Chapter 13
Amelia
On Saturday morning, I rise early and run myself a bath. If I ever want to soak in the tub at home, I have to be up before my dad. He tends to monopolize the bathroom doing I don’t even know what, and I want a chance to luxuriate in hot water before I have to start my day.
There’s an ache between my legs even now. Crawford has fucked me more times in a week than most people get fucked in a month. My body is still getting accustomed to it.
He made good on his promise for the corset, too. I came in wearing it the following day, and by two minutes past eight, he was pounding into me over his desk. We paused for a coffee and then he fucked me again on the couch, before he headed to a meeting.
The transition between naked and sitting on his cock, and then being his assistant, is still jarring though. Any interactions we have in the office are cold and professional. It’s difficult to separate the feel of his hands on my naked back one minute and then his barked commands the next.
The whole job has been a steep learning curve, but what I find most surprising is what I’m learning about myself.
In my mind, I always imagined that I would want to be with someone who took care of me. A lover who caressed me, told me I was perfect, and showered me with gifts.
Instead, I’m with a man who is the furthest thing from a lover I could get. He barely speaks to me, fucks me so hard I have bruises on my hips, and was so disgusted by my wardrobe that he bought me a new one without even asking.
He’s a dominating asshole, but apparently there’s a part of me that loves it.
The rough sex definitely pushes buttons I didn’t know existed in me. When he talks dirty to me, I can barely think straight.
A few days before, Crawford was standing behind me as we had sex at his desk. He leaned over my back, whispering that he was going to open the doors, invite people to come and watch us, and let the whole place stare while he made me scream. I came like a fountain. It was the best sex yet.
Still, after an entire week, he hasn’t asked for a blow job. I’m beginning to wonder if he likes them—do any men not like blowjobs?
Part of me is grateful I haven’t had to try it yet; the other is deeply curious. Either way, I’m convinced that it will be my downfall. As soon as he sees me on my knees in front of him, he’ll know I’ve never done it before and fire me. I’m just grateful to have survived the week.
When I opened my bank account on Friday night, I could barely believe it. I had thousands of dollars to spare, even after I’d been grocery shopping. I was able to get organic food for Annabelle and better-quality supplements that I‘ve never been able to afford.
When I got back to the house, I unpacked everything into Tupperware containers in the refrigerator so my mom and dad wouldn’t see the fancy packaging.
I knew it was selfish, but I didn’t want them to know about the money I’ve been making.
A better daughter might offer them some money too, but they’d only spend it on booze.
I sigh, listening to the soft sounds of the house around me. I know I have to get out of the tub soon. My mom is slumped on the couch and hasn’t moved since last night. If she doesn’t leave by seven, she’ll lose her job.
Rising, I climb out of the tub and dry off, wrapping a towel around me and heading upstairs.
The clothes that Crawford purchased from Eleanora are hidden at the back of my closet.
I’ve tried to keep them secret all week, but my mom noticed almost immediately.
When she asked about my new suit, I made up an excuse that I’d found it at a thrift store.
Every day since, I’ve worn a hoodie over my clothes as I leave for work to minimize her scrutiny.
Before I head downstairs to deal with my mother, I pull my self-portrait out from between the closet and the wall.
Thankfully, it isn’t too smudged, and I place it beside the window to look at it.
I haven’t quite gotten the expression in my eyes right; I look a little too rebellious.
But I like the way the paint has framed my jaw and lips.
It’s probably one of the best paintings I’ve done.
There’s a tentative knock on my bedroom door, and I grip the painting harder, poised to shove it back into hiding.
“Yeah?”
“It’s me,” Annabelle’s tentative voice comes through the door, and I smile, crossing the room and opening it.
She shuffles inside, and I’m pleased to see she’s not using her cane. Climbing onto the bed, Annabelle hugs my stuffed bunny as her eyes move down to the painting.
“Oh my God, Mia. That’s so good!” She reaches toward me, and I hand it over for her to look at up close.
I shrug. “The eyes need some work.”
Annabelle shakes her head. “No, they’re perfect. Determined.”
She looks up at me, eyes shining with pride, and I feel the same wrenching fear rise within me. Despite all my efforts and everything I’m trying to do for her, we might be too late to save her.
What if the treatment doesn’t work? What if she’s too far gone? What if these are the last few years I have with her?
I step forward, snatching the painting back, my fear morphing into anger as I place it between the closet and the wall again.
