She glanced at his hand, then back up, her hazel eyes cold and inscrutable. “I know who you are.”
Cameron dropped his hand. He didn’t know what her damn problem was, but he didn’t have the patience for her attitude. “Well, if you’ll excuse us, I need to borrow Asher for a minute.”
“We’ve come a long way to speak to Ash…er.”
A man roughly Asher’s height stepped up beside the woman. He had the look of someone who had been formidable in his youth, but age, and maybe illness, had taken its toll. His tan blazer hung off his shoulders as if it had been tailored for a much larger man, and his khaki slacks had been cinched so tightly around his waist the material bunched beneath the thin, leather belt.
“I’m sorry,” Cameron said with as much politeness as he could muster. “We’ll just be a minute.”
The man surveyed him through bleary, bloodshot eyes as if Cameron was something disgusting that he’d found on the bottom of his shoe.
“You listen here, boy.” He shuffled toward the table, his lined face twisting into a mask of unfounded anger.
Whatever he’d meant to say, Cameron never found out, because the woman placed a hand on his thin, frail arm and shook her head. Her eyes went to the group of reporters inching closer, and Cameron didn’t think he imagined the look of triumph that flashed across her face.
“I’m sorry,” she told him, her voice carrying so that anyone within the vicinity would hear her clearly. “We’re just a little overwhelmed. It’s been so long. We never thought we’d see Ashley again.”
Cameron’s heart knocked painfully against his ribs, and he dug his fingers into Asher’s shoulders to keep himself upright. This could not be fucking happening. There was no way in hell this woman was who he thought she was.
He was still trying to wrap his mind around it when she opened her mouth and destroyed all doubt.
“I’m Suzanne Derringer, and this—” She gestured to the man beside her. “—is my husband, Lawrence.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she offered a wobbly smile that was as fake as the Fendi handbag swinging from her arm. “We’re Ashley’s parents.”
~
Asher was going topuke. Or pass out. Maybe both.
At his mother’s tearful declaration, the few members of the media still present scrambled to get closer, shoving recording devices at her and feverishly snapping pictures. No one else in the room seemed to realize that Asher’s whole world was going up in flames. Still, that didn’t stop them from staring confusedly as reporters fired off questions, all shouting to be heard over one another.
He shouldn’t have been surprised. From the moment Kyle had walked back into his life, some part of him had been expecting this. His parents were far too greedy not to try to cash in on his misfortunes. In his version of events, though, he saw them on television in some melodramatic interview—or twelve. They had quotes in a badly titled tell-all book where they talked about his childhood and how they’d done their best to be good parents. Really, they’d say, they just didn’t know where it had all gone so wrong.
At no point had he imagined they would show up during his first-ever public appearance to ambush him.
He’d been fourteen the last time he’d seen them, a scared, confused boy who hadn’t understood why his parents didn’t love him. They hadn’t tried to find him when they’d kicked him out onto the streets. They hadn’t come looking for him. Even when his time with Mitchell Faraday had landed him in the hospital, they hadn’t come.
They didn’t give a damn about him, never had. Despite his mother’s superb acting skills, he knew better than to believe they were there to reconcile. He didn’t know what they had been promised or who had made said promises, and he didn’t care. Whatever game they were playing, he wanted no part of it.
As his mother continued to sob balefully for the reporters and stare misty-eyed into their cameras, the shock he’d felt at first seeing them faded, burned away by a molten, righteous anger.
“What are you doing here?”
His mother turned to look at him, her hand going to her mouth to muffle another exaggerated wail. “We heard what happened. We read about what that awful man…” She trailed off into a hiccupping sob. “When we realized…when we heard…I’m so sorry. My sweet baby.”
That nauseated feeling returned, and Asher clenched his teeth as his mouth flooded with saliva.
“Why didn’t you tell us, son?” Lawrence Derringer wrapped a comforting arm around his wife’s shoulders. “We would have helped you.”
The tip of his bulbous nose glowed a bright crimson, but he wasn’t sobbing like his wife. More likely, his glassy, red-rimmed eyes were a byproduct of a recent bottle of gin than any real emotion.
“I’m not your son,” he answered quietly, his blood pressure rising along with his anger. “I haven’t been since you kicked me out seventeen years ago.”
“We made a mistake,” his mother keened. “We regretted it the moment you left.”
“We looked for you,” his father added solemnly. “We searched everywhere.”
Asher slammed his hands down on the table and surged to his feet, his head throbbing with furry. “That’s a lie.”
Long, slender fingers surrounded his forearm, applying just enough pressure to get his attention. When he turned, Cameron shook his head.
