulting in our misfortune. I bet she remembers the first time she went to my father’s house.

  It smells like fried bread and sweat.

  Angel couldn’t understand the punishment we were living for the fantasy she picked. Issy back then must have been tempting, and maybe she wanted a ride on the wild side.

  Ended up with more than she bargained for when she got pregnant twice by a man who only found himself essential.

  Our skin was caramelized, and hers has powered porcelain. Sometimes when I was little, I kept imagining what it might be like to have a Spanish mother. If she would be as weak to fall for a guy who corrupted her spirits with his own.

  If we were all the same tone, would I actually have the courage to call her mother, instead of Angel? Knowing it meant I trusted her, that she would, in fact, protect me. I wouldn’t be searching on school mornings for the hammer to pull nails out of the door, so we could leave the house.

  After the trip to the grocery store that day, Angel doesn’t tattle to Patch about the issue. Instead, she does something beneficial for me.

  “Here.” She hands me a box of cologne. The box was a smooth navy blue, a gold and silver twisted crest bumps my thumb as I scan the label.

  “What is this for, Angel?”

  “Lawson, are you ever going to call me mom. I am your mother.”

  “No, probably not.” I throw the box onto my desk and go back to my video games.

  “Lawson, are you even going to open it up?” She waits, like a good southern woman waiting to be thanked.

  “Sure, Angel.” I tear open the top, and the scent that hits me makes my senses slow. It’s a mixture of musk and manhood.

  The tr
ansformation from boy to gentleman. The immediate excitement I feel rushes through my body, but I know too well, we can’t afford beautiful things.

  Or we couldn’t before.

  “Mom, thanks for this. But you should probably take it back.” Careful not to get any smudges on the container.

  “You don’t like it?” Worry filters through her face.

  “No, it’s amazing. I feel honored, but I know it must have cost something, and we can’t use the money on things like this. It’s too much.” Folding the box back together and getting the tape to fix the torn edges.

  “Lawson.” Her voice so tender, I pinch my eyes, trying to figure out what happened.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry that you are still recovering from what happened with your father. I know we never had much. Those were very dark times in both our lives. But things are so much better, this is something we can do, and you deserve. Keep it. By the way, we changed the detergent, no need to join a gang, homeboy!” Those light green eyes wink at me as she bustles out the door.

  “Angel…” I shake my head at her reference. Relief comes quick, and I can’t wait to try it out. I open the bottle and splash some here and there. Not wanting to waste a single drop.

  “Thank you!” Yelling out my bedroom door.

  “No problem, hombre! We love you!” Angel screeches back, and I cringe, hoping she won’t be shouting that when she picks us up from school tomorrow.

  In the next few weeks, I wear it, and I start getting double takes in my direction. Not ugly glares or turned up noses. No girls were actually watching me with wide eyes.

  “Whoa, there baby cousin, did someone grow some balls over summer? Momma Angel got you looking fly.” Dawson, whose nickname has been Maroon since before I could speak, sits next to the bike rack as the other students file out of the schoolyard.

  “Dawson? What are you doing here?” He grips my bike and starts pedaling, so I jogged up beside him.

  “Abuela wants to see her precious Lawson.” He pinches my cheek and then gives it a slight slap. “Where’s Syn?” He looks around, trying to pick a familiar face.

  “Angel took her to a singing competition in Texas.” I sling both straps over my shoulders as we exit the gate.

  “Oh, well then, if that’s the case, shall we go and find some trouble before grandma Zola takes you over?” His eyes are shiny, and I wonder what fresh trouble my older cousin will show me.

  So, of course, I agree.

  We are in an abandoned garage on the edge of town. Dawson’s friends and a few of my other cousins are hanging around.

  “Where are you going? You just got here Alien, stay and hang out with my baby cousin Lawson and me. Before we have to go meet our executioner.” Dawson pouts out his lips at Leonie, the Krause twin's older sister.

  “I’ve got to go home and study.” Her eyes stay on me, the weight of her gaze is iconic. She remains a curious creature, always investigating new knowledge.

  “Baby, I promise a minute more? Please.” Dawson rarely begs, but even this is a cry for help.

  “No, Maroon.” Leonie doesn’t even look back as she starts to walk away.

  “I’ve decided to go see him.” He is talking to the footprints she leaves.

  “You swore you wouldn’t, logically this is a bad idea. Is that why you brought your uncle’s son here to make you feel better?”

