“Pops, you don’t understand.”
“Explain it to me then. I’d love to know what was going on in that head of yours that you failed to do the one thing you were in charge of.”
I lay my head back against the sofa and stare at the ceiling. I run a hand over my face in exasperation. “I can’t tell you. I just felt like--” He cuts me off.
“Like what? Horny? Is that it?” He’s still pissed and I get it, I really do. I’m pissed, too. But give me a fucking break. I didn’t let it get out of hand. I’m fixing this shit.
I open my eyes and stare back at my father with daggers in my eyes. “It was more than that.”
His brows raise in disbelief. “Oh? Is that right?” He looks at me expectantly and still I don’t know what to tell him.
“I told you, I fucked up. But I’m taking care of it. Tomorrow she’ll be gone.”
My father stares back at me with a look of contemplation. I wish he’d just give the okay. That’s what I need from him, but instead he pushes me further. “How are you going to know for sure that she doesn’t remember?”
I don’t. That’s the fucked up part. If she’s a really good actress, I could be fucked. But I’m not going to tell him that. I can’t. I don’t want her dead. But I know I shouldn’t be taking risks like this.
Pops looks at me like he can read my mind. “Bring her to dinner tomorrow.”
“Pops, I don’t want to hurt her.”
“Sounds like you already did, Vince.” He stands up and waits for me. I have to move Rigs to get up, and he doesn’t like it, vocalizing his displeasure with a soft whine.
“I feel like shit.”
He smirks at me. “That’s exactly how you look, too.”
I roll my eyes, but he’s probably telling the truth. “I’m going to make this right.”
He nods his head and then looks out the window. “I hope she forgets, Vince. I really do.” He gives me a quick hug, coupled with a stern pat on the back. His hand goes to my shoulder and he squeezes. “If it means anything to you, I think you made the right decision.” He releases me and breathes in deep. “It’s not her fault.” His eyes find mine again. “Let me know before dinner if she’s coming.” He purses his lips thoughtfully, but then he frowns. “If not, and you need help, you can call me if you need.”
My blood chills. I know that’s the only other option. But I fucking hate it.
I finally answer, “She’ll be at dinner.” He nods his head with a grim smile as he walks me to the door.
He watches me leave, and it's not until my house is out of sight that the true weight of the situation settles heavily against my chest.
I’ll go back and untie her ass, but I’m staying close. I just have to wait until she wakes up. Then I’ll know what I have to do.
If she remembers, I’m going to have to kill her. I don’t have a fucking choice.
Chapter 9: Elle
Oh. My. God. My head is fucking killing me. I roll over onto my side and throw my hand out to my nightstand for my water. Every night I put my glass in the same spot, right after taking melatonin to help me get some rest. When my hand falls onto nothing, my heavy eyelids open slowly. I jackknife off the bed. Oh shit, I forgot I’m at Mom’s. I rub my eyes and then look around. This is not Mom’s.
My heart races in my chest. I look down at myself and see small marks on my wrists that burn slightly to the touch. There are a few small scrapes on my knees. Most importantly, I’m wearing a very large grey Henley shirt that’s not mine. What the fuck did I do last night?
My eyes dart across the bedroom. Judging from the décor, I'd guess that this is a man’s bedroom. The walls are a dark grey. The comforter is a slightly lighter shade of grey, while the bed sheets are white. The furniture is modern; a mix of clean lines and dark, stained wood. There isn’t a single thing out of place. Nothing that really denotes any personality, either. No picture frames, nothing. There’s a gun safe in the corner. It’s taller than me.
Where the fuck am I? I pull my knees to my chest as I scan around the room some more, searching for my purse or clothes. I don’t see anything. My gut churns with nausea. What the fuck happened last night?
I close my eyes and try to remember. Ugh. Mother. I’m so fucking pissed at my mother. The very thought makes my head hurt. My temples throb with pain. I remember being pissed off and leaving, but that’s it. I wanted to study.
That’s a fucking lie.
I wanted to get away. Just like I always do. Run and hide away in my books.
Shit! Thinking about work and studying reminds me that I have to study those chapters for my presentation in class. Where the hell is my stuff? I remember leaving, but I can’t think of anything else.