“No more bullshit! Tell me!”
Holding his hands up defensively, he laughs. “Relax, son. I was su’prised to see her after all this time and wanted to catch up.” Strolling over to the well-stocked bar, he pours more whiskey into his glass. It’s a brutal reminder of all the times he’d calmly tend to his drink before giving me a severe beat down.
“Catch up?” I repeat, squinting back at him. “You hardly knew her.”
“She must not’ve told you about my visit to Vegas.”
My stomach squeezes tightly as my jaw clenches. “What visit? When?”
“While you were in the hospital—you know, that time after you had been there to see ‘er. I asked Brooke what she knew about this Isabelle person that had your underwear all twisted up. Brooke had her number, so I used…had a PI track ‘er down. He found her working in one of those brothels—you know, one of those whore houses where prostitution is legal.” His lips quirk with a wide, sickening smile that has my stomach swaying. “Decided to pay her a visit and see what made her so special.”
I recoil as if punched. Belle worked in a brothel? No fucking way. Memories from the night I met her friends in Vegas flicker to the front of my mind, sending an icy chill down my back. One offered sexual favors for money. What if he’s telling the truth?
With violent shakes of my head, I push the idea away. “You’ve always been a pathological liar. It’s the only way you got by with knocking me around all those years without getting hauled off to jail.”
Eyebrows lifted, he drunkenly shuffles toward me. “Maybe you should ask her ‘bout the mark under her ear. The cut went pretty deep—wasn’t surprised to see it left a scar.”
Short breaths stutter through my chest. I glare back at him, fingers curling into fists at my sides. “You did that to her?”
“I did you a favor, son. That girl is no good for you. She’s nothin’ but a whore.”
With his crude words, my body’s in motion on its own accord. My fist slams into his jaw and he reels back, tripping on his own feet. A warm glow of satisfaction at seeing him stumble lights my gut until he rights himself and lunges at me.
“Is that all ya got?” he roars.
He’s so wasted that it takes a mere step to the side to avoid the strike. He falls chest down onto the arm of the leather couch, letting out a surprised yelp. He whips his skull back, colliding with the corner of the massive coffee table. Blood pools onto the ivory carpet beneath him as he falls to his back, coughing and sputtering.
It’s sickening to watch the man who raised me flounder, pathetic and helpless. But only a flicker of guilt lodges inside my stomach as I lurch over him, watching him struggle to breathe. “What did you do to Belle in Vegas, you sick son-of-a-bitch?”
Blood trickles from his lips when he coughs again. “Call…an…ambulance…”
“Not until you tell me what you did to her!”
“She knew…she remembered me…put up a fight.”
Put up a fight.
The words repeat over and over in my head until I’m struck with a thought so nauseating that I let out a sudden yell. I shuffle away from him, twisting my fingers in my hair. “Did you—” Skin crawling with the possibilities, I yell out, “Fuck!” and walk in an aimless circle.
The younger version of the girl I love appears behind my closed eyes, smiling and laughing with happiness lighting her dark eyes. What if my father’s the one who ultimately broke her? I need to know the truth. But what if the truth is something I can’t live with? What if it’s so ugly that I can’t look at her again without seeing him?
Hands slipping down to lock behind my head, I tip my chin up to the ceiling. “Did you force yourself on her?” I grind out through clenched teeth.
He answers with a rough, strained laugh like that of a smoker. “Like I said…she’s…a whore. Knew she’d…ruin…your life…just like…music. Told her…stay away…”
Anguish squeezes at my ribs as I stare down at the man I’ve spent the majority of my life putting all my efforts into violently hating. It’s nothing short of a miracle that I’m able to love anyone, but I’ve loved Belle for so long and so hard that I don’t know that I could ever hate her. Even if what he’s saying is true.
The need to smash the heel of my foot into his face is crippling. Somehow I hold back, watching him struggle as blood continues to pump into the carpet.
“Why the fuck do you hate me so much? Why are you so determined to ruin my life?”