The Things She Says. Kat CantrellЧитать онлайн книгу.
regardless. He was compassionate, sinfully hot and a little more available than she’d assumed.
Was there anything wrong with him? If so, she didn’t want to know. For now, he was her fantasy, with no faults and no bad habits.
It was fun to imagine Kris returning for her someday, top down on the Ferrari and a handful of red roses. And it was slightly depressing since it would never happen in a million years. He was on his way to Dallas and that would be that.
She tiptoed into the hallway and froze when a board creaked. Dang it, she never missed that one.
“Girl, is that you?” Daddy’s slurred voice shot out from the living room.
She winced. Angry drunk tonight. What had happened this time to set him off?
Her stomach plummeted. The part. She’d forgotten all about the part for Gus’s truck, and it was still sitting in the cab of Daddy’s truck. Her head had been full of Kristian Demetrious, with no room for anything else.
She put some starch in her spine and walked into the living room. Her father slumped in the same armchair where he had taken residence earlier in the afternoon. His eyes were bloodshot, swollen.
“Lookee here.” Daddy took a swig of beer and backhanded his mouth with his knuckles. “Finally decided to prance your butt home, didja?”
He looked bad. They’d all dealt with Mama’s death in their own way, but Daddy wasn’t dealing with it at all, falling farther into a downward, drunken spiral every day.
“I’m sorry about the part, Daddy. I got to town late,” she hedged. “I had to go straight to work.”
“Gus needs his truck. You get over there and fix it now,” he commanded, then downed the rest of his beer and belched. He set the empty can on the closest table without looking.
It teetered on the edge, and then fell to the floor with a clank. Beer dribbled onto the hardwood floor, creating another mess to clean up.
“It’s late. Bobby Junior can fix it in the morning.” Along with everything else since he was running the garage in their father’s stead.
Guilt panged her breastbone. Bobby Junior had a wife and three kids he never saw. What else did she have to do? Lie in bed and dream about a Greek god who was speeding away toward a life that did not, and never would, include her?
Daddy bobbled the TV remote into his paw. “I told you to do it. Ungrateful hussy. Bring me another beer, would ya?”
Her head snapped up and anger swept the guilt aside. “Daddy, you’re drunk and you need to go to bed, so I’ll forgive you for calling me that.”
“Don’t you raise your voice to me, missy!” He weaved to his feet and shook the remote. “And don’t you pass judgment down your prissy little nose, either. I ain’t drunk. I’m hungry because you ran off and forgot about cooking me dinner. Your job is here.”
“Sorry, Daddy. I don’t mean to be disrespectful.” She bit her lip and pushed on. “But I’m moving to Dallas soon, like I’ve been telling you for months. You and the boys have to figure out how to do things for yourselves.”
Jenny Porter’s cousin was buying a condo and had offered to rent the extra bedroom to VJ, but it wasn’t built yet and wouldn’t be until September. Fall couldn’t get here fast enough.
Daddy shook his head. “The Good Lord put women on this earth to cook, clean and have a man’s babies. You can do that right here in Little Crooked Creek.”
“I’m not staying here to enable you to drink yourself into the grave.” Her dry eyes burned. “I’m tired. I’m sorry about Gus’s truck and for forgetting your dinner. But I’m done here.” She turned and took a step toward her room.
Daddy’s fingernails bit into her upper arm as he spun her and yanked until her face was inches from his. “Don’t you turn your back on me, girl.” Alcohol-laced breath gushed from his mouth and turned her stomach with its stench. “You’ll quit your job and forget about running off to live in that devil’s den.”
He emphasized each word with a shake that rattled her entire body. Tears sprang up as he squeezed the forming bruises. For the first time since her mother’s death, she was genuinely afraid of her father and what he might do. Mama had always been the referee. Her lone defender and supporter in a household of males. VJ didn’t have her mother’s patience or her saintly ability to overlook Daddy’s faults.
If she could escape to her room, she could grab some clothes and dash over to Pamela Sue’s house.
“Thought you were pretty smart hiding all that money under the bed in your unmentionables box,” he said.
It took her a second. “You were snooping in my room?”
She jerked her arm free as panic flitted up her back. Surely he hadn’t looked inside the tampon box. Her brothers wouldn’t have touched it with a ten-foot pole, and she’d been smugly certain it was the perfect hiding place.
“This is my house and so’s everything in it. Needed me a new truck. Tackle got it in El Paso today.” Her father smirked and nodded toward the rear of the house.
The room tilted as she looked out the back window. In the driveway of the detached garage sat a brand-new truck with paper plates.
“You stole my money? All of it?” Her lungs collapsed and breath whooshed out, strangling her.
“My house, so it’s my money.”
Her money was gone.
She could have opened an account at Sweetwater Bank where Aunt Mary worked after all. Then Daddy might have found out about the money but wouldn’t have been able to touch it. Hindsight.
What was she going to do? Most of the money had been Mama’s, slipped to VJ on the sly when her prognosis had turned bad. It would take at least a week to earn enough at Pearl’s to buy a bus ticket. Never mind eating or any other basic necessities. Like rent.
Numb to the bone, she blurted, “My money, so it’s my truck. Give me the keys.” She held out a palm and tried to remember what Daddy had been like before Mama died, but that man was long gone.
He guffawed. “The keys are hid good, and it’s got anti-theft, so don’t even think about hot-wiring it. Now that you see how things are gonna go, getcher butt in the kitchen and fix me something to eat.”
“No, Daddy. You’ve gone too far. Do it yourself.”
A blow knocked her to the side, almost off her feet. Tiny needles of pain swept the surface of her cheek. She’d never seen the cuff coming.
“I’m tired of your mouth, girl. While you’re in the kitchen, clean up a little, too, why don’t ya? The boys left dishes in the sink.” He fell into the recliner as if nothing had changed.
Her cheekbone began to throb, overshadowing the painful bruising on her arm by quadruple. She had to get away. Now was her chance.
She sprinted to her room, ignoring her father’s bellowing. Her body felt heavy, almost too heavy to move. Once inside her room, she threw her weight against the door. After two tries, she wedged a chair under the knob good enough to stay upright, but not good enough to hold off a drunken rage if her father had a mind to follow her.
Numb, she stumbled around the room throwing things into a bag. Lots of things, as many as it would hold, because she wasn’t coming back. She couldn’t spend a couple of nights at Pamela Sue’s house and wait until Daddy sobered up like usual.
She tore out of her waitress uniform, ripping a sleeve in the process, but it hardly mattered since she’d never wear it again. Her father had been right—she would quit her job, but not because he said so. Because she was leaving. Without glancing at them, she pulled on a T-shirt and jeans, blinking hard so the tears would stay inside.
Abandoning Mama’s collection of romance novels almost