Chapter 11 Carter #2
Because that’s exactly what he is. What he’s always been. A fucking bully who needs to be put in his place. Except I can’t do that because he’ll take it out on Mom as soon as I leave. So, I’m stuck constantly biting my tongue and tamping down all my emotions to a place where they’re free to fester.
Dad emerges from the hall. As soon as his gaze locks on mine, his feet grind to a halt. He may act like he’s surprised to find me here, but I know he’s not. He doesn’t say one word in greeting.
Neither do I.
Our relationship evolved past niceties a long time ago.
We only act like the perfect family while making public appearances.
But here, in the privacy of our own home, he doesn’t bother with pretenses.
And I’ve played this game for much too long not to understand the rules.
He uses silence like a sledgehammer. He’s all about intimidation.
Ignoring me, Dad saunters into the kitchen, going straight to where Mom stands at the island.
She hasn’t moved a muscle. Her unease is palpable, radiating off her in thick, heavy, suffocating waves. She’s like a trapped bird who’s grown tired of beating her clipped wings against a gilded cage.
Dad surrounds her and invades her personal space. He makes a show of inspecting the steaks. “Did you get these cuts from the butcher?”
“Of course,” she says softly. “They’re T-bones, your favorite.”
He makes a non-committal noise at the back of his throat as if they aren’t quite up to par, and I want to punch him in the face for being such a dickhead.
All three of us know that it’s his favorite cut of meat, but he enjoys toying with her.
He relishes the fear emanating off her while she silently waits for his approval like a barely tolerated mutt at his feet.
I ball my hands into fists as anger rushes through me.
It’s beyond me why Mom stays and puts up with this crap. I wish she would pack her bags and leave. But she refuses. She gives me all sorts of bullshit excuses as to why she can’t walk away.
Once I’m drafted to the NFL and start drawing a paycheck, I’m going to get her out of here. There won’t be any excuses left to give. She can’t love this asshole. The possibility makes me shudder. If I never see him again, it would be too soon.
Dad pins her body against the counter as his gaze locks on me. His jaw tightens as he glares. “Nice of you to drop by unannounced.”
I shrug since there’s nothing I can say or do that won’t ignite his temper. I release a pent-up breath when he backs away from her.
Dad shrugs out of his jacket and carefully lays it over a high-backed chair.
“You’ll need to drop this suit off at the dry cleaners. I need it back by Monday.”
Mom nods.
“Alice!” he snaps. “Did you hear me?”
Eyes wide, her head jerks up. “Sorry, I’ll take it over first thing in the morning.”
His lips thin as he presses them together. It doesn’t take much to set him off. He’s like a powder keg waiting for an opportunity to explode. I learned early on to gauge his moods and act accordingly. I spent my entire childhood tiptoeing around him.
“Do you want me to drop it off when I leave, Mom?” I offer. “I’m going right past the cleaners.”
It’s a little out of the way, but she doesn’t need to know that.
Before she has a chance to respond, Dad bites out, “She’ll take care of it in the morning.” He glances at the chunky silver Rolex wrapped around his wrist. “Maybe after dinner, if it ever gets made.”
I clench my jaw and silently count to ten. It takes everything I have inside not to unleash my fury at his abusive treatment. If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to lose it. And I don’t want to do that. My purpose in stopping by was to check on Mom, and that’s exactly what I did.
“All right,” I say tightly, “I’ve got to take off.” Before I can think better of it, I add, “Let me know if next week works.”
As soon as the last sentence escapes my mouth, I want to suck it back in again. I almost cringe for being so careless. There’s no use hoping that he didn’t catch the words.
His body stills as his muddy brown eyes sharpen, bouncing between us with interest. “What’s going on next week?”
When no one responds, he growls, “Alice?”
Mom flinches. “Oh, um, Carter suggested that we meet for lunch.”
“No.”
The word drops from his lips like a two-ton brick.
My eyes narrow. “Why?” Even though it’s pointless to argue, I can’t help myself because the fact that he has to control her every move pisses me off. “Why can’t we meet for lunch?”
