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But by the end of my fourth shot of whiskey, my mind has begun to remember other things. Unwanted things. Things about my parents that, like Danneel, I’ve tried my hardest to banish into a dark corner.
Suddenly I’m back in my old room again. The one with the tattered curtains and the mattress on the floor. Outside, the rain had just started to pelt down, with a crack of thunder rolling in the distance. But it wasn’t the storm I was afraid of; it was the clock. It was almost 7:30—the time my father came home of a night, intoxicated from after-work drinks with his buddies.
And judging by the slam of the front door and all the yelling, he was right on time. So I waited. Again, like clockwork, I heard him shove my mother against a wall, the crack of a palm hitting a cheek as loud as that damn thunder. But tonight would be the last time he’d dare touch her.
I was fifteen now, and strong—much stronger than the coward in the other room had been when he was my age. For years, I’d watched on as he hit her, swore at her, degraded her, powerless to stop him. But not anymore. Now, I could take him on and show him who the real man of the house was.
After flexing my arms, I flung open the bedroom door and stalked out to the living room. My mother was on the floor, sobbing, blood dripping out of her nose. When my father looked up, he smirked. I’ll never forget it; he had no idea what was coming to him. I rushed him, slamming him up against the fireplace that he was damn lucky wasn’t lit. He stumbled into the pile of charcoal and tried to get back on his feet again but couldn’t. He was even more drunk than usual, and I was going to play that to my advantage.
I took the poker from its holder just within arm’s reach and struck him with it. Nowhere that could kill him; just hurt him. I hit his shins, his knees, his thighs, and arms. Tomorrow his body would be riddled over with cuts and bruises, yet that still wouldn’t amount to the scores he’d given my mother over the years.
When I was finally done, I scuffed him by the collar and made him look right into my eyes. “You touch her again, and I’ll kill you,” I said, my hatred for him laced on every word.
Then I shoved him back into the fireplace and turned to help my mother.
That night, we left him there—a blubbering mess that neither of us would ever see again.
With a few blinks, my eyes refocus on the bottle of whiskey. I pour another shot, down it, then get up, ready to go and put the finishing touches on her portrait.
Chapter Fifteen
Poppy
I know watching Netflix with a tub of double chocolate ice cream is kind of pathetic, but if this is what I need to do to heal and move on, then so be it. Bring on the reality TV shows and weight gain, because I’m committed.
Just as I settle in to watch the latest episodes of Keeping Up With The Kardashians, the intercom for the door buzzes. Seriously? Just after I sat down. FML.
With a heavy sigh and very reluctant effort, I jump up and head over to the intercom to press the button. “Who is it?”
I hear muffled voices on the other end, one high-pitched and the other older and feminine.
“I can say my own name!” I freeze when I recognize that little voice. “It’s Micah Stone. Can I come up and see you, Poppy?” My gut somersaults. What the hell is Nathaniel’s kid doing here?
“Um, okay,” I manage to sputter out, and before I stop myself, I hit another button, allowing Micah entry into the lobby downstairs. Shit. A second thought hits me. What if he isn’t alone? What if his asshole, yet devilishly handsome father is with him? And Nathaniel’s using Micah as a way to see me. No… surely, he wouldn’t stoop so low.
Within a minute, there’s a series of solid raps on the front door, and when I sneak a peek through the peephole, I’m relieved to see Micah and his nanny. Thank God.
I step back and release the chain over the door before opening the door wide. Micah practically leaps into my arms, squeezing me so tight my bones start to hurt. What on earth is this about?
As soon as Micah releases me, I take a deep breath. Seeing him and his nanny was about the last thing I expected today, and my mind is still reeling. The nanny starts to apologize profusely, saying that they found my address on some paperwork in the penthouse, and Micah wouldn’t stop insisting on talking to me.
I smile and reassure her it’s okay. “Honestly, it’s fine. I was just having a quiet night in anyway,” I tell her, then look back down at Micah. “Micah, how can I help?”
“It’s my dad,” he replies, his eyes glazing over a little. “He’s so sad, and I don’t know what to do. I try to cheer him up all the time—I even gave him my favorite teddy to cuddle, but he still cries.”
