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Moving off the bed, I pull on a pair of shorts from the floor and walk over to the door. I give Harper one last look before I undo the lock and open the door.
14
Harper
I still can’t believe I asked him to let me stay here. He was right, last night I was just scared and vulnerable. I would have said anything to make myself feel even a little safe. But the truth is, I really do want to stay here and not just because I’m scared. I want him, I want him like I’ve always wanted him. Seeing how Warren took care of me last night and how he treated me this morning… I think he still wants me too. The only thing standing in our way now is whatever he thinks I did all those years ago. Staring into each other’s eyes, I don’t think the moment can get any better. I want to tell him that whatever he thinks I did, I didn’t do but a knock sounds against the door, followed by a deep voice.
“Open the door, son.” It takes me a moment to digest what is happening and who is on the other side of that door, but when I do, I scurry off of Warren’s lap and wrap myself up in the blanket. His father is here. I think I’m going to puke. That man has always given me the creeps. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a smile on his face.
Moving slowly, Warren gets up from the bed and pulls on a pair of shorts. He takes his time getting to the door and gives me a sympathetic look as he opens it. Readying myself, I’m fully prepared to jump up, put my clothes on, and run out of the room, but that would mean walking right past his father, and no way am I doing that right now.
Luckily, Warren steps into the doorway, shielding most of his father’s view of me. In fact, he moves into the hall, closing the door almost completely behind him.
“Who is the girl?” is the first thing his father asks.
“No one, now what the hell do you want?” Warren goes on the defensive, and my stomach twists into an angry knot.
“You think you’re a big man now? Need I remind you who bought this house, your car, and pays your tuition? Talk to me like I’m your father and not one of your damn friends.”
There is a brief pause and then Warren speaks again, “What do you want, Dad?” This time, when he replies, he sounds bored rather than angry.
“Who is the girl?” There is a darkness in his father’s voice, and I feel it in my soul. It slithers over my skin, my arms, and chest, wrapping around my throat like a snake.
“I already told you, no one.”
Does his father make a habit of doing this with all the girls Warren sleeps with?
“Let’s see,” he says in a condescending tone. In a flash, the door is shoved open, and Warren’s father’s eyes collide with mine. “She is a no one all right. I thought you’d know better than to mess around with that whore again.”
Whore? Anger pulses through my veins, and I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste the coppery tang of blood.
Warren stares at me with sorrow in his eyes before grabbing the door and pulling it closed. In an instant, I’m left alone with my thoughts again. Footsteps sound against the wooden floor, moving away from the bedroom. Part of me wants to get up and listen, but part of me doesn’t. I don’t want to hear what his father has to say about me. I know I’m not a whore. I’ve only ever been with Warren, but that doesn’t change the fact that I want to know what he’s saying about me.
As I sit there wrapped in the blanket, I start to shiver. Even though I’m engulfed in warmth, I still feel cold, so cold. Why does Warren’s father think so shitty of me? Is it because we come from different classes? Because he is rich and I’m poor? Is it because my parents used to work for him before he rudely fired them?
All these questions burn through me, stoking the angry fire in my chest. As I wait for Warren to return, I go to his dresser and find something of his I can wear. Careful not to rip any of the bandages Warren put on me, I slip into a long sleeve shirt and sweatpants, which I have to roll to keep from falling down. Finally dressed, I feel much better, and a little less vulnerable. When Warren finally comes back into the room, he looks pissed, and I’m not sure if his anger is directed at his father or me.
