Page 9 of Make You Beg

He doesn’t like me asking questions.

“Yes. My fiancée.”

I jump out of my seat, palms flat on the table. “You have a fiancée?”

There’s a woman on earth who can actually stand him and is delusional enough to accept a proposal from him?

“Close that mouth of yours and listen to me. You better not fuck this up.”

I do as he says, sitting back down, straightening and letting my thoughts simmer.

It makes sense. All the working outside until late. I know his work doesn’t require him much more than a laptop, which makes it easy for him to do it anywhere, but he’s been going out a lot in the past few months.

What I can’t wrap my head around is who in the world would want him?

Fuck.

I don’t need a woman in our lives, someone to worry about, but I relent.

Get ready for whatever the fuck he’s got prepared.

Anything is better than the belt on my back, the red marks.

It’s happened quite a few times this year, but less than usual.

That’s why. He’s always less violent when there’s someone else occupying his mind. He’s forced to show small glimpses of humanity. Except they never last.

I didn’t expect someone to come into our lives again so soon. It’s only been a year since the accident he forced us both to repress. Since we moved to New Jersey from Maryland. Since we pretended nothing happened.

We’ve been so good at pretending that I actually started believing the mundanity of our lives.

I’ve always been good at talking myself out of things, justifying actions. Me, myself, and I. And the voices in my head.

Adjusting in my seat at the table, I can’t help but dread what’s about to happen. I opt to look around at the mid-tone lights, the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the rustic patterns on the walls. Of course, he’s chosen somewhere fancy.

My father is all about appearances and looking good.

The food shows up, despite our guests being nowhere to be seen.

It’s tempting, and I’m starving. But my father sends a dark look my way when I extend a hand. Don’t you dare.

I rub my stomach and lean back, letting it grunt.

My father clears his throat. “They’re here, be decent.”

I almost cuss.

Motherfucker.

One day, I’ll be able to get away from him and his toxic environment.

Today’s not the day. But I busy myself with fantasies about that.

Freedom from this fucking life. Me, somewhere far away, playing hockey and paying my own bills with it. Not having to depend on his dirty ass money. It hasn’t been easy, being the sole attention of the house, now that my brother’s not with us. He was the compliant one. I’ve always been the punching bag—the one who talked back, the one with a rebel streak. And I don’t plan on changing that.

But for now, I behave.

I stare at the entrance of the restaurant, visible from our table, as a middle-aged woman with short blonde hair and a great rack in a pale blue dress walks in.