not Mom cools my fear, but his voice … I twist my arm free from his loose grip. "I was worried about you. I was waiting up."
That draws a belly laugh. "You never wait up. Where do you sneak out to? Whoring yourself like your mother?"
My jaw slackens, and the urge to spew tonight's dinner across the kitchen hits with a vengeance. I clap my palm over my lips, swallowing my alarm. I can't talk to him like this. Waving him off, I spin on my toes, seeking the escape of my bedroom.
My leave is prohibited by the jerk of his hand wrapped around a fistful of my hair.
"You think I don't know?" Dad shrieks and yanks me backward, and the tendons in my neck snap at the motion. I trip over my feet and fall, my hip and ribs connecting with the door frame separating the kitchen and living room. He releases my hair but not before the sting of strands ripping from the root. "I lived with your lying bitch of a mother for over twenty years. I know a whore when I see one."
He's too close for me to stand, so I scoot, then crawl to gain separation as he continues. "You think you can control me. Tell me what to do, where to go, how to behave. I am a grown man." His leg sweeps out and knocks me over. The blow isn’t painful, only pathetic because while sending me to my side, it also serves to unsteady his balance. I take advantage and kick at his feet, thankful when he stumbles into the couch instead of hitting the floor and injuring himself, or me.
He curses and crumbles from the couch to the floor in wails that, to my breaking heart, sound like painful tears. He's an alcoholic, he's hurting, he's my father—those are the things my heart whispers to my brain while I crawl his way.
"Dad?" I touch his shoulder. "It'll be all right."
I can't see past my tears, which is why I miss the hand flying up and smacking me across half my face. The blow connects from jaw to forehead, sending me to the floor in a ball of pain and confusion. Blood fills my mouth.
I crawl for my room, my heart racing with fear that he'll follow, but he doesn't. He remains in his heap, lamenting over Mom and me. We're whores.
"Where are you going?" he calls, but I don't reply.
Using the hallway wall, I struggle to my feet and hurry to my bedroom, slamming and locking my door behind me. My head is heavy, with a constant heart-pounding beat at my temples. He hit me! I retch and swallow the bile threatening to release while jamming a desk chair under my doorknob.
"Jessica!" A crash in the living room has me diving for my phone on my bedside stand. Thankfully, I left it charging after texting Carter goodnight hours ago or else I'd be helpless.
Sucking down a sob, I crawl toward my closet and dial Carter.
The line rings and rings, and right when I worry it'll flip to voicemail he answers. "Babe?" he asks, his voice thick with concern and sleep. Merely hearing him rends a giant sob from my chest.
"Jess?" He says my name, and I sob harder. "Fuck, baby, what's wrong. What's—"
Something ample, probably Dad's body, slams into my bedroom door. I whimper and press myself close to my closet wall. Shock has me trembling. Is this happening?
"Open the door Jessygirl," Dad says, his palm striking the wood while Carter shouts into my ear.
"Jessica? What the hell is going on?" His voice is breathless, muffled, then a door slams in the background.
"I need you." I manage between tears and gags.
"I'm already on my way, just stay with me. Stay on the phone and tell me what's going on."
I look to the window and consider running for my car, but my vision fades with the rapid swelling of my eye, I'm gagging on blood, and dizziness overtakes me.
"My Dad." I wrap my fingers around the edge of my closet door and pull it to, shimmying further in until I'm hidden behind old dresses and shoe boxes.
The drive is fifteen minutes, tops, from Carter's house to mine.
This might be the longest fifteen minutes of my life.
The vitriol pouring from Dad’s mouth doesn’t subside. He heard about me losing my job, something I’d glossed over by mentioning my new, preferred job at Gail’s. He says he met some of my friends tonight. Friends