The Complete Quake Series Boxset - Jacob Chance Page 0,204

different than coming home two hours late in his eyes. The only difference is the severity of the punishment.

Pleading for leniency won’t do me any good. There’s no changing his mind.

“I was with Zoe. When I dropped her off her parents wanted me to come inside for a few minutes. They kept me longer than I planned,” I lie, hoping he can’t see through it.

I had every intention of arriving home on time until Zoe decided to suck my dick. We’ll be going to separate colleges in two weeks and she’s eager to please me. She wants us to remain a couple even though we’ll be in different states.

She’s attending UMass and I’m off to NYU. I don’t plan on carrying on a long-distance relationship. I’m only eighteen and there’s plenty of other pussy to try out, but for now I’ll take what she wants to give me. And tonight, it was head. Not even the fear of one of my father’s beatings could have kept me from seeing that blow job through to the end. Once I’d shot my load down her throat, there was a moment’s panic while I thought about the repercussions of missing curfew.

“I’m not stupid, boy. You were getting your dick wet.” He rises from the recliner.

“No, I wasn’t,” I argue as he walks toward me. Fear grips me, its icy cold fingers squeeze my throat making it difficult to breathe. I fight the urge to flee, even though every fiber of my being is screaming at me to.

He grips my hair on top, tugging hard; clumps are being pulled out. I follow his hand, leaning my head back. He slaps me across the right cheek, hard.

My eyes water at the unexpected sting and before I have a chance to regroup he backhands me across the left one. The metallic tang of blood on my tongue clues me in my lip is split. I confirm it by tracing my tongue over my bottom lip, grimacing when I feel the slit. It feels large and there’s a good amount of blood.

Do I need stitches?

“You still want to lie to me, boy?” He pulls harder on my hair. I arch my back to keep him from ripping out chunks. I know I need to get out of his hold.

My thoughts race and jumble while I try to come up with a course of action. My father takes care of it for me though, when he pulls me backward once more. I claw at his face and gouge at his eyes, my arm stretched out as far as possible.

Catching him by surprise, he loosens his grip and I pull free from his hold. My scalp is on fire, my breathing is labored and all I want to do is hurt him. My teeth clench as the anger courses through me. My chest puffs with each breath.

No one should feel this way about their dad. He steps toward me and my right fist meets his jaw with a satisfying crack.

He stumbles back two steps and I follow. The rage takes over and I want to fuck him up so bad he never lays another hand on me. I strike him again, this one a left cross to the eye. His eyebrow splits, blood trickles down his face. He stands there eerily grinning like a demon or something out of a horror movie.

“Feeling froggy are you?” He gestures with his hand for me to come closer. Scared enough to piss my pants, I know this is the time I need to take a stand. I can’t back down now.

Oblivious to what might be coming, I charge forward a battle cry falling from my lips. I make it two steps before his fist slams into my jaw, catching me right on the sweet spot. I’m out like a light before I even hit the ground.

Rubbing a hand over my hair covered jaw, I can still feel the bastard’s punch now. I learned a valuable lesson that day - to keep my hands up and protect my face. I’m glad he’s dead, I only wish it could have been me pulling the trigger.

It’s been three years since he died at the hands of Jack Doyle, a Boston Police officer. That day, the two Boston cops went to my parent’s house to break up a domestic dispute, which wasn’t out of the norm where they were concerned. While they were questioning my parents, my father pulled out a gun, aiming for my mother.