50. Jamie
Jamie
I wake up on the cold floor of my bathroom to the sound of my father’s angry fist rattling the door on its hinges. “James, unlock this goddamn door!”
My phone lies on the ground next to me, dead, and I have no idea what time it is or how long ago I seemed to have passed out.
Standing on shaky legs, I unlock and open the door. Ross’s cold eyes take in my bruised and bloodied face with disdain, as if he isn’t the one at fault for my appearance.
Yesterday, he cornered me in the kitchen, and hit me without preamble. He didn’t rant about what I’d done to piss him off, he didn’t yell. He swung a fist right at my nose and then kept swinging.
When he’d finally wore out his arm, he stood back, pushing his sweaty hair from his face, and started shouting about how I’d disobeyed him. He screamed about what a disrespectful, ungrateful, lying little bitch I was, and how he should’ve found a way to get rid of me when I was a kid.
After a while, he got sick of yelling and started kicking me on the ground.
He spouted disgusting things about Maya and what he’d do if he every got his hands on my “slut.” He was trying to goad me into fighting back, but I resisted with every fiber of my being; I didn’t need to give him an excuse to kill me.
Now, he stands to his full height, filling the doorway. “Get cleaned up and come out here.” Then he walks away without another word, knowing I’ll obey.
After rinsing the bloodstains and tear marks from my face, I step out into my bedroom—my one place of solace in this godforsaken house—to see Ross leaning against the far wall, between me and the door.
Sitting on the edge of my bed is a girl about my age, maybe a little younger, with curly blonde hair, and I know exactly what the fuck he’s going too say next.
“You didn’t bring your little girlfriend to meet me, James, so I had to find the next best thing.”
The girl holds very little resemblance to Maya aside from her hair. This girl is thin and wiry, as if she hasn’t eaten in a long time. She sits timidly on the bed, carrying none of the fire Maya always shines with. Her skin is pale and sallow, not tanned and freckled.
This poor girl looks like she hasn’t seen the light of day in months, really. Her eyes are rimmed with bags of exhaustion and her fingernails are bitten down to the quicks.
“I’m proud of you, James,” Ross continues, saying those words for the first time in mock sincerity, a manic look in his blown out pupils, telling me he’s high as a fucking kite on God-knows-what.
“National champions. It’s about damn time you won, after all these years I’ve been paying for you to play that stupid fucking game of yours,” he continues, slurring his words ever so slightly.
“What time is it?” I ask, trying to derail his line of thinking, before he can get to the part where he wants to force me to assault this poor girl while he watches.
“Time for you to man up!” he snaps, banging his fist against my dresser, making the girl jump. “Surely you aren’t going to turn away my generosity, James. I got her just for you, since you seem to have a penchant for little curly-haired blondes.”
My gut rolls, acid climbing my throat as I try to think of a way out of this. He didn’t drug me this time. I’m not a scared kid anymore; surely there’s something I can do to get myself and this poor girl out of here.
“If you aren’t going to use her, James, I’ll just have to keep her for myself,” he taunts, taking a step closer.
My false calm demeanor snaps. “Don’t fucking touch her!” I shout, stepping between him and the bed.
A manic smile breaks out across Ross’s face. “Then, by all means, go ahead, son.”
I stand frozen, heart pounding, chest heaving. Damn it, Jamie, think!
All of a sudden, just as I see Ross gear up to take another step toward me, I hear a door slam and a shout come from downstairs.
“Jamie?!” I hear, and my knees buckle in fear. No, God, she can’t be here.
“Maya!” I hear another voice—Tom’s—call from a distance.
Footsteps pound up the grand marble staircase, heading straight for my room, and Ross turns to meet whoever’s coming down the hall.
I chase after him, knowing in my gut that it’s Maya, and I can’t let him get his hands on her.
At the end of the corridor, near the top of the landing, Maya stops dead in her tracks when she sees Ross standing between her and me.
He doesn’t waste a beat; Ross reaches for her—to do what, I’m not sure, and I don’t care. I sprint the last few feet separating us and grab him by the back of the shirt, using all my strength to tug him away from her.
Ross spins, his shirt ripping in my fist. He grabs a hold of my forearm with both his hands, and twists, bringing my arm behind my back until it won’t bend any further. Suddenly, he kicks at the back of my knees, sending me to the ground, and a loud crack reverberates through the air.
I think I shout as my shoulder dislocates from it’s socket, but the adrenaline keeps me from staying down long.
Maya’s arms press against my back, trying to push Ross away from my body. He grabs her by the wrist, and she yelps as she tries to free herself. He starts to pull her toward him, and I grab her other arm in my uninjured hand—Maya now stuck between us like a human tug-of-war game.
Ross leans back, trying to use his body weight to pull Maya from my grip. As if acting by instinct, instead of pulling on Maya harder, I step forward and shoulder check Ross right in the chest. He looses his balance backward, stumbling as he tries to regain his footing.
I watch in horror as his foot slips over the lip of the top step, and my father tumbles headfirst down the marble stairs, landing with a sickening crunch at the bottom.
Maya trembles in my arms as we step toward the edge, looking down and seeing Ross Booker’s unconscious form splayed on the floor below.
Tom runs right past and up the stairs, not bothering to look at the carnage; his sole focus is on me and his daughter.
He pulls us both into his arms, softly murmuring under his breathe that everything’s okay and that we’re safe.
There’s no blood, but Ross’s head is bent in such a way that I know he didn’t survive.
Shouts and sirens finally register from outside, and I watch in dazed disbelief as a man in black tactical gear—a patch on his chest identifying him as LAPD—squats down beside Ross, checking his pulse.
Other men from his team continue to fan through the house.
The officer calls for an medical transport while two more come up and usher us all downstairs and outside.
All of this happened in minutes.
Four minutes, to be exact.
Four minutes ago, I thought I would be committing a completely different crime against an innocent girl.
Four minutes ago, I thought I’d rather die than see Ross lay a finger on Maya Winchester.
Four minutes, and I accidentally killed my father.