They say the truth will set you free, but free is the last thing I'm feeling when the truth slips out of my mouth. Kyle isn't supposed to know this. Holland has been damn clear about his expectations about my keeping his son out of our agreement. This isn't supposed to be something I'm confessing, but I think he'll find out. Kyle's past the point of asking questions, and the crazed look in his eye when he confronted me moments ago about the prison told me he wasn't going to stop looking for answers until he got them.

So, I figure this is better coming from me than coming from someone else who may not do my father justice when explaining.

"Your dad tried to kill someone?" Kyle asks, and the horror in his voice when he asks is exactly the reason I don't tell people about my dad.

They jump to conclusions about his character, and they're always the wrong conclusions. I don't have it in me to allow Kyle to believe the worst of my dad, the one person in this world who has always had my back, but what that means causes panic to choke me.

I have to tell Kyle the truth. It's the only way to clear my dad's name in Kyle's eyes.

"Sit," I tell him.

He raises a brow me, questioning why I want him to sit. I feel my temper spike towards him when he hesitates to do what I tell him to. He's pushing my patience to its breaking point today. I might want to clear my dad's name, but having this conversation isn't something I would do if I were left with any other choice—even if I do trust Kyle more these days than I once thought possible.

He's twisting my arm. He's forcing my hand here, and I refuse to treat the asshole with kid gloves while I strip myself bare for him against my will.

"Don't test me," I growl.

Kyle sits next to me on the bed without another second's hesitation. I breathe a sigh of relief. I might be pissed at the guy, but I also don't want to have it out with him at the moment. I run my hands through my hair in an effort to gather my thoughts. When I speak, it feels like the words are caught in my throat, protesting their release after such a long time of silence on the subject.

"Your dad isn't an anomaly when talking about my mom's taste in men. I grew up with a long line of Holland's in my life. Drug dealers, cheaters, abusers, alcoholics, addicts, and all-around worthless piles of garbage. That's her taste. It always has been," I tell him.

Kyle flinches when the words leave my mouth. I'm not sure why, but I'm choosing to believe it's not because I'm lumping his dad in with all the others. After everything Kyle told me about the events surrounding his mom leaving, I wouldn't think he'd have a soft spot for his dad. Which, leaves me with only one alternative explanation, and I don't like it much more than the last.

"You took a swing at me for what you perceived as pity. I don't like pity any more than you do, so knock it off," I snap at him.

He flinches again, but this time, I hope it's in response to my words.

"Sorry," he mumbles, averting his eyes from me.

At least I can't see the pity anymore. Unfortunately, it also means he's no longer looking at me. He's starring at the wall in front of him. Not having his eyes on me makes it less difficult to talk, but it's not a cake walk either—especially when I know where this conversation is leading.

"My parents were never together. I'm the result of a one-night stand and a broken condom. My dad sued my mom for custody when I was younger, but the judge sided with my mom, so I only saw dad every other weekend as a kid. The rest of the time, I was with her and whoever she was with at the time," I tell him, "I was never in one school for more than a school year, and even that was pushing it. She'd move in with another guy every year, and she'd tell me to pack my things. Sometimes she didn't even make it through the school year, and she'd pull me out at semester."

"Sounds hard," Kyle mumbles, still apparently finding the wall in front of him fascinating.

I don't acknowledge his statement. That's not why I'm telling him this. I need for him to understand my dad's character, and this is the best way for me to make it clear to him.

"I can't count the number of times she's given me less than a week's notice before loading up the car and driving across the country—sometimes with no place to stay once we got there. We'd live out of her car for a week or two, and inevitably she'd hook up with some guy wherever we ended up," I explain.

"My dad moved every time we did in order to still see me every other weekend. I know it was hard for him. He'd lose his job every time she moved us, but he was consistent. He always managed to pay child support, even when he was still looking for a job in the new locations, and he never canceled on our weekends. They were the highlight of my week more often than not, so his consistency was everything," I tell Kyle, hoping he'll understand.

Thing is, I get it. I get how attempted murder sounds. That's one of the main reasons I don't tell people about my dad. Kyle glances at me when I don't continue, and I see sympathy in his eyes that cuts me. I'm not telling him this for that, and I wish there were some way to split the two. If I could tell him about my dad without telling him about my childhood, I would.

