Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
Every bone in my body ached as I made my way through the front door of where I lived. In shock and horror at what we'd just done, I struggled to keep my thoughts and memories under control. They leaked from my mind, clogging up my insides and burning the back of my eyes.
Rook vomiting on the carpet.
Me chuckling after I sprayed whiskey in his face.
Empty eyes, staring upwards.
The look of happiness on Rook's face as we flew over the city.
A quart of milk and a jar of mayonnaise .
The house was silent for a brief moment before laughter spilled from the back room. The smell of burning tobacco and spices hit my nose, mixing with the lingering smell of vomit.
"You should've seen her face. The old bitch didn't know what hit her." A pause for dramatic effect, or an inhale of a Cuban cigar. "The old hag had some fight in her, I'll give her that."
The sound of men chuckling, men who clung to my father's coattails because they knew he was shooting upwards within the family.
They were laughing about killing her.
"Should'a fucked her first," a smoke-laden voice grumbled. Benny, one of Nero's men who'd also become attached to my father like a damn leech.
"That's disgusting. She's too old." I didn't recognize the feminine voice. Didn't need to. My father's dick was a revolving pole––the woman would be gone before I could learn her name.
"A pussy's a pussy," Benny answered, and the room descended into an awkward silence.
My father broke it, "A dead pussy's all I care about!" and the men rolled with laughter. The clink of glass, the flicker of a lighter.
Disgusted, I passed rows of packed boxes and forced my feet towards the stairs, silently moving upwards. Coulter had texted me to hang out tonight but I needed to be alone.
I'd waited with Rook while the paramedics and police arrived. Watched as they tried to revive his nana, then as they rolled her away in a body bag. Shame burned through me.
Then I stood by helplessly as they took him from his home. He was too young to be on his own, they'd said, even after I protested. The only possession he took––a gym bag of clothes.
I would text my connections in the morning, make sure he had a good home. I already had contact with a man who would help him get on his feet. A man who was familiar with our world, who would teach him not to be so naive.
"Knight? Is that you?"
I ignored my father, even when I heard the padding of my mother's feet coming closer.
At the sight of me on the stairs, just passing the ofrenda for the Virgin Mary, she called out. "He's home."
She wanted me to see my father. How he blatantly displayed his whore out in the open now. To give me a reason to hate him, just as she did.
Didn't she know that I already had plenty?
"Come here, apple," my father responded, and the men chuckled disdainfully at the nickname. It was the label my mother had given me years ago, and my father had picked it up, misunderstanding it.
I scowled at my mother as I strode past her, and the room disrupted in loud praise as I entered. "Way to go, son!" My father stood, shoving away the woman on his lap. "You're just like your old man. A chip off the old block." Putting on a show for the rapt audience in the room. Heavy hands on my shoulders, his grin wide with arrogance. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
I stiffened as he hugged me, waiting until he released me to step back and out of his reach. All eyes were on me, admiration in their gazes. Even Benny, who was hard to impress unless, apparently, you were an elderly woman fighting for your life, gave me a satisfied smirk.
"You did good, boy." My father scooped up the woman, her giggle grating as she curled up in his lap. He took another puff of his cigar, then, "What do you have to say for yourself?"
Silence filled the air as everyone stared at me expectantly.
I looked around, taking in the tabletops filled with half empty bottles of champagne and vodka. Their eyes halfway lidded.
Already celebrating. Already halfway drunk.
Waiting for me to speak. To tell a joke, just like my old man.
They had no idea how much I hated them all. That I hated my part in their big success. That I would take it back if it was possible.
And besides, fuck them . They were all assholes.
A small, nervous giggle filled the uncomfortable silence from the blonde, big tittied woman in the tight dress as my father pinched her nipple roughly, demanding. "Well?"
The image of Rook's grandmother, staring up at the ceiling, a vacant expression on her face, flashed through my mind. She had vomit running from her lips and onto the bed, tangling in her long, silver hair.
My fingers curled into fists.
I hate you I hate you I hate you.
His expression darkened. On his feet in a flash, pain slammed through me. My face was on fire as his hand connected with my cheek.
The loud slap reverberated through the room, the celebratory mood instantly cut short.
"Don't you ever look at me like that again, boy." He was heaving, his own neck flushed red with anger. He swiped at his mouth with his arm, then looked away.
The girl, now down on the carpet, stared up at us. Her red-painted lips, parted in surprise. A burning cigar next to her hand.
All eyes in the room were on me.
But I... I didn't drop my gaze from my father's face. Didn't hold back the loathing I felt for him. Let him see how I really felt.
There was a brief moment of hesitation, a small hint of shame in his eyes.
It was gone in an instant.
He sat back down, grabbed his cigar, and took a long pull. Then he waved a hand, staring at the back wall. "You must be tired." Dismissing me. "You've had a big day. Go to bed."
I didn't speak as I left the room and walked into the kitchen. It was filled with food––pots of rice and meat cooking on the stove, with my attentive mother stirring them. Countertops were cluttered with spices and dirty dishes. A delicious smell coming from the oven.
My mom must've been cooking all day, preparing all this shit while Rook's nana suffocated to death.
I passed by her, headed towards the fridge. She didn't look at me as I walked by, didn't address what had just happened.
The men began to chat excitedly again, the smell of pot now filling the air.
"Hey!" my mom cried, calling to them. "I'm almost done in here!"
"It'll just make us hungrier for that shit you're cooking," my father grumbled and the men laughed again.
She glared at the wall between the back room and the kitchen, staring silent daggers at my father.
She'd heard him.
Of course she did. She might pretend that she was deaf but she could hear just fine. She knew exactly what was going on in this house.
