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I try to meet his eyes, but he intimidates me too much, so I look over his shoulder at the photo that’s mounted over the fireplace of our family when Mom was still alive. I take solace in that, because whatever has his panties in a twist will be over and I’ll be fine.
After he’s stared at me for at least a minute, he huffs and says, “Well?”
Clearing my throat, I ask, “Well what?”
“Well, where the fuck were you? It’s laundry day and my fucking laundry isn’t done! I have a date tonight and no clean clothes.”
“Oh, umm …” I rack my brain to figure out what to say that won’t get me threatened or worse.
Conrad has a terrible habit of beating me, he has ever since a few months after my mother died and he realized James didn’t care. “As long as you don’t leave anymore bruises on his face,” James told him after he gave me a black eye one night because I wouldn’t give him my couch pillow. He was hoarding all of them and I wanted one while we watched some stupid movie he forced me and Fallon to watch. Since that day, I’ve been trying to watch his fists, although he lets them fly sometimes when he gets upset about anything in his life.
“Traffic,” I blurt since that’s the most believable thing. Rush hour is dying down, but you never know when there will be an influx.
His eyes bore into me, and I force myself not to fidget. I’ve learned over the years that this family can sniff out lies. I’ve been perfecting how to work around that if I ever needed to lie. Step one? No fidgeting.
A few moments later, his scowl drops, replaced by an almost breathtaking smile. If I were anyone else, I’d think he was charming. But I know that behind that mask is evil. Conrad is a psychopath. “Oh okay. Well, I left my basket by your bedroom door. Get started on it now so I can have something to wear to the club tonight. Wanna come? Herman is manning the door again, so if you come late, he’ll let you in.”
I’ve also learned to never turn down Conrad’s invites. Ever. If he asks me to come somewhere, he’s telling me to come. “Oh, yeah. Of course. I’ll be there. I’ll finish up your laundry and head right over.”
“Good. See you there. Have the shirt I left on the top of the basket clean in two hours, yeah?”
My stepbrother is scary. He only wants me there so he can fuck with me in front of his friends. And I’m helpless to do anything about it without fearing I’ll wake up to a fist in my stomach or a boot to the ass.
I nod, but he’s already walking away. I think I’m in the clear before he shouts over his shoulder, “Dad wants to see you in his office.”
Clamping my eyes shut, I take a few deep breaths before I go see James. If I think Conrad is scary, James is ten times worse. Because he hides his attitude and disdain behind an impenetrable mask that I can’t decipher, regardless of how much I’ve tried over the past seventeen years. Being called to his office is like being called to the executioner’s block. It doesn’t bode well.
Taking small steps, I walk to James’s office and knock lightly on his door. He doesn’t lift his head from the papers he’s reading, just beckons me forward with two fingers. I step inside, sliding into the chair in front of his desk. He doesn’t speak immediately, just lets me sit there to wonder what’s going on.
James does this often. He’ll leave me to wonder what he wants to say, having me walking on eggshells until he feels like he wants to speak.
I look at James and really take him in. I can see why my mom was so smitten with him. He’s a handsome man, his brown skin looking like it was kissed by the sun. He’s always been bald—I’ve never seen him with hair since I’ve known him—but he really pulls it off. Not many men have the head shape to be bald. James’s dark brown eyes shine with emotion when he speaks, though the emotion is dependent upon who he’s talking to. When it’s his sons, it’s pride and adoration. With my mom, it was love and happiness. With me, it’s a little like loathing.
My mom and James had a whirlwind relationship, him being a baggage handler for a while during his college years—he started later than most because he was a single father—and he and mom hit it off. They only dated for three months before they got married. When mom introduced us, James seemed happy. He was excited that he had two other boys I can run and play with, he said. I was excited too. Being an only child was fine, but the thought of having brothers? I was over the moon.
Look how that turned out.
I sit there for almost ten minutes, looking around the office while James makes me wait. I’m getting antsy because I have to have that shirt washed for Conrad. I know better than to try to rush James, but I’m not too thrilled about having a bruise somewhere.
Just as I’m trying to figure out if I should get his attention, James raises his eyes to meet mine so fast that I cringe. He scoffs and shakes his head, turning to his computer. “So, the ball last weekend.”
Oh hell. Does he know? Did he see me? Did someone see me and tell James? Did Conrad or Fallon see me? Well, if Conrad saw me, he would have beat my ass, then told James I was there so James could sanction another whooping.
Clearing my throat, I ask, “What about it?” I’m thankful my voice stays steady, even though I feel sweat dripping down my back.
“There was a speech given by someone that throws a monkey wrench in my plan to start campaigning. Good speech too. People were really impressed.” He turns from the computer to look at me and brushes his fingers down this goatee, then taps two fingers against his lips. “To that end, we may have to move to another district so I can get what I want. I need a seat on the senate, do you understand?”
I nod, though I don’t understand. I don’t know why it’s so important. “Yeah, okay.”
“Your mother left you this house in her will, so when you came of age, the deed transferred to your name. I can’t sell it without your notarized signature.”
My breath catches in my throat. My mom did what? And why am I just finding out about this? How dare he not tell me? How dare he tell me this now and not when I turned eighteen? My mother left me something and he … didn’t tell me.
I open my mouth to say no, that I’m not selling my house, that this is all my mother left for me, but he cuts me off. “Look, this place is too big for you. You need me and the boys to help you out. I’ll have my lawyer draw up the papers and we’ll get them signed. Next month should be enough time to have the contract drawn up, then we’ll put it on the market. Should be good to stage and sell in three months.” He turns back to the computer and starts typing an email.
When he realizes I haven’t moved yet, he glares at me and says, “You can go.”
Too stunned to speak, I do what he says, dragging my feet to my room. I see the basket by my door and numbly grab it to go to the laundry room and start the first load.