For the first time since walking into the kitchen, a thin smile spreads across my father’s face.
He enjoys denying me something I want. He doesn’t have as many opportunities to fuck with me now that I have a full scholarship to play ball at BU. He can’t lord money over me the way he used to. And he can’t make me jump through an endless series of hoops only to deny me at the end.
He crosses his thickly corded arms across his chest as his smile broadens.
God, but I fucking hate him. He’s a useless son of a bitch.
“Because I said so,” he replies, enunciating each word. “That’s why.”
Fury infuses every fiber of my being. “She’s a grown woman,” I remind him tightly. “If she wants to meet me for lunch, she can.”
He arches a brow. “Is that so?”
“Yeah.” I clench and unclench my hands at my side.
His gaze bores into mine as he says, “Alice, under no circumstances are you to meet Carter for lunch next week. Are you going to disobey me?”
With slumped shoulders, my mother stares at the seasoned steaks, not daring to lift her eyes. “No.”
That one word conveys just how broken and beaten she is.
A triumphant smile blooms across Dad’s smug face. “Will there be any further discussions on the subject, Alice?”
“No.”
Goddamn it!
I need to walk away now. If I don’t, I’m going to fucking lose my shit, and I promised myself I wouldn’t allow that to happen. Not ever. I won’t let him provoke me into being someone I’m not.
Him.
“You’re a real asshole,” I mutter under my breath, stalking out of the kitchen.
My back isn’t turned for more than ten seconds when he growls, “What the fuck did you say?”
It takes a moment to realize that his voice is much closer than it was before. I spin around just in time for him to ram both hands into my chest. Because I wasn’t expecting the attack, I stumble back a few steps before catching myself. Years of conditioning takes over as I square up.
Ugliness dances in his eyes. He loves this. Loves that he can push my buttons into reacting when I try so hard to deny him the satisfaction. For him, it only makes these moments sweeter.
I suck in a breath and lock down my anger because he feeds off it like a monster lurking in the dark. I need to get the hell out of here before the situation escalates.
Because it will.
This is how Philip Prescott operates.
He shoves me again with rough hands. “You think you’re such a big man now, don’t you? Say the goddamn words to my face, you little pussy.” He pushes me again, only managing to knock me back a step. “Say the fucking words!”
Remain calm.
Don’t give him what he wants.
“I said that you’re an asshole,” I grit out.
Fury mixed with hate flashes across his face, and then he takes a swing. I duck and block his punch. He grunts and strikes with the other fist. This time I’m not fast enough, and it catches me in the eye. Pain explodes behind my eyelid.
Mom cries out as I shove him back.
Even though I take after my father in size, I have more muscle and strength. I lift weights every day. Not only for football but because I refuse to ever be in a position to be physically intimidated again.
As much as I want to defend myself, to strike back, I won’t. He’ll only take it out on my mom after I walk out the door. As satisfying as it would be to retaliate, I refuse to do that to her.
“Get the fuck out of my house!” Dad bellows.
“Gladly.” I glance at Mom and stalk to the front door. My breath comes out in harsh pants. My heart thumps painfully against my chest, echoing in my ears.
Just as I turn the knob, Dad yells, “And don’t come back. You’re no longer welcome in this house.”
Without responding, I close the door behind me.
I’m sure he’s hoping to rile me up so I’ll return for another confrontation, but I refuse to do that. I’m no longer a puppet he can control.
Once I slide behind the wheel of my car, I start the engine and let it idle. I’m tempted to peel out of the drive, but I don’t give in to the urge. Pent-up aggression rampages through my veins, and I slam my fist into the steering wheel.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Pain radiates through my palms and fingers.
The physical ache is just enough to take the edge off my mental anguish. Only then am I able to pull myself back together again and drive away.
But instead of heading to the apartment, I stop at the athletic center.
I need to lift.
I need to channel my energies into something other than the altercation that just occurred.