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tension in his neck that the memories had caused. "No. My parents were both only children. Their parents were dead. I had a great-aunt, but she was past the age where she could raise a twelve-year-old child. No one wanted me. No one but them." |
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He opened his eyes and glanced at D.J. A soft look had stolen over her face, one he'd never seen there before. He recognized the look. He'd seen it on people's faces all his life, whenever they heard about his past. |
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"Stop," he commanded, his soft voice laced with anger. |
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"What?" Her eyes widened in surprise. |
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"Feeling sorry for me. So my childhood wasn't anything to brag about after my parents died. I lived through it. I survived." |
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"Don't we all," she muttered and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. |
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Chris didn't care for the feelings stealing over him at the sight of her reclining on his bed. He would never be able to stop his mind from remembering her just like thisor perhaps a bit differently. Still upon his bed, but naked and staring into his eyes as he moved over her and |
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"The point is," he blurted, forcing his mind away from the image. D.J. sat up and stared at him, waiting. "The point is," he repeated, ''there are kids who've had worse foster families than I did, and kids who've had better. The Rousseaus took me in, fed me, clothed mefor a priceand when I was old enough to leave I left. They would have no reason |
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