22. Morgan
MORGAN
There’s a prickling sensation that crawls down your neck, a churning in your stomach with intuition when everything has been going great, and you know it’s about to come crashing down.
I stare at the small green frog in the second potted plant in my array of miscellaneous garden pots I have on my porch. It’s a little crooked, out of place from where I left it. Only one person knows of its existence, and I’ve never even told Creed about it. He always found his own way in anyway.
Bile rises in my throat, and I have to force it down as I use my key to unlock my door. My stomach lurches again, the spicy musk of his cigars stinging my nose as I walk in.
“Dad?” I call out, finding him on my couch, his fist curled around a beer from my fridge. My hands shake as I toss my keys into the bowl on the hallway table and shrug out of my jacket to hang it up. “I didn’t know you were stopping by.”
The couch groans as he shifts his weight, sitting up and taking a long gulp of his drink. “Is it true?” The deep anger in his tone sends my heart into my throat, my lungs seizing with familiar fear. Except I’m older, and I can power through it now, so I force myself closer to the living room.
He knows. I know he knows, but there’s a small sliver of hope I’m wrong.
“Is what true?”
The silence is palpable except for the thick, furious pulse I hear as he leans forward. The moonlight cascades across his face, his hard eyes on me. “Did my daughter spread her legs for one of those dirty fucking bikers and get herself knocked up?”
I try to comb through my mind to figure out how he could have possibly found out. We’ve been so careful. Creed has even walked over instead of riding his bike. All our public meetings have been towns away from here.
“Answer me!”
I startle at his shout.
“Dad, I—it’s not like that. We’re—”
I flinch as the beer sails past me, barely missing as it shatters against the wall behind me. Droplets land on my legs, and I look over the shards of glass everywhere while the white bubbles slide down my green wallpaper.
A short scream escapes me when I turn back and find my father right in front of me. His hand collars my throat, and I grab his wrist as he pushes me backwards. His boots crunch over the glass as my back slams into the wall.
“You fucking whore!”
I flinch, not from the words, but the angry spittle that splatters on my cheeks. His fingers tighten. I’m frozen in shock.
“You have any idea how that makes me look? How fucking weak and incompetent that I can’t even control my useless, stupid daughter from getting trapped by those criminals?”
He shakes me, my head snapping back against the wall. My nails dig into his skin before my training kicks in. I grab his hand, bending his thumb back before I slam the heel of my palm to his face. Just as his hold loosens, I spin out of it and scramble away from him.
He catches my hair, yanking me back and tossing me to the floor. Quick pricks pierce my hands and knees, and tears water in my eyes. I look up at him, about to plead with him to stop as his fist slams into my face.
Pain explodes over my eye and my cheek, my vision blackening for a few seconds, and I struggle to focus. There’s no reasoning with him, and even as my face throbs, there’s only one thing I can think.
I tuck my chin, curling over my knees with my arms to my side.
I have to protect my baby, our baby. A sob bubbles out of my throat, and I tense for another hit, but it never comes.
Instead, his panting breaths echo over me, his presence still loud and intimidating. He takes a long shuddering breath.
“Don’t bother coming back to the…” He trails off, shuffling some of the glass away from me with his boot. “You’re done. I’ll have Warner collect your badge and gun.” My father pauses as if he wants to say more, but doesn’t.
My chin quivers and tears spill down my cheeks, but I don’t answer. There’s no point. He’s made up his mind, and if I’m honest with myself, I don’t care. He can fire me, I just need him to get away. I’ve never feared for my life as much as I do right now, and it’s not even for myself.
I flinch again when the door slams, and I don’t unfurl myself for a few more minutes. Eventually, I slide onto my ass, wincing at the glass that tries to go through my jeans. My eye is already swelling, and I can’t stop shaking as I sit there, trying to grasp what happened.
I’m no stranger to his anger. It’s just been years, years since I moved out, and I’ve had time to forget how much it hurts.
He’s never hit me like that, sometimes a shove to get out of his way after screaming at me, but now the physical pain is blooming over my skin, and a small part of me dies.
The part that still hopes and yearns for the love of a parent and is being reminded that it will never come. That ache is the worst of it all.
With a shaky hand, I pull out my phone and text Creed that I’m not feeling well and I want to be alone tonight. He can’t see me like this; he would be furious and not think straight. The phone drops out of my hand and I lean against the wall, rubbing my belly. We’re safe.
For now.
But I’ll have to figure out a plan of what to do. I don’t see my father leaving us alone. He’ll want revenge on me and Creed for embarrassing him this way.