"He sounds great," Kyle acknowledges, which helps me to release a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

Maybe this isn't fun for me, but at least it's working.

"He is," I confirm, sounding as firm in my believe as I feel.

"I'm sure he had his reasons then?" Kyle prompts.

I feel like he just knocked the wind out of me with his question because this is the hardest part, and it's why I quit talking.

"He did. He thought he did. Like I said, the guys my mom was with were trash. A lot of them were unemployed, so I'd end up being alone with them quite a bit after school. Mom worked, and she paid all the bills more often than not," I tell Kyle, who nods, and of course he would choose that moment to look at me.

This is where it gets difficult, and his eyes are suddenly locked on mine. Getting air to my lungs is a challenge.

"When I was twelve, she moved us to Arizona. We moved into this shack of a house in the middle of nowhere. It was," my mind assaults me with vivid memories of the house and the things that happened there.

I do my best to shove those memories back where they belong, but when I'm talking about this, it's not easy. Kyle takes my hand in his, and if he were anyone else alive, I'd punch him for it, and I'd leave the room. His hand in mine, and the gentle squeeze he gives it makes it easier for me to talk though. I stare at our hand, and I run my thumb along his knuckle as I continue.

"The house's lack of air conditioning and heat was nothing new to me by that point. It was suffocating in summer, and it was freezing in winter, but when I describe it as a shack, I mean it. It was this tiny, one-bedroom house with a living room, and kitchen. The bathroom was behind a curtain in their room, so when I had to use the bathroom, I had to go into their room to do it. I slept on the couch when Paul didn't pass out drunk on it. Those nights, I slept on a blanket on the ground," I tell him, knowing I'm stalling by talking about the house.

"That sounds awful," Kyle muses.

I let out a puff of air through my nose that might pass for laughter if it weren't for the complete lack of humor behind it.

"Those nights were a blessing," I tell him, trying my best not to think about the nights when Paul was awake.

Kyle's eyes widen when my words land on his ears, and he takes a sharp breath.

"The first time dad noticed the bruises, he came unglued. He went to the house, and he packed my bags. He got into a fist fight with Paul, and mom cried the whole time, begging them to stop fighting. Dad didn't hear a word she said, but one word from my mouth that day reminded him I was there watching, and he stopped hitting Paul in favor of taking me home. I wasn't even there a night before mom called the cops. They told my dad they'd arrest him if he didn't let me go with them, and he would've been arrested that day for it if I hadn't insisted I could handle it," I tell Kyle as I continue to stare at our hands.

"Paul was hurting you?" Kyle asks.

I ignore him again in favor of getting through this.

"Mom lasted with Paul longer than she's lasted with any other guy. We lived there for almost two years. I was almost fourteen when I decided I was tired of it. He started in on me one night because his car was broken down, and I hadn't been able to fix it yet. It was more of a money thing than a lack of ability to fix it. I had been mowing every yard in the neighborhood trying to save up enough money to replace the catalytic converter on his piece of shit car for a week by that point, and to be completely honest, I was annoyed. The replacement part costed more than his car was worth, but he wasn't willing to give up the piece of crap. So, I called him on it," I tell him.

"And, since I'm sharing, that night is what the majority of my nightmares are about," I tell him.

Kyle swallows audibly. He looks white as a sheet.

"What happened," he whispers hesitantly.

"I woke up in a hospital, and my dad went to prison," I tell him the most simplified version possible.

Listening to Bryant talk about his life makes me understand why he thinks my life is so perfect. Watching him talk about it is gutting me. I've never seen him so vulnerable in my life. I didn't even know he was capable of showing this level of vulnerability. That he's doing it with me is even more mind blowing.

"Where does my dad come into this?" I ask, even though I think I'd like this conversation to end almost as badly as Bryant probably does.

Watching him hurting is painful. Thankfully, when I ask the question, his pain shifts to anger.

"Your father has people everywhere. His operation is bigger than you can fathom, and some of those men are in prison with my dad," he tells me like he's explaining it thoroughly, but I still feel confused about what he's saying.

"Okay?" I ask, trying to connect the dots and failing.

"He wants me to sell for him, Kyle, and he has the power to make dad's life a living hell," Bryant says impatiently.

"He's threatening your dad?" I ask breathlessly.

Bryant nods.