Page 35 of Love to Hate You
As soon as the last sentence escapes my mouth, I want to suck it back in again. I almost cringe for being so careless. There’s no use hoping that he didn’t catch the words.
His body stills as his muddy brown eyes sharpen, bouncing between us with interest. “What’s going on next week?”
When no one responds, he growls, “Alice?”
Mom flinches. “Oh, um, Carter suggested that we meet for lunch.”
“No.”
The word drops from his lips like a two-ton brick.
My eyes narrow. “Why?” Even though it’s pointless to argue, I can’t help myself because the fact that he has to control her every move pisses me off. “Why can’t we meet for lunch?”
For the first time since walking into the kitchen, a thin smile spreads across my father’s face.
He enjoys denying me something I want. He doesn’t have as many opportunities to fuck with me now that I have a full scholarship to play ball at BU. He can’t lord money over me the way he used to. And he can’t make me jump through an endless series of hoops only to deny me at the end.
He crosses his thickly corded arms across his chest as his smile broadens.
God, but I fucking hate him. He’s a useless son of a bitch.
“Because I said so,” he replies, enunciating each word. “That’s why.”
Fury infuses every fiber of my being. “She’s a grown woman,” I remind him tightly. “If she wants to meet me for lunch, she can.”
He arches a brow. “Is that so?”
“Yeah.” I clench and unclench my hands at my side.
His gaze bores into mine as he says, “Alice, under no circumstances are you to meet Carter for lunch next week. Are you going to disobey me?”
With slumped shoulders, my mother stares at the seasoned steaks, not daring to lift her eyes. “No.”
That one word conveys just how broken and beaten she is.
A triumphant smile blooms across Dad’s smug face. “Will there be any further discussions on the subject, Alice?”
“No.”
Goddamn it!
I need to walk away now. If I don’t, I’m going to fucking lose my shit, and I promised myself I wouldn’t allow that to happen. Not ever. I won’t let him provoke me into being someone I’m not.
Him.
“You’re a real asshole,” I mutter under my breath, stalking out of the kitchen.
My back isn’t turned for more than ten seconds when he growls, “What the fuck did you say?”
It takes a moment to realize that his voice is much closer than it was before. I spin around just in time for him to ram both hands into my chest. Because I wasn’t expecting the attack, I stumble back a few steps before catching myself. Years of conditioning takes over as I square up.
Ugliness dances in his eyes. He loves this. Loves that he can push my buttons into reacting when I try so hard to deny him the satisfaction. For him, it only makes these moments sweeter.
I suck in a breath and lock down my anger because he feeds off it like a monster lurking in the dark. I need to get the hell out of here before the situation escalates.
Because it will.
This is how Philip Prescott operates.