Page 2 of My Demon Mate

Curling my shoulders up to my ears, I drop my eyes and ease past him. “I wasn’t talking to anybody.”

“Crazy fuck,” he spews, his foul breath wafting over me. “Get in there and get dinner started. I’m fucking hungry.”

I keep the irritation out of my voice as I answer, “Yes, sir.”

“Where the hell have you been? You were supposed to be back home hours ago.” My dad staggers behind me, knocking into walls as he follows me into the kitchen.

I drop my bag by the refrigerator and turn to him. “I had to work, Dad.” Something you don’t do. I’m surprised it’s my voice that sounds in my skull and not that off my mystery man. I don’t remember a day in my life that my father has worked. Hell, I’m not sure he even wants to get a job now that I’m on my feet at the diner for hours on end for shit pay and even worse tips.

As I look at him, I wonder how he even got my mom in the first place. From what I remember of her, she was really pretty, short with wavy brown hair, brown eyes and a kind smile. I look a lot like her, besides the pretty part. She didn’t do it often—who would when they got abused so often—but when she smiled she was the most beautiful woman in the world. I wonder if she still has the same beautiful smile now that she’s not burdened with me and my father.

My dad, on the other hand, has always looked like a sloppy piece of shit. He’s tall and lanky but has a beer gut that he’ll never be able to get rid of. It tumbles over his pants and hangs loosely, sticking out from under all of his shirts. Most of his teeth are rotting out of their head, and he looks twenty years older than he is. In short, the alcohol and his hard life show on his face and body. He had to have been a looker when he snagged my mom and brainwashed her to stay later, because how he looks now would scare anyone away. That, or he had a drastic personality change.

After washing my hands, I pull out the roast I had set to thaw and season it. While the oven is preheating, I chop some potatoes and carrots, lining them in the pan so we can have some sort of vegetables. Dad won’t eat any, but I like them. Once the oven is heated, I set the timer and slide the roast inside. Sure that everything is taken care of, I retrieve my backpack and go to my room, praying Dad doesn’t follow me to attack me from behind. He has a bad habit of doing that, just because he’s bigger than me and because he can.

I sigh when I make it to my room without a punch to the back of my head and sit on my bed, the creaking of the bed springs loud in the close confines. I’ve been on my feet all day—even the discomfort of the bedsprings poking my ass don’t make me want to stand back up. I pull my shoes off and wiggle my toes, sighing almost in ecstasy for how good it feels not to be standing.

“I can take you away from all this. You know what to do.”

Before I can grumble again what the fuck to my mystery voice, my dad bursts into my room, leaning heavily on the door and swaying. It’s a miracle the flimsy frame holds up his weight. “Didn’t I tell you to get dinner started?”

Fuck, I knew the chances of a peaceful night were slim, but I was still hoping for a moment to chill.

Hustling to my feet, I press my back against the wall. If I remain sitting on the bed, he’ll just end up straddling my chest to yell in my face as he punches me, his foul breath making me want to vomit. “I did. It’s?—”

His fist lashes out quickly, catching me in the lip before I can finish my sentence. I didn’t even see him move. Despite how drunk my dad is, he has impeccable aim when he wants to put hands on me. “Did I ask for any of your back talk?” he roars as I hold my mouth, feeling blood drip down my chin. “Get your stupid ass in there and get that food on.”

“Dad, it’s on,” I whisper around already swelling lips. “It’s in the oven. I have to?—”

He moves faster than I would expect when he’s three sheets to the wind. Before I know it, he has a hand around my throat and with the other one, he punches me in the gut. He switches to my face and hits me there a few times for good measure. “Shut the fuck up!” His rancid breath makes my stomach roil, worse than the punch to the gut did. It’s all I can do to keep my meager lunch down. “You ungrateful little shit! I keep you clothed and fed and you have the nerve to back talk me! Do what the fuck I say before I have you out on your ass, boy!” He punches me once more in the face as a punctuation to his tirade.

When he lets go of my throat, I drop to the floor, trying to compose myself and keep the tears at bay. It would have been worse if he caught me crying. He once told me only soft men cry, saying that’s probably why I’m gay. Like that made any sense.

My dad staggers off, bumping into the door and breathing heavily. He wore himself out with that attack. Even though I know it won’t happen, I can’t help but hope he has a heart attack from the exertion.

All that shit he said is a lie. It’s me that keeps him fed and clothed and with a roof over our heads. He doesn’t do shit for me but make me miserable. And he’d never toss me out. If he wanted me gone, he would have left me alone when I moved out all those years ago. He wouldn’t survive without me.

I need to just say fuck it and go, consequences be damned.

But I don’t know how to leave. I hate to say it, but I’m afraid to try again. All I know is this life. I don’t know if I can get away—and stay away.

“Just ask for help, baby. I will come for you.”

I pull my lips in—wincing at my swollen bottom lip—reluctant to ask for anything. I already think I’m crazy. No need to compound it by asking an imaginary voice to help me escape my shitty life. All it’ll do is piss me off when I’m stuck here after finally giving in to the crazy.

No, I can get away on my own. I just have to work at it and keep my head down for just a bit longer. I’ll have the money I need and run far away—far enough away that my drunken father will have no way to reach me. It has to be further than across town. I didn’t think he’d peel his sloppy ass off his recliner to retrieve me from there and he did, staggering in the heat of a Georgia summer, his determination to get his personal maid back probably spurring him on.

Getting to my feet, I wipe the blood from my mouth and stumble into the kitchen, banging around pots and pans so my dad thinks I did what he said. He grunts when he turns to look at me from his favorite recliner—the one that has a permanent indent of his ass. He smirks when he sees the mess he made of my face, muttering, “Serves you right for not listening.”

I bite back a sob as I meet his eyes. Is this it for me? Is this all I have to look forward to? Being my father’s punching bag for the rest of my life? Fuck, I can’t stand that. I’d rather die.

“Just ask for help. I will come. I will take care of him for you. I will take care of all of them for you. All you have to do is ask.”

Yeah, wishful thinking.

CHAPTER 2

EVEREST

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