Chapter 10
Francesca
“What the fuck happened to you?” A piece of toast fell from my sister's hand onto the table.
“Jesus, Franny. What the fuck?” She stood and hurried over to me.
The shocked look on her face actually brought tears to my eyes.
Dad hadn't told her what happened last night. That didn't surprise me. Not at all.
“Ouch,” I said as she tried to hug me. Everything hurt. The ibuprofen I'd taken had done nothing to help. I could barely walk down the stairs because of the pain shooting through my body.
“Oh, God, Franny.” Felicia's voice quivered. She stepped back and looked me over. “Oh, no.” She shook her head, face crumpled up.
Then she turned her head, eyes narrowing on our father, who sat at the table. “This is because of you. Isn't it?” she cried, pointing at me with a shaky hand. “You did this!”
Our father sat there with his hands up in the air as though she held a gun to him or something.
“I didn't do anything! It was her own damn fault,” he explained.
His face was stark white. Completely drained.
But it was also free of bruises and welts—unlike my own face, which was a collection of many colors ranging from purple to red.
“How was this Franny's fault?” Felicia shouted, hands fisted at her sides.
“She tried to leave the house. I told her not to go,” he defended himself.
She looked back at me for an explanation.
So—I gave her one. In as few words as possible. My jaw hurt with every movement. Somehow, I was able to give her the gist of what happened here while she was gone last night. After I was done, Felicia's face blanched, and she sat down at the table, folded her arms, and dropped her head on top.
Then—she started crying.
Felicia didn't cry often. But once she started—it was almost impossible to stop her.
I turned around and opened the nearly empty fridge.
I pulled out the milk, shut the door, and headed to the counter.
After depositing the milk there, I opened a cabinet door and grabbed a small packet of hot chocolate.
I'd pocketed a bunch of them from the break room at work.
That and sugar, instant coffee, and tea.
Opening my mouth was a challenge. I wasn't sure what I'd be able to get down besides fluid. But I had an idea to make it easier on myself.
A few minutes later, I sat across from a still crying Felicia and dipped my buttery toast into the crappy hot chocolate.
“Ow,” I said, the minimal contact with the saturated toast still hurting my lip. Even so, I powered through, taking way too much time to eat a piece of toast than I should have.
Our father grabbed a beer and disappeared. Thank goodness.
He was the last person I wanted to talk to.
Well, no.
Those men from last night were the last people I wanted to talk to. Or ever see again. All I needed to do was come up with some way to get out of this dump. And away from the spies outside. I just hadn't figured out how.
Yet.
But I would.
Because there was no way in hell I was going to let that greasy, well-dressed asshat auction me off to anyone.
“I'm sorry, Franny.” Felicia lifted her head and brushed her fingers under her red, puffy eyes.
“Fuck, I'm so sorry. I should have known something like this would happen.” She shut her eyes tight, scrunching up her face.
“Fuck!” she shouted and slammed her palms against the top of the table.
My cup bounced and so did my plate, clattering before I could get a hold on them.
“It's fine.” I cautiously touched my jaw. “I'm getting out of here. All I need is a good plan.” Or at least that was what I tried to tell myself. I'd had a fitful night of sleep. Horrible dreams of me running, being chased by faceless strangers. Terrified for my life.
Felicia squeezed her eyes together, then rubbed them. “You have no idea who you're dealing with here. Do you?” She dropped her hands and stared at me like I was stupid.
I mean, did I specifically know exactly who each man was? No. Of course not.
Did I know they were all crappy pieces of crap?
Yes.
Of course, I did.
That was all I needed to know.
“My shift starts in an hour.” I pushed back in my chair and winced while I rose to my feet. Every muscle in my body hurt and ached like crazy. How I was going to get through my shift—I had not one clue. But I had to.
“Can you drive me? I'm not sure I can handle it by myself.” Just getting into my stupid, ugly, brown car would be challenging enough. Driving would be a whole other thing, though. And if—I mean, when—the car stopped, I'd need help opening the hood and dealing with whatever I had to do.
Felicia sat there silently for a moment before she burst out into laughter.
Well, she was definitely laughing, but tears were still falling from her eyes.
“Work? Are you out of your mind?” Her arms flung out to her sides, palms up in question.
“First of all, how the fuck are you going to leave the house?