“Have you taken your pills?” I ask briskly. Annabelle watches me, eyebrows rising in surprise.
“Yes.”
“Did you eat something with them?”
“Just some bread, I didn’t want to wake you to cook.”
I nod, annoyed with myself for letting my emotions get the better of me.
“Are you mad at me?” she asks.
“No,” I say, staring out the window at the pale sunshine. “I’m mad at myself. Sorry Annie. I just don’t like seeing you sick.”
“I’m doing better,” she says firmly, sitting up taller in bed.
I force a smile. “I’m making you some pancakes,” I say, and she brightens as we head downstairs.
The stench of alcohol hits me as soon as we reach the first floor, and I grimace as I stare at my mother’s prone form on the couch.
There are bags of chips, cigarettes, and old beer bottles everywhere.
“Go into the kitchen,” I murmur to Annabelle.
“Want me to help?” she whispers.
“No. It’s alright.”
I walk around the couch. The only way to wake my mom is to be incredibly rough, but I still get a sense of fear as I do it. I wonder if there’ll be a day when I try to wake her and she doesn’t stir.
I shove her shoulder, hard, several times, until I hear a groan.
“Mom. You have to get to work. It’s six thirty.”
Thankfully, her eyes open. If her response is to go back to sleep, I know it’s a lost cause, and I won’t be able to move her for hours.
She pushes herself up on her forearms, looking around the room. She’s still in her uniform from her shift last night, and I just pray she has a second one she can change into. She stinks.
“What time?” she asks me.
“Six thirty.”
“Okay. I need to shower.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. At least she’s lucid enough for that. “Want some breakfast?”
“No.” She rolls off the couch and turns to Annabelle. “Mornin’, baby. You okay?”
Annabelle nods but doesn’t smile. “I’m fine, Mom.”
“I bought you a present,” my mother says happily, dragging a blue plastic bag from beneath one of the couch cushions. She pulls out an ugly-looking orange scrunchie, velvety and ruffled, like the ones they had in the ‘90s.
Annabelle steps forward, takes it, and immediately ties it into her hair like she’s on autopilot. It clashes horribly with the coppery strands.
“Thank you,” she mutters.
“Oh, you’re so beautiful. My beautiful girls,” she slurs and stumbles to her room. I hear my dad grumbling at her as she opens the door, then, as he wakes up, they start shouting at each other.
He has to head to work soon, too, and I hurriedly go to the kitchen to make us some food.
After about twenty minutes, my parents emerge. My mother looks a lot more awake than my dad, who has a thick layer of stubble over his chin and a loose plaid shirt flapping over his naked torso. He’s put on a lot of weight lately.
I place two bottles of water on the counter in front of him.
“For the journey,” I say, hoping it might sober him up. There’s no question that he’ll drive. Neither of them will make it to their shift on time if they take the bus, but he’s still drunk.
“You could have made me some goddamn coffee,” he spits at me, and Annabelle glares daggers at him behind his back.
“We’re out of coffee. I’m gonna get some more today,” I say softly.
“At least you’re not spendin’ all your money on them fancy suits,” my mother shoots back, her tone mean and slurred as she heads to the door. That’s a classic turnabout for her. One second, I’m her ‘beautiful girl’, the next, I’m the cause of all her problems.
“What suits?” my dad demands.
“She’s been prancin’ about in some hoity-toity outfits lately.”
I inhale sharply, glaring at my mom in disbelief. The audacity of the woman. She’s complaining about the money I supposedly spend on myself, when I’ve been paying for rent, bills, and food for the past six months.
“Why ain’t you spendin’ some of that on your sister? What do you need fancy clothes for?” my dad asks, his eyes narrowing as he meets my gaze.
“I started a new job.”
“Ooh,” he says, leaning back as if I’ve told him I’m working for the President. “Well, excuse me for breathin’ your majesty.”
My mom laughs at his joke, and they both head out together. My dad grabs a Pop-Tart from the cabinet, giving me an angry glare as he leaves.
“You look after your sister,” he snaps, and then they’re out the door, bickering as they head to his truck.
I push down the urge to run after them and offer to give them a ride. I hate the idea of my dad getting behind the wheel in this state, but it’s hardly new. I don’t worry about his safety anymore, just the people he might injure. I glance at my sister as I plate up her pancakes and hand them over.
Neither of us says anything. I pull out my phone during breakfast to check my bank account again.
My fingers tighten around the case as I make some calculations in my head. We might be able to get out of this place sooner than I thought.