Stay (Dunham series #2) by Moriah Jovan Page B

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Whittaker-spawned issues would crop up today.
    “I hate your mother,” Eric said matter-of-factly.
That got the kid’s attention and his eyes narrowed at him. “Look,
tell me what you need. I’ll give it to you. Food? Money? Clothes? A
place to stay besides juvie? What? Just tell me.”
    He stared at Eric stonily.
    “Dammit. What do I have to do to get you to act like
a normal human being? You can not keep stealing shit to pawn,
and I’m about this close to getting social services out to your
house.”
    The kid swallowed, but otherwise showed no
reaction.
    Eric sighed. “Better the devil you know, eh?”
    Eric Junior still wouldn’t answer, but Eric knew.
Living with Simone and LaVon had to be hell, but at least it was
familiar. And Eric Senior had to tread lightly; his life was
inextricably woven with those women’s lives. Any action he took
against them, legal or otherwise, could be seen as retaliatory—and
he was in the power position in a county with a corrupt
reputation.
    It would look bad and for the sake of his career,
Eric couldn’t allow himself to get caught up in their drama any
more than they forced him to.
    “Deputy!” he bellowed finally, and a deputy showed
up in a moment or two. He gestured to Junior, and the deputy
unlocked the bracelets to haul him off to the juvenile facility,
not a word between them.
    None were necessary, but the baleful glance the boy
shot back at Eric made him catch his breath with the memory of a
little girl who had looked at him that way long ago. Her eyes were
just that color of brilliant turquoise and told him everything that
was in her heart.
    Please talk to me. Please don’t make me go back home
to my mother and my sister with nothing to show for what I did for
you.
    Guilt hit him in the same place it always did, low
in his gut, sharp, a white-hot fire poker piked into his belly.
    He hated dealing with Simone’s kid. Two or three
times a week, he lived through the day he had walked away from his
savior, the little girl who’d begged for some acknowledgment from
the big badass of Chouteau High. He owed her so much, not the least
of which a simple “thank you,” but he’d turned his back on her, too
humiliated that a twelve-year-old girl had done what no one else
could or would, too afraid to talk to her in case someone accused
him of rape again, too aware that she had saved his life—
    It never went away, that vile concoction of shame
and regret, humiliation and fervent gratitude that had pooled in
the bottom of his soul for the last thirteen years.
    That kid needed something from him or he wouldn’t go
to such lengths to get his attention, but Eric couldn’t figure it
out. Apparently, he continued to fail whatever test the boy kept
giving him and it frustrated Eric to no end, but if he wouldn’t
speak . . .
    Eric’s phone rang again. He didn’t have to wonder
who would call so soon after his namesake’s arrest, but he checked
the name on the display anyway.
    “LaVon, good afternoon,” he said, affecting a cheer
he didn’t feel. “Why are you up so early? Shouldn’t you be hung
over or something?”
    “You half-breed bastard,” she snarled at him.
    “Have I thanked you yet today, LaVon?”
    Nothing else drove Simone and LaVon Whittaker madder
than when he rubbed their noses in the fact that their machinations
had only served to make him fairly powerful.
    “Oh, fuck you.”
    “So are you calling about the press conference or
Satanette’s spawn?”
    “What’d you do with him?”
    “You know where he is and you know I’m going to keep
him at least overnight.”
    “You think he can suck you off all night?”
    Eric yawned.
    “Simone’s on her way up there to get him and you
better have him ready.”
    “LaVon, you know the drill. He stays until I say he
can go.”
    He hung up in the middle of one of her tirades
questioning his parentage, which wasn’t an entirely unreasonable
thing for her to question. He questioned it often