Blackbird (A Stepbrother Romance #1)(11)

Weariness has settled into my bones by the time I emerge from the car. I stink of acidic sweat and other things and I feel like I’ve been stretched out, like taffy. I need a shower and I need a full night’s sleep. I glance at Alicia, who has been silent since we left the offices.

“I’m taking tomorrow off.”

She nods curtly, makes a note and veers away from me as I head upstairs, leaning on the bannister. I yawn as I reach the top of the stairs, scrub my hands through my hair and half stumble through the door into my room.

There I freeze.

My father is waiting for me. He stands in the room like a statue, frozen still. Like me he’s pale all over but for blue eyes, like he’s been carved from stone. He wears dark slacks and a white shirt. His tie is loosened. A withering look sends me a step back, but I swallow and step into the room, force myself to stand straight up.

“Did you f*ck Victor Amsel?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me, Evelyn.”

“I didn’t have sex with him.” I leave off the today. It’s implied.

It’s a technicality. There’s a subtle twitch around his left eye. He knows.

“The show you put on today was quite a spectacle, apparently. It was on all the news sites. They were talking about you on television.”

I swallow.

“I’m told it was tweeted,” he says, with a sneering disdain.

I swallow again. “I’m sorry…”

“He played you like a tin fiddle. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I don’t… I didn’t…”

The slap comes so fast I can’t see it coming. One moment I’m standing. The next, pain explodes through my jaw, the world goes white in a flash, and I’m on my knees, leaning on one hand and clutching my face with the other. He gave me a savage backhand, knocked me right off my feet. When the daze ends I scrabble back against the wall, slide along to a corner and curl up, trembling. It’s been a long time since he’s hit me. Not since I was a girl.

“If he shows his face in your presence again, you will alert me immediately. In the meantime, I will begin working to ensure he’s sent back to prison.”

I nod.

“Yes, sir.”

“You have work to do tomorrow. I will expect you to be discreet about your face.”

He means the bruise rising on my skin. That’s all he has to say. He gives me a look that makes me wilt, and walks out the door, pulling it shut behind him. As soon as it closes I scramble to my feet, seize a chair from the vanity table by the bathroom door and haul it over. I shove the antique wood under the doorknob and rush into the bathroom. I climb in the shower and turn it on, crying out as the cold water hits me, but silent as it turns scalding hot and steam swirls around me as I sink down to sit on the floor of the tub and curl up in the fetal position. My face is throbbing. Even my teeth hurt. It’s been years and years since he knocked out one of my teeth, and it was only a baby tooth. He stopped hitting me when I turned ten, and switched to the belt. That stopped two years before he remarried, except for the one time.

Maybe ten minutes, maybe an hour later I half-crawl out of the tub and sit on the floor for a while. I’m mostly clean; a scalding hot shower will do that. I’ve turned pink from the heat and my fingers are all crinkly. I stand in front of the mirror and stare at myself. All I can see is the ugly purple bruise on my cheek. It’s a bad one. It hurts, a lot. I should put something cold on it, but I don’t care. After I stumble out of the bathroom and wrap myself up in a towel, I fall on the bed and stare up at the ceiling. The ceilings are surprisingly low in here, the windows huge. Outside it’s started raining again and the water spritz the window and makes tiny tapping noises. The only other sound is my breathing. The staff are either in bed or gone home by now. I should eat, but the very idea of food makes me sick. I lay on my side, and think. I will have to cancel any appointments that require a face to face meeting tomorrow. Phone and email only. Everyone here knows not to ask how my face was marked.

I hate you, Victor. You said you’d save me from this.

A glance to the side, and I start staring at the bookcase. I don’t know why I do this to myself. Wrapping up in a robe, I pad over to it on bare feet, reach for the top shelf and pull down the photo album. It’s a cheap one, just vinyl over cardboard and binding rings. I sit back on the bed and spread it open on my lap.

The oldest pictures have my mother in them. I have my father’s coloring but my mother’s eyes, and the resemblance between us is uncanny even though she had dark hair.

I never knew her. She died in a car accident when I was three. Sometimes I can feel her, but not remember her. The pictures depress me, so I gingerly turn the plastic page. There are no photos of my father, either with me or alone. In fact there are no photos of me at all until I’m already in college. No birthdays or soccer practice or recitals or school plays. I was homeschooled until I went to college, and tutored; I played no sports. Father paid a personal trainer for me starting when I was thirteen. He would be disappointed in me now, I think. I don’t eat much but I don’t exercise anymore. There’s no time. I’m falling behind on work even now. There are tasks on my schedule, but I can’t stop staring at the pictures. Victor took most of them, and of course I am the subject. The backdrops are the main difference. There I am at the mall, there I am at the beach, there I am at the park. There are some selfies, from before they called them selfies. Victor points the camera at us.