Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99313 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
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.