Page 21 of The Eraser

"Have you learned to drive yet?" he questions as he pulls back.

"Yeah. Why?" I ask. I passed my test last week, but Dad won't let me have a car. He's pissed that I could leave, and that's something he doesn't want to happen. He's made it more than clear that I'm not to go anywhere without his consent. Hell, I'm not allowed to do anything unless he says so.

"Where's your car?" he asks, his brows knitting together. "I didn't see a new one parked out front."

"I don't have one." I sigh. "Dad won't let me have one until I'm eighteen. I'd better go," I tell him, hoping he'll drop it and let me leave in peace. The last thing I need is for him to get angry and get Dad involved in this conversation. That'll only lead to Dad being pissed about me talking out of place.

He sighs, scrubbing his hand through his thick head of black hair. "Go," he says. "If that prick hasn't got you one for your eighteenth, I'll sort it out."

My heart soars at his words. Having a car could really help me get the hell out of here when the time comes. "Thanks, Mav. I'll see you soon," I say as I press a kiss to his cheek and move toward the door.

Maybe things could start looking up? Dad's not been as bad as he was. Maybe he's changed?

Even as the words filter through my mind, I know they're not true. My dad is never going to change and he's not going to let me do what I need to in order to grow.

I'm destined to be stuck in this hell hole, and unless my dad dies, the only way to escape is to run away, get as far away as possible. In order for me to be able to do that, it's going to take a lot of planning and a lot of money.

I sigh as I exit the house. Planning I can do. That's the easy part of the deal. But where the hell will I get the money?

* * *

The house is dark. Not a single light is on. I breathe a sigh of relief. Dad must have gone to bed or he's not here. Either way, it's a good thing for me. It means I won't have to deal with his temper and questions about where I was—even if I tell him I was dancing, he won't believe me. Tonight, I just want to crash. I'm bone tired. I had only planned on dancing for around twenty minutes. But I felt so worked up. My muscles were so tight and filled with knots that I kept dancing, hoping I could unwind. Not only that, I had hoped that Stephen might turn up. It's been a week and I haven't seen him since we kissed.

Pushing open the front door, I quietly enter the house and close the door behind me. The second I lock the door, light floods the room. My stomach drops, my heart races, and I'm struggling to breathe. Fuck. He was waiting for me. Damn it.

"Where the fuck were you?" he snarls from behind me.

"I was at the dance studio," I reply softly as I turn to face him. Over the years, I've learned that a soft tone works best. It doesn't rile him up as much as any other tone. "I couldn't perfect a dance move. I kept falling."

He rises from the chair in the hall, the one Mam used to sit at whenever she was on the phone. It was her favorite place. "Why must you always lie?" he snaps. "Tell me, why the fuck are you such a lying whore?”

I blink, stunned by the venom in his voice but not by the words coming out of his mouth. He's always calling me a whore, slut, bitch, cunt. They're his favorite curse words to use when speaking to me. "I'm not lying," I assure him.

"I don't believe you," he sneers as he steps closer to me.

I bite back the retort of saying ‘that's a you problem’ and take a deep breath. A man like my father doesn't do well with back talk. They take it as a challenge, and that's something they hate. They can't stand to be wrong, nor can they bear not to be the biggest, strongest, most dominant man in the room.

"I was at the dance studio, Dad," I say softly.

His fingers curl in my hair and he drags me toward him. "You're a filthy liar, Jessica. A filthy fucking liar. Tell me, hmm, tell me who the hell you were fucking?"

I swallow back bile as he glares at me. The hatred in his eyes lets me know that he's been stewing on his anger for a while. I shouldn't have stayed out longer than I had planned. If I hadn't, maybe he wouldn't be in a mood right now.

"You're going to fucking pay for being a whore," he grunts, his hand still tight in my hair, his fingers pulling at the strands. It's painful. I fucking hate that he uses my hair as a means to try to get me to do as he wants. "If you're going to whore yourself out, then you can make yourself fucking useful."

I pull back in horror as his hand goes to his zipper. "No," I snarl, fear and rage boiling up inside of me. "No, I won't. That's disgusting," I cry. "You're my dad."

His chuckle sends ice cold fear through my veins. "I'm not going to fuck you," he says thickly. "But I'm going to make you watch. You're lucky I don't have one of my men take you."

My stomach rolls at his words. Fuck, he just gets worse and worse as the days go on. He makes me sick to my stomach. I can’t bear the thought of him touching me. He's sick. He's twisted. God, he's fucking deranged. Making me watch him fuck someone is vile.

His laughter intensifies. "Look at you. You're pathetic," he sneers. "So damn pathetic. But don't you worry, Jessica. One of these days, I'm going to make sure you get what's coming to you." He releases my hair and I drop to the floor. The second my hands touch the marble floor, I'm scrambling backwards to get away from him.

He doesn't stop his laughter, but I hear the clinking of heels against the floor. My eyes track the sound, and I see a woman in a black dress and pink heels walk toward us.

I should have known my dad wasn't done tormenting me. But I never, not once ever, imagined he could be so damn cruel and sick.

ChapterNine

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