Whether it be a bra and a camisole, or boy shorts over panties.
Today I wore a skin-tight pair of leggings under a pair of sweatpants.
It wasn’t cold enough for what I was wearing, but I didn’t care.
I was always prepared when I went to my father’s house, just in case he showed up.
And wouldn’t you know, when I got to my parents’ house an hour later, there was his car in the driveway.
I didn’t kill Dario the night that his brother tried to rape me.
What I did do, however, was cause him to pass out from lack of oxygen.
Even worse, the lack of oxygen he’d suffered through had warped his brain.
He was no longer rational in any way.
When I’d married Ramsey Kelly—though I called him Gentry after his favorite baseball player—I’d done it for two reasons.
One, to make sure that Gentry would have the protection of my name.
I may not be liked by the Rice family, but the world didn’t know that.
And two, by marrying Gentry, I’d also taken away my father’s ability to force me to marry Dario.
Which had been on the docket after Mario’s death.
And since the Irish were all about the sanctity of marriage, they wouldn’t make us divorce.
In the eyes of God, Gentry was mine.
Not even my father would mess with that.
At least, that was what I thought.
For five years, it had been enough.
It had saved the both of us.
But as I walked into the kitchen that night and saw the divorce papers in the spot where I normally sit to eat, I knew this was it.
My dad had finally had enough.
Dario sat next to those papers with a grin on his stupid, smug lips.
I wanted to pull the forty-five in my bag out and shoot him in the face.
But I knew I wouldn’t be able to get that far.
My brother was watching me like a hawk, his hand on his own gun that sat on top of the table.
He would shoot me if I made any moves for his remaining best friend.
“Sit,” my father ordered.
I snorted. “No thanks.”
I walked away and left, knowing this wouldn’t be the last time I’d be seeing those divorce papers.
