Page 15 of Dark Knight
Yes, his face is begging for a slap. So much so that my hand twitches, and I have to shove it into the pocket of my hoodie or else risk making a mistake that will feel really good at the moment but that I might regret later. “What’s the point of having a fully stocked pantry if we don’t plan to cook anything? I swear, if you force-feed me another French fry, I’m going to scream.” To make my point, I go to the trashcan and pull out the latest paper bag from today’s fast food meal.
“Okay, you don’t have to keep arguing.“ He holds his hands up, scowling like he does when he’s not smirking like a smartass. “I swear, you don’t know when enough is enough.”
All that does is make me laugh. “Well, first, it’s never enough. I’ll always have something to say, so either cover your ears or walk away if you don’t want to hear it.” He follows me into the kitchen, and I am really going to need a mouthguard before long if he doesn’t get off my back. I fling open the cabinets, scanning the contents. I don’t know what I expected – it’s not like anything will be different. It’s the same stuff I’ve been looking at for days. “Hmmm, I can make spaghetti.“ Since that’s easy enough and, since I really don’t know how to make very many things. It seems like the simplest and least dangerous option.
“Are you sure you can handle making that?“
The slam of the cabinet door makes him flinch. It’s enough to make me want to open it again just to slam it a second time. “Is there ever going to be a point where you’re tired of insulting me? Please, let me know so that I can prepare.“
All he does is snicker and fold his arms across his chest, and even his charcoal gray T-shirt isn’t enough to make me forget what he’s hiding beneath the cotton. I haven’t been able to shake the image of his muscular bare chest from my mind for days, no matter how much I try. I don’t need to be thinking of him that way. Things are messy enough as is. Besides, what would I do if he noticed me staring and decided to do something about it? As it is, I flinch when he passes close enough to give me a whiff of his cologne. Even when I know he has no intention of hurting or touching me, his nearness makes me freeze.
Yet another thing that bastard took. Being too close to a man is enough to make my heart seize in my chest.
Once he pulls a bottle of water from the fridge, he heads out to the front porch. “I have a phone call I need to make.” Not that I asked what he was doing, but it allows me to catch my breath and relax a little. Being in such close quarters sometimes makes me feel like an animal in a zoo. It doesn’t help that he always seems to be watching. Waiting for me to crack.
It’s my fault I’m stuck with him, too, which makes everything worse. Of all people to go to when it became too much, keeping the secret that somebody I stupidly believed would one day be my father-in-law had been harassing me. I didn’t want to go to Romero–anybody but him–but he was the only other person besides Dad who might’ve been able to do anything about it. I figured he could at least give me a little advice on how to respond since I knew without being told that he must have witnessed whatever Dad did to Kristoff.
I might even have hoped he would confess. Give me a little closure so I can finally stop assuming what happened. I should’ve known better–he’s the human equivalent of Fort Knox, locked up tight. I tried as long as I could, as hard as I could, to keep it to myself. Everything Kristoff did to me, all the terrible things he said, the way he made me feel. Small, useless, like a stupid slut. I’m still ashamed, even if I don’t know why. I didn’t do anything wrong. It was Kristoff who was wrong. It was Kristoff who hurt me. It was Kristoff who made it impossible for anybody to get too close to me without my body seizing up in panic.
Like that night at the hotel. Maybe it was dumb, running away with Bianca. I was pissy, finding out Dad went behind my back and offered to arrange a marriage with that dickhead Dominic Moroni. He wasn’t serious about it. He told me so afterward, and I believed him, but that didn’t mean I was happy about being used as a pawn, even if it was all pretend. I was hurt and upset and used it as an excuse to run away. I’m not proud of myself. But I wasn’t thinking very clearly then, either. I was worse than I am now, which is saying something, considering I can’t stand having men touch me.
But back then? Then, I figured I would try and see if I could get over it somehow. Like maybe I could get it out of my system. It’s easy to look back now and wonder what the hell I was thinking. You don’t just magically get over something like being abused and raped because you want to, no matter how much you will yourself to move on. And I did. Did I ever.
