Sixteen
The walk home goes by in a blur.
I’m in my head the whole time, thinking about how everything went down tonight, starting from the second I walked through Asher’s door. I can’t get the image of his face out of my mind, the way he looked at me when he told me to leave. A cocktail of guilt and regret swim through me, making my stomach churn.
And my misery only gets worse when I see the police cruiser parked in the driveway.
He’s home early. For a second, I contemplate heading back up the street to Mrs Sanderson’s house and asking to spend the night there, but it’s late and I’m not exactly good company right now. I just need to sleep.
Not taking any chances, I stash the envelope of cash in the potted plant by the door, then head inside.
Immediately, I know I’ve made a grave mistake.
My uncle’s still up, sitting at the breakfast table with a half-empty bottle of whiskey in front of him… and the metal box I keep stashed under my bed.
Everything inside of me freezes; my heart, my lungs, my blood. All of it. I force myself to close the door and slowly approach him, keeping my footsteps light and measured. When I come to a stop a few feet away from him, he stares at me with an unreadable look, then lifts the bottle and takes a hearty gulp.
“Where’ve you been?” he asks, his words already slurring together.
I clear my throat, look away. “Just out with friends.”
“Don’t fucking lie to me, boy,” he explodes, jumping up from his chair so fast that it topples over. “Do you think I’m stupid or something? You think I’d really believe you went out dressed like that?” He shakes his head, his eyes hard and angry and promising a painful punishment. “I already know where you were. I got a text from Alistair Brooks, telling me you were working with the catering crew over at his house.”
Fuck. That’s who he was texting at the table, right before I smashed that glass. He found out who I was and threw me to the goddamn wolves. It wouldn’t surprise me if he knows. Assholes like them tend to band together, bond over how fucked up they are. My uncle’s probably shared a drink with him in his office before, filled him in on all the details of how he abuses me.
“What’s the matter?” he taunts, taking a wobbly step toward me. “Thought I wouldn’t find out? I’ve got eyes and ears all over this town, boy. Nothing goes on that I don’t know about.” He turns, pulling the tin across the table toward him. “Though, I am surprised at how long you managed to keep this from me. I hope you don’t mind, I was a little short on cash, so I had to borrow some.”
My stomach falls to my feet, tears burn the backs of my eyes. As much as I’m dreading the answer, I need to know. “How much did you take?”
He smiles cruelly. “All of it.”
All those hours I spent working my ass off, running on nothing but fumes and copious amounts of caffeine… it was all for nothing. There’s no safety net for me and April anymore, no emergency escape fund. It’s gone. He took it all, just like he takes everything else from me.
And after a year of not fighting back and taking every inch of shit he throws at me, I do something I never expected to do: I throw the first punch.
I clock him right across the jaw, stunning him for a second before he falls back, knocking over the table on his way down. The bottle of whiskey goes flying, the contents pouring out all over the floor. My box goes down too, skidding halfway across the room. With much more agility than I’d expect of a drunk man, he rises to his feet in less than a minute and shakes his head.
“That was a big fucking mistake, boy,” he snarls.
Then, it’s on.
He rushes me, throwing his fist at my face. I stumble back, pain exploding across my cheekbone, but I right myself quickly enough to land another hit on the bridge of his nose. He roars and runs at me, his shoulder connecting with my ribs as I hit the wall, knocking the wind out of me. Another hit, then another. Blood pours down my face, dripping over my chin. I bring my knee up, getting him right between the legs, incapacitating him enough to throw him off of me.
I try to run for the door, but he grabs me by the back of the shirt and hurls me across the room. I land against the kitchen counter, knocking off the hordes of crap piled on top of it, before sliding to the floor.
“Give it up, Oakley,” he says, coming at me again. “You’re not walking out of this one.”
Real fear thrums through me. Fear that he might be right, fear for what happens to April if I’m not around anymore. I have to get out of here, I can’t let him win.
“Not a fucking chance.”
I force myself to my feet, dodge his right-hook, then land a blow across his temple. He wobbles and falls to his hands and knees with a thud. My breath rushes out of me, shoulders slumping with relief.
It’s over.