And second of all, how the fuck are you going to actually work?
You can't even—” she took a deep inhale, “chew!”
I felt a bit like she'd just burst my bubble. Not that going to work was a great, fun thing. Because it wasn't.
“I'll get by, Fee. I always do.” I stepped over to the sink and started washing my cup and plate. A sharp pain stabbed me in my ribs, and I had to hold my breath for a few seconds until the pain became manageable.
“They won't let you leave the house. Look what happened when you tried!” she exclaimed behind me while I dried my dishes.
“I'll figure it out. They can't stop me from going to work. If they give me trouble, I'll talk to them.” I shrugged and put the cup back into the cupboard. Which wasn't easy, seeing as I couldn't lift my arm up that far.
“Like you did last night?” Felicia said incredulously.
Gingerly, I turned around, still holding the dishtowel. “Last night, I was sneaking out. That's totally different than leaving for work. It's my job, Fee.”
Felicia's jaw dropped open, and her eyebrows lifted. “You're certifiable right now. Those guys,” her finger jutted out and pointed toward the front door, “are bad guys, Franny. As in, bad, bad dudes. The last thing they're going to let you do is go to fucking work.”
I huffed and threw the towel at her. She ripped it off her head and tossed it onto the table.
“Fine. If you don't want to drive me, just say it. Don't do anything for me. See if I care. We can all starve to death.” I wanted to storm off. But the best I could do was shoot her a dirty look and walk slowly to the front door.
“Franny!” Felicia called out. “Don't open the—” was all I heard before I grabbed my keys, opened the front door, slipped through, and slammed it behind me.
I stood on the steps and looked around. There was an expensive-looking black SUV across the street. It definitely didn't belong in this neighborhood. I waved at it and started down the steps, hanging onto the railing for dear life. Each step down felt like someone was punching me in the ribs.
A loud screeching sound got my attention, and I looked up.
Another dark SUV came to a stop directly in front of our house.
The greasy guy from last night—Aldo—jumped out.
“What are you—” he said, stopping mid-sentence once his eyes landed on me.
He came to an abrupt halt. His gaze lowered to my feet, then gradually made its way up to my face.
He swallowed and walked up to me. “What the fuck?” he said, his eyes narrowed in on my face.
Or what was left of my face. “Who the fuck did this to you?”
A sharp, painful laugh flew out of my mouth, and I grabbed my ribs. “Who? Like you don't know.” I rolled my eyes—or at least I tried to.
He set his hands on his hips and leaned in. “Who did this to you?” he enunciated every word slowly, as if I couldn’t understand him.
Maybe it was the pain. Maybe it was the fact that I'd been beaten and tossed around last night.
Or maybe it was the fact that I'd had just about enough of this. I, too, narrowed my eyes and put my hands on my hips. Just like him. “I'm pretty sure you already know the creeps who beat me up in my backyard last night, Aldo. Don't try to pretend you don't.”
His eyes widened, and a murderous look replaced his formerly pissed off one.
“What did you say? Two guys did this to you?” His voice instantly grew quiet.
“Two fuckin' guys beat you up? In your backyard?” He stared at me without blinking. And something in the way he looked at me made me believe that he didn’t know what had happened.
Almost.
As much as you could believe a guy like Aldo.
“Well, technically, one guy beat me up. And the other guy showed up just in time to see him undo my jeans.” Part of me felt like a first grader tattling on the playground bully. And part of me wondered if Aldo was going to call the bully back here to finish off the job.
“Get in the house,” Aldo said, grabbing my arm and jerking me back.
Hot, fiery pain exploded up my arm and into the rest of my body. My knees gave way, and I crashed to the cement underneath me. The pain was too much. My stomach roiled and emptied right on Aldo's shoes.
Served him right, though.
“What the fuck?” he said a few times, stepping away from me and trying to clean off his shoes.
“Don't touch me, asshole,” I said, my voice sounding like some kind of demon from a late-night movie. I spat and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. And then somehow—with a whole lot of effort—I stood.
“Get the fuck inside.” Aldo walked back to me, but didn't touch me.
“I have to—” I started saying.
Aldo cut me off. “Inside,” he said, jerking his head toward my house.
I took a deep breath.
Turned.
And carefully—hobbled inside.