Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
brONWYN
After coasting my car into the driveway, I take off my shoes as I enter the house. Holding them, I creep across the hallway, hoping to escape to my room without being heard.
My efforts, though, are all for nothing. Dad emerges from the doorway to his study with a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He stares at me for a moment, his eyes creasing as he sees the dressing on my brow, but luckily, he doesn’t question me about it.
“You done sulking now?”
I take from his words that he thinks I’ve been driving around in my car, or having been parked up somewhere, doctoring myself. At least he hasn’t asked me if anyone gave me assistance, for which I’m glad. I must have a tell as he’s always been able to catch me out when I’m lying.
When I don’t respond, he takes a step closer. “You learned to keep out of my way? Just remember, I can use whatever belongs to me however I want.”
Chills go down my spine at his declaration, but my feet stay glued to the ground.
Now that he’s seen me, I have to wait for his dismissal before heading to my room.
I ready myself for his instruction, hoping like hell he’s not going to be violent again, or make further demands on me tonight.
My head is bowed, just as he likes, a way of showing deference.
You better believe, if I had a gun in my hand, I’d kill him without a second thought.
Even prison would be better than the jail he keeps me in.
“Get out of my sight. I can’t stand to look at you.”
I’m ugly, he’s told me often enough – too curvy, too tall, and with ample breasts, and I am thick in the hips and stomach area.
A mature woman’s shape isn’t to his taste.
I know I don’t live up to the image he wants his daughter to be, and no amount of the diet he forces on me works.
He’s always been quick to point out that my face is downright plain, and no one would ever look at me twice.
I suppose my not-much-to-look-at visage is even worse now, with the injuries he inflicted.
Released from his invisible hold, I waste no time turning my back on him and heading to the stairs.
Rather than going straight to my room, I pause outside Trip’s.
Hearing nothing from the young boy within, I softly turn the knob, silently open the door, and look in.
Trip’s lying in bed, he’s on his side, knees drawn up in his normal sleeping position.
Everything looks as it should be. Nothing looks like it’s been disturbed.
I risk moving closer, looking down into the sleeping boy’s face.
There are no tear tracks that I can see, and his chest rises and falls evenly.
While I want to plant a kiss on his cheek, I can’t disturb him. So as carefully as I entered, I back out of the room.
Assured as much as I can be that it was only me Dad focused on tonight, I retreat to my bedroom and close the door behind me, wishing there was a lock that would ensure my security.
After shooting off a quick text to Short, I head into the bathroom and examine the damage Dad’s done to my face.
As expected, after receiving the blow he’d given me, both eyes are starting to blacken, which means I won’t be going to work until I’m presentable again.
Dad wouldn’t want anyone to start asking questions.
He’ll probably contact the hospital for me and make some excuse, such as the “flu”, which would give me time to heal before I’m able to be seen in public again.
With his medical qualifications, who would question him?
Being unable to practice doesn’t negate his long list of degrees.
Leaving my en-suite, I return to my bedroom and crash onto the bed.
I’ve been running on adrenaline for the past few hours, and the enhanced tension I’d felt when confronted by Dad was just the icing on top of the cake.
My head throbs with pain, and spins, both from the blows he’d given me as well as the whirling thoughts of how I can get myself out of this.
But there’s no way. Dad’s right to think he owns me. Mom, Trip, and I are just property to him, to be treated however he wants. He controls everything. I’ve no money of my own. All my wages go to him, except for the pocket money he gives back for clothes and necessities.
Just one more year until I qualify, and then I’ll be able to support myself.
But can I hang on that long? Can Trip? Because when I leave this house, Trip is coming with me.
Scoffing at myself, I realise I’m playing make-believe. Dad wouldn’t let me get away with taking his son.
Half-baked plans fuelled only by wishes fly around my head. God knows what time it is when my brain eventually shuts down, and I get a few blissful hours of sleep.
When I wake, nothing’s changed. My black eyes look worse than ever, and my head still aches.
Gingerly, I check my nose, the nurse in me diagnoses it’s only bruised and not broken, and the butterfly stitches Short had applied are holding well.
It’s not worth trying to cover the damage with makeup.
I won’t be going anywhere, and Mom won’t say anything about it.
Trip? He might notice I’ve got an owie, but he won’t say anything. He’s too young to know how evil our father can be. For now, at least, he’s been spared the worst of it.
My doorknob rattles, followed by a loud knock. The bolt I’d bought and clumsily fitted myself does its job and holds.
“Bron?” Mom’s voice calls. “Your father tells me you won’t be working today, so you can get up and help me homeschool the boy.”
A day with Trip? That’s something to raise my spirits.
At least, I’ll be a buffer between him and Mom, who is not the most patient teacher.
She doesn’t understand his particular needs and tries to ignore them.
The result is that both get frustrated, which can trigger Trip to have one of his meltdowns.
Maybe today’s focus will actually be teaching him something.
A worthy cause and better than fretting about an immediate future I can’t change.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I respond.
Actually, I take five, but at least no one comments as I join my family at the breakfast table.
Dad and Mom have plates loaded with bacon and sausages, along with pancakes drowning in syrup, while Trip and I have bowls of muesli in front of us.
Me, because I need to lose weight, and Trip because Mom’s convinced his, what she terms, bad behaviour comes from having too much sugar in his diet.
If only it were as simple as that. But there’s no talking sense to someone who prefers to be blind to the truth.
I don’t complain, there’s no point. If I were working, I’d have a second breakfast in the canteen just to keep myself going. Today, I’ll have to go hungry.
Trip studiously moves his loaded spoon to his mouth without looking up until his plate is clean. When he finally puts his silverware down, I tense, wondering if he’s noticed what’s happened to me.