Darting past him, I swipe my box from the floor and hoof it toward the door. I’m so fixated on escaping that I don’t even hear him get back up, grab the now empty bottle of whiskey and come after me. I see his reflection in the glass pane in the middle of the door, see him raise the bottle in the air and bring it down on the back of my head.
Agony, searing pain. I almost black out from the force of it. I hit the ground hard, but he doesn’t stop there. He rolls me over, straddles my hips and rains down hit after hit. I hear a sickening crunch, the squelch as his fists meet my bloody flesh. I try to buck him off, to block his punches, but it’s impossible.
And when he’s had enough of using my face as a human punching bag, he wraps his hands around my throat and squeezes. Hard. I flail my arms, scratching and slapping and doing everything I can to try and stop him. Nothing works.
That fear I felt before? It’s multiplied by a thousand. There isn’t even a word for how terrified I am.
I’m going to die. My uncle’s going to kill me and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.
Questions flood my mind, thoughts of April and how she’s going to cope with this. Will he take my body away and bury it somewhere, or is he gonna leave it here for her to find when she gets home tomorrow? He’ll get away with it, too. All he’ll have to say is that somebody broke in and I was unfortunate enough to cross their path. Sure, it won’t be believable, but nobody in this town will dare go against his word.
My vision starts to waver, black spots forming at the edges. My lungs scream, begging for air. It’ll all be over in a matter of seconds. I can feel it, the end that’s just around the corner.
I close my eyes, not wanting my uncle’s face to be the last thing I see.
I expect to see April - the little frown she wears while she’s concentrating on reading one of her books or that toothy grin that makes my heart melt into a puddle of goo when she flashes it my way. Maybe even my parents, and the way they smiled when they were proud of me or the way they gazed at each other, with such love and adoration in their eyes.
But, I don’t.
The person I see, the last image my mind conjures up to help me get through this… is Asher.
And he’s telling me to get up, to fight. To not let this be how our fucking story ends. I’m not done with you yet, Farrow, he says.
I’m not done, either.
My eyes fly open, a sudden burst of need flooding my veins. The need to survive. It’s enough to give me the strength to reach out my hand and blindly search the floor for a way to end this. My fingers grip around a shard of glass, big enough and sharp enough to do some real damage. I hold it up, draw my arm back and plunge it straight into my uncle’s side.
He rears back, crying out in pain, his hands falling from my throat. I gasp and choke and sputter, reveling in the feeling of oxygen filling my lungs again. But not for too long. He’s hurt, cradling his side, but not enough for me to get away. It’s time to end this.
“Jamie,” I choke out, my voice rough and weak.
He looks up and I don’t waste a second before lifting my foot and slamming it into his face, knocking him out-cold.
I scramble to my feet, groaning and whimpering at the sheer agony coursing through me. There isn’t one single part of my body that doesn’t hurt. I stare down at my uncle, crumpled in a heap on the floor. He’s still alive, his chest rising and falling with slow breaths. I half-expect him to launch to his feet and run at me again. Nudging him with my foot, I wait for any sign of movement. When it doesn’t come, I turn and grab the box from the floor then hightail it out of the house, picking up the envelope of cash I hid on the way.
I run like hell, ignoring the pain and not stopping until I’m all the way across town, tears streaming down my face as I stare up at the house I swore I’d never come back to when I left it just a few short hours ago.
I drag myself up the driveway, my breathing ragged and harsh, only getting worse when I raise my fist to knock on the door. Seconds go by, then minutes. Just when I think he’s not going to answer, I hear movement coming from inside. Doubt unfurls inside me, that insecure voice in my head whispers that he’ll either tell me to fuck off or just slam the door in my face. I’d deserve it, too.
But, as always, Asher surprises me.
He opens the door, takes one look at me and just… smiles. It must take him a second for his brain to catch up to what he’s seeing, because when he notices my busted-up face and torn clothes, his expression morphs into one of obvious concern. His breath hurtles out of him in a shaky rush, a choked sound leaving his throat.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper hoarsely. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
He stares at me, not saying a word for a full minute, just roves his eyes all over me like he’s mentally cataloging my injuries. Then he looks away, collects himself and takes my hand. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
And just like that, I feel safe again.