My emotions threatened to boil over. I opened the fridge, took in the rows of fresh food. Fucking full.
Everything was replaced more than once a week, including our pantry and the chest freezer in the garage.
A quart of milk and a jar of mayonnaise.
A flash of yellow, sixties-style carpet, fists gripping and pounding. A howl of pain.
Rage boiling over, I grabbed a bottled water––glass. Four dollars each, and there were twelve of them, replaced every few days.
The scrape of a spatula, the sizzle of grease. Laughter. Burning expensive leaves. Champagne.
A soft, feminine moan.
How Rook had looked up at me with that damn hope in his eyes. He thought I could fix it.
Somehow bring her back to life.
Then he'd scrambled to his feet, giving his nana CPR. His attempts clumsy and all wrong.
He had no fucking idea what he was doing.
Had no fucking idea that she was never coming back––my father had made sure of that.
Had no idea that the lawyers my father would send him would make sure that Rook would sign away his legacy, the one thing they wanted from him that his Nana was blocking.
I'd stood there and watched as he counted and breathed, pressed his fists to her lifeless chest, trying to squeeze some life into her again.
Desperate. Frantic. Hopeful .
And then, when he wasn't giving up and I couldn't take it any longer, couldn't hold back the dam of self-hatred inside me, I'd called the police, insisting that we leave the room.
He was inconsolable, tears and snot running down his face.
He'd held me and I'd let him.
I'd let him hold me , the bastard partly responsible for her death.
I'd stood there, wordlessly, as he cried against my chest, wishing a hole would appear, that the room would swallow me up.
I didn't open my mouth to reveal the truth. Didn't say a single world of comfort. Just let him hold me and cry.
But now, as I unscrewed the top of my water, everything threatened to boil over. I took in several hitching breaths, hiding behind the fridge door.
Grease sizzled on the stove top. More laughter from the back room. Rook sobbing .
I wanted to cry and scream and shout. To throw everything to the floor and beat the damn refrigerator to a pulp.
To revel in the surprised look in my father's eyes as I showed him what kind of man I really was: not the kind of man he thought I was, not like him , but a person with feelings and emotions.
I wasn't a heartless bastard. I cared about Rook and his nana.
He had no idea that I was paying for Rook's tuition.
For Tatiana's living expenses.
He had no fucking clue that I took care of the people that I loved, and he never would. Because he had no fucking idea what it was like to actually care about people.
Since our money was mostly my mom's, he had something to prove, and he forced me into his fucking games to do it. His greedy eyes only focused upwards, to the want, want, wanting , and never having enough.
And yet, a quart of milk and a jar of mayonnaise –– the complete contents of Rook's fridge.
My father would never realize that nana's love was worth more than our whole bank account.
And I hated him. Hated what I'd done to my friend. Hated myself, that I was too weak to stop him.
My emotions surged through my chest, up my throat, and into my mouth. My face. My mind.
I wanted to vomit.
To cry.
To scream and rage at the terrible thing I'd done tonight. Not fucking celebrate.
"Gusanita!" Little worm. My father's nickname for my mother. "What are you doing?"
My hatred hit me with full force. I wanted to shove a gun in his mouth and watch him swallow a bullet. To wrap my fingers around his throat and see his lips turn blue. To take a video of the light as it left his eyes. He deserved that and more.
There was no responding answer so he yelled louder. "When you bringing that fucking food, woman?" Despite his earlier dismissal, he loved her cooking. "We're fucking starving."
Heaving, chest filled with rage, remembering cleaning vomit from nana's mouth with water from the tap as I put a glass to my lips. Gulping, gulping it down.
Swallowing down my fury with fresh, filtered water. Shoved it all down into my belly, letting it seethe and spread with the blood filling my veins.
I had no control over my father––he understood me more than I liked, knew how to get what he wanted from me. The picture on my phone from earlier was proof of that.
"Woman!" His voice grew deeper, anger edging into it.
My mom was still staring at the wall, grease popping from the pans on the stove.
"Mom."
She jerked into motion, calling out. "I'm coming."
She filled the plates, scooping salsa and topping it with fresh cheese, sliced onions, and cilantro. "You did it, then." She was talking to me.
"Yes."
Her lips curled upwards as she opened the cupboard, reaching into the back to grab a small bottle. "I knew you would."
Stabbing, twisting.
I met her gaze, a darkness washing over me. "He told me to."
"You could've said no."
"You know why I couldn't."
"There are always ways." Staring into my eyes, she sprinkled a brownish liquid onto a plate she'd separated from the rest. A special treat, just for my father.
He might flaunt his whores around my mother now, but when she was in a rebellious mood, she'd find a way to get what she wanted.
After dinner, my father wouldn't be busy fucking his whore. Instead, he'd be camped out in the bathroom, trying to vomit and shit at the same time.
And you?" I tilted my head towards the backroom. "You stay with him. You don't find a way to leave."
"Good catholic women don't get divorced," she hissed, picking up several platters, balancing them on her arms and hands.
"I know," I responded, bitterness filling my voice, "instead you go to church at least once a week with bruises and a black eye. And the good, helpful priest stares down at you, a complacent smile on his face, offering you holy communion, because you're such a good catholic, neither one of you saying a word about the husband you don't divorce."
"Look at you, on your high horse." Her eyes flashed. "Now you're no different than your father. At least I don't betray my best friend by killing his only relative."
I looked away, swallowing down my response, because she was right. I wasn't any better. Not anymore.
"And Tatiana?" she continued, "You'll make sure she never finds out, won't you? Won't ever know the truth about who you really are." She shook her head as she headed towards the back room, her hands filled with several plates. "You can't ever let her know, because you're rotten to the core, apple. And no woman who ever really knows you will ever love you."