But he says nothing. I huff at myself, just as expected. He doesn’t notice anything’s amiss.
“Go to your room, Trip,” Dad barks. He waits until Trip obeys his command.
One witness out of the way. Is Dad going to finish what he started last night?
I try to lock eyes with Mom, but she’s studiously looking away from me.
Inside, I want to shout, can’t you see what he did to me?
But years of being beaten down keep me quiet.
I don’t think for a moment that she believes the excuse Dad’s come up with for my injury.
But that’s Mom, always turning a blind eye.
And worse? She covers for him and goes along with all his lies.
“You can help your mother clean up, and then help her with Trip,” Dad pronounces. “The hospital is not expecting you today. I already called in and explained you’ve got the ‘flu.”
I resist rolling my eyes. Insolence would be punished, so instead I incline my head to show my agreement. But just as I’m standing, hands ready to collect the dishes, there’s a roar of motorbikes outside and a loud knocking at the door.
Dad looks furious at the intrusion as he stands up. “Fucking bikers. I go to them. They don’t come here.”
Mom looks concerned. “Maybe it’s not the Kings.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be anyone else.” Dad’s confident, but Mom’s suggestion worries me. What if other motorcycle clubs have heard of his services? The Kings of Anarchy have always treated me with respect, but another club might be different.
As I can’t hold back my curiosity, I follow my father as he goes to the door, hovering a distance away not to make it obvious. When I see Bullseye and Saint supporting a bloodied Short, I cover my mouth to stop the exclamation coming out of it.
“What the hell are you doing here? I come to you, not the other way around,” Dad snaps, without giving thought to the fact that he might be enraging the men who live on the other side of the law.
He’s so confident of his value to them, he thinks it’s him who lays down all the terms. And he’s probably right. He holds the upper hand.
For once, their prez looks unsure of himself.
He shuffles on his feet, which makes Short lose his balance, almost falling down, until Saint gets a better grip on him.
“Sorry, Doc, but we were riding through, and this stupid fucker laid his bike down.” He throws Short a look of pure condemnation.
“Fuckin’ accident-prone as you know. Thought, as you lived close, it might be easier for you to treat him here than for us to take him back to the compound.
It was hard enough to get him riding bitch for just a short distance. ”
Dad’s regarding Short, who could be my twin at the moment – blood pouring from his nose, and the beginnings of two black eyes.
But there the similarity ends. There’s obvious road rash on his face, gravel embedded in the grazes.
I pray Dad won’t send them away. My hands itch to provide care and comfort to Short just as he did to me last night.
“Well, you’re here,” Dad states at last, his jaw visibly clenched. “Suppose you’ve saved me the trouble of a journey.” He moves away from the door. “You better come in.”
“What’s going on? Oh my God!” My mother’s hand over her mouth and the whitening of her face isn’t put on. The sight of fresh blood makes her feel faint and vomit.
Dad’s quick to save himself from another issue. “Felicity,” he barks. “Go and lie down.”
Quick to obey, she removes herself fast.
“Bronwyn, get my kit, and Bullseye, take Short into the kitchen.” He indicates to the room he’s named. “And for heaven’s sake, don’t let him bleed on the furniture.”
“I’ll get towels,” I offer quickly. I get a head jerk from Dad, but no thanks.
When I return, Short’s sitting at the breakfast table, remnants of our breakfast we didn’t have time to clear hastily pushed to the side. Dad takes the towels and positions them around his patient.
“You got other injuries?” he queries.
Short speaks for the first time. “Nah, nothing to worry about. The bike slipped out from under me, and I went down, hitting my face on the pavement.” It might be just me, but I don’t miss the glare he sends the biker called Freak.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” Dad waves his hand in front of Short’s eyes.
“You’re giving me the V sign.” Short smirks.
“Now?”
“Scout’s salute.” Short’s half-curved lip curls more.
Dad then looks closely into his eyes. “Your pupils are even and not dilated. Looks like the bang to your head wasn’t too hard.”
“He’s fuckin’ hardheaded,” Tempest grunts, then laughs.
“Why you bikers don’t wear helmets, I’ll never understand.” Dad’s quick to criticise.
“Not the law in Arizona,” Short replies.
Dad’s face turns red, and his body tenses. He’s fast losing patience. “Well, all it looks like is you need the gravel washed out of your wounds, then dressed. Bronwyn can do that.”
“Bronwyn looks like she’s been in the wars herself,” Bullseye states lazily. “Hey, darlin’, are you alright? What happened to you?”
Dad’s back goes rigid. “My daughter is just as clumsy as your man here. Tripped and fell into the table. She’s fine.”
“Is that right?” Bullseye addresses my dad, though his eyes are fixed on me.
No. I start to panic. Short knows the truth.
And if he’s told that to Bullseye, what’s going to happen if he questions Dad further?
I can’t afford for him to know I went to the Kings last night for help or that I told them what really happened.
Silently, I try to send a message of pleading with my eyes.
Thankfully, Bullseye seems to understand. “Clumsy girl, clumsy man. Perhaps we ought to put them both in a padded room.” He chuckles.
“Not together,” Dad snaps fast.
“Look, I don’t want to bleed out on your table.” Short draws the attention back to him. “Doc, we pay you to provide medical attention. Can you see your way to giving me some now? My fuckin’ face is burning.” Again, there’s that look toward Freak that I don’t understand.
Or, perhaps, I’m starting to have my suspicions. This can’t be a coincidence, them turning up the morning after I went to Short, bleeding and in need of help. Could he have let his brother hurt him to find out the truth? To come try to dig out the secrets of the Custer household?
God help me if they should discover them.