Kick (Songs of Perdition #1)(16)

The security guard stood from his station. My father looked at the two-hundred-pound refrigerator of a man, who carried a gun, and with just a look, made him sit the f*ck back down.

Dad turned his blue eyes to me. “This pleases you? What you’re doing?”

“I’m not here to shame you.”

“The effect is the same, but I know that was never much of a concern for you.”

“Just tell me what you want.”

He held his hand up before I could finish. “Your life is out of control. You’ve wrecked more cars than I’ve bought. You’ve used your body shamelessly. I can only imagine what your blood is actually made of. And you’ve never faced a single consequence. You have a classic case of affluenza.”

I crossed my arms. I didn’t know if he was making a joke or not. “You’re saying I’m a bad person.”

“You’re dissolute, and you don’t care.”

“And you do?” I stiffened, and my extremities tingled. You didn’t challenge Daddy. You just didn’t. If I never faced any consequences in the outside world, inside his fiefdom, I certainly did. Yet there I was, feeling safe enough to do just that.

“I do. This family, Fiona, this ten-person unit, is all that matters. How we’re perceived is important. How we act is important. And if you don’t get control of yourself, I’m taking control.”

That was close, too close. I heard his words in Deacon’s voice, and I squirmed.

He continued, poking at my core insecurity. “Whether or not you ever leave here can very easily be up to me.”

“I’m of age,” I whispered, but I knew I had no way of enforcing my emancipation.

“Indeed you are. Something to think about. The dew is off the petal, and you’ve gone from wild child to aged curiosity. There are younger and wilder taking your place as we speak.”

Maybe my medication was wearing off or maybe I was raw from recalling my first meeting with Deacon, but something about him calling me old and washed up frightened me. Something about the look on his face, as if he’d stepped in a hot mess on the sidewalk. I respected my father, respected his opinions and beliefs even if I didn’t follow them. I had consistently thwarted his will, and he’d consistently bailed me out because I had such respect for him. What would happen if that respect went away? Would he stop protecting me?

“What about you?” I shouted, though he never flinched. “What about what you did? You shamed this family with Mom.”

“I married her. No one’s marrying you.” He didn’t bat a f*cking eyelash.

The only reason I didn’t lunge for him was he was telling me the truth.

Instead, I walked toward the hall. Like a cat, he moved so quickly and silently, I was surprised when I felt a yank at the back of my collar. The security guard did exactly nothing when Daddy took my jaw in his hands.

He whispered in my ear, “When are we going to stop playing at this same drama, Fiona? It’s tiresome. And I don’t like disruption.”

There was only one answer.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“We understand each other then?”

“Yes.”

“You will get control of your life?”

“Yes.”

“Good, because if you don’t, I will. And you will not like it.”

***

I couldn’t bear the common room, the patio, the garden. Couldn’t stand a conversation. My parents confused me. I always left their company wondering what the f*ck had just happened. So I took my meds as prescribed and went to lie down.

You’re controlled by your cunt. Who controls your cunt, controls you.

The ceiling of my grey and white little room was a dull shade of neutral. The shade was drawn over the open window, and when the breeze came, it slapped against the sill as if angry.

I control my cunt.

Deacon in his suit, smiling that godawful devil of a smile, looked at my face even though I was naked and tied to hooks in the wall. He didn’t believe me. He was right. In the battle for control of my life, my cunt won every time.

I’ll control it, kitten. And you’re welcome. He put the riding crop to my lips, and I kissed it. It’s three days. You’ll be good, or this is what you’re getting.

I put my eyes all over his handsome face, which I wasn’t supposed to do. I was supposed to look at the floor as a symbol of my submission. He drew the crop back and whacked the side of my face with it. The sting felt wet and deep.

That’s to keep you in the house. He said it without cruelty or emotion, then backhanded the crop over my breasts. That’s for looking me in the eye.

The next ten came down in a rain of blows over my belly, my hips, the tops of my thighs. Then, with an underhanded swat, he slapped my clit with the leather. I ground my teeth. I wasn’t supposed to scream.

That’s three days of control I expect.

I remembered the welts when he touched them, the way they burned as he unhooked me and threw me on the bed, lashing me face down to the bedposts so that the mattress rubbed them when he f*cked me. I remembered the orgasm spilling out of me, and the welts bleeding over the next three days, reminding me of how hard I’d come that day. And how without him, I had no control over my cunt.

You can touch yourself if you want, but that’s it.

He smirked like Satan. I didn’t even address the joke of it, I was so aroused. I didn’t touch myself for pleasure, even when he tormented me by giving me that as my only option.