  “It’s family business, you wouldn’t understand.” Dawson shrugs only one shoulder.

  Leonie stiffens, glaring at the opposite shoulder that didn’t rise in unison. “I don’t have to understand your motives. Because we both know they will take you away from here. Maybe that is all you wanted from the beginning to live next to your uncle in prison.”

  “Like I said, Leonie. Family business, I will handle it. No concern to you or anybody else without the last name Arzola. Got that sweet cheeks, why don’t you skedaddle?”

  I can see she isn’t used to being dismissed. And in her defiance, she loses her anger and waits for Dawson to cower.

  Hearing stories about Leonie Krause has made me physically nervous that she has telepathy or move things with her mind. The girl is way too smart for our side of the state.

  “Refrain from continuing backward on your path, Maroon. Have a good night, boys.” She’s gone, and I wonder if the nickname earlier is accurate. Maybe she is an alien.

  “Why do they call you Maroon?” We sit back in beanbag chairs, as Dawson rolls a blunt in front of me.

  Oh my goodness, my twelve-year-old brain is about to get drugged for the first time. I can’t wait to tell Verse! Also, my mother is going to kill Dawson when she finds out!

  Dawson seems agitated with the question, it either is too personal, or he doesn’t want to reveal the source.

  “Light up, pendejo!” He holds the lighter to the paper. Ignoring the question entirely, as I inhale and my lungs catch fire, while cayenne pepper is sprayed down my throat.

  “Good, you’ll survive,” Dawson says like a proud father.

  It isn’t until we are at my grandma’s house, do I eat everything she puts on my plate. Then I start to feel like getting high was a bad idea?

  I run into her rose bushes and paint the prized possession with puke.

  Chapter 5

  OLALLIE

  They do not tell you when you enter a psych ward that you will be cured or that you have rights. For the safety of other patients and yourself, you are under their rule.

  Technically we were adults, most of us emancipated, while others allowed to be here even though they were 19, Zailey, for instance, wouldn’t mix well with the actual over 18 on suicidal watch down the hall. She got special permission. She was headed into college in September, and I was led into the sophomore year of high school.

  It might have been an excuse as some sort of summer vacation before I entered my father’s reality. If I were going back to the girl’s academy in Texas, well, I might have enjoyed my time here.

  But Knox decided he wanted all his children under one roof.

  The thought of going to high school that was coed made my skin grow goosebumps like frying eggs on asphalt. Not that I haven’t had interactions with men, but these boys grew up with Calhoun and Kalonie. They’ve known them for years.

  Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, the small community worshipped my father’s last name, every able body fondled at the thought of him.

  Not because he owned and made a profit from a private prison or that he purchased any free lot on this side of the county line.

  Nope, sugar, they respected him on the same principle hierarchy expects loyalty. Because beneath the bravado, he was a genuine man. Gave 60 percent of his earnings back into the community. Knox gave them back sons and daughters whose wrong decisions came out looking like innocent opportunity.

  I wasn’t born to be a martyr. My mother was offered that role. Her only duty in life was to deliver me and soften the loveless man. There was a reputation of boldness that made me shrink away. One I would never live up to, neither my mother’s nor my father’s definition would claim me.

  Goodness was inside me, but it was for me, and I didn’t want to gift it to others to prove I was a part of the Krause bloodline. Wouldn’t be asked of me, not if I could help it.

  Harper Calico came in a few weeks after Zailey at the center, and I smiled at her. Her pain was a beautiful thing to witness, I admired the way she let it shine on. Not hiding in the darkness like the rest of us; instead, she caressed the nose of it and patted her leg to have it follow her.

  She walked lopsided from an accident. Either way, she didn’t stare down at the floor as others gawked at her limp. Her cane was blemished with gothic skulls and emo lyrics. I never felt so welcome standing next to her.

  “Stop blessing people, Olallie, nobody needs that kind of pressure.” Zailey practically yelled from across the rec room as I stared at the poor girl limps closer. Then I turned back to Z and flipped her off the bird for being a muscular twitch.

  “The way you talk—" Harper starts off the conversation, and I know how degrading this can get.

  “Is embarrassing, isn't it.” Agreeing with the demeaning comments before she can counter an attack.

  Harper doesn’t look like she is trying to be rude. “No. I mean, the way you talk, it’s like you mean every word you say.”