So it made sense to take an interested guy back to the room after we had a little too much to drink down in the bar. I was even eager to get up there. I wanted to prove to myself that Kristoff hadn’t ruined me. That I was still in control of my life, my body.
That illusion flew straight out the window the second the poor guy, whose name I don’t remember, joined me in the bedroom and placed his hand on me. Something snapped in my head. I started to scream and cry and beat him back with my fists until he ran off. It’s not like I wanted to. I honestly couldn’t control myself.
That was the night I finally confessed to Dad. I had to. And I knew at the time I was probably signing Kristoff’s death certificate, only it didn’t matter when I was falling apart and there was no hiding it anymore. I couldn’t bear pretending that I was okay when I wasn’t. A secret like that eats at you. It breaks you down bit by bit until you don’t recognize yourself anymore, especially seeing as you’ve put all your energy into keeping it buried inside.
Now, Jeff wants to know what happened to his son. I can’t tell him because even I don’t know, but I do know he got what he deserved.
It irks me that Romero knows all of it. Like I’m exposed. It’s as if he knows what a weak, pitiful person I am for letting somebody hurt me. For thinking if I only worked harder, things would be okay. Whenever he looks at me, I wonder if he’s asking himself how I could’ve been that stupid. I guess it’s part of being my father’s daughter. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be strong, the kind of daughter he would want since he never had the son I’m sure he would’ve preferred. Then again, he got that son, didn’t he? The day Romero came along.
My teeth are on edge by the time the water starts boiling. Romero’s probably talking to Dad right now out on the front porch, sharing their little secrets I was never allowed to know about. I know what Dad would say, too, if I complained. He didn’t want me to be part of his world. Surprise, surprise, I got dragged into his bullshit anyway. He could only shelter me for so long.
Cooking dinner gives me something to do, at least. Maybe I should hone my technique or whatever while we’re here. It’s better than sitting around doing nothing. I could come out of this with a new skill. I could learn to bake, even. However, I don’t know where that would get me. Just like I don’t see where a degree in Public Relations and Marketing will get me when my skin goes clammy the moment I have to talk to strangers. It’s so pathetic and the opposite of who I used to be. I want to be her again. Bubbly, carefree. I just don’t know how.
At first, I dismiss the soft laughter coming from Romero–but it’s not him. It’s coming from the back of the house, not the front. Besides, who the hell am I kidding? Romero doesn’t laugh. I’ve literally never heard him laugh in the ten years he’s practically lived at my father’s side.
The hair on the back of my neck rises and I freeze, a box of pasta hovering over the boiling water until the steam from the pot burns the tips of my fingers, startling me. I place the box on the counter with a trembling hand before the creak of old, weathered wood tells me there’s somebody at the back door—somebody who’s laughing.
“What, you think you can lock me out? Do you think that’s going to change anything? You’ve got some fucking nerve, parading around like a slut and then pretending you don’t know what you did. You think I want everyone in Marseille to know I’m dating a slut? Huh? How do you think that makes me look?”
I wince, expecting the door to come flying open the way it did that night. My heartbeat thunders in my ears. Every muscle in my body is poised to run. But the door’s too close; I won’t be able to get away.
What am I supposed to do? I have to stop him. I can’t let him hurt me.
The knife block is close to my right hand, and I reach for it without thinking–I can’t function with all the screaming in my head. My fingers close around the handle, and I slide it out of the block.
The heavy knock on the door makes me tighten my grip as I raise the knife into the air. It’s like having tunnel vision–everything but the back door goes dark, out of focus. All I see is the top of a man’s head—his short, dark hair.
I’ll cut his fucking heart out.
The sudden presence of a hand wrapping around my wrist forces the pressure in my chest out of my throat and into a scream cut off by another hand clamped firmly over my mouth. “Tatum. Look at me.”
At first, It would appear I’m blind. I can’t see him. He’s a dark blur pinning me against the counter with his body. A firm body with a hand like steel that presses into my cheeks and another that grips my wrist like he wants to break it.
“Tatum. You don’t need this.” Romero works my fingers from around the knife handle. “Remember, you’re safe. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I want you to breathe. Slowly.”