Page 2 of Always Salty

My brothers followed this rule—at fourteen, sixteen and seventeen. My father, however, did not.

It was almost like he experienced joy every time he walked into the house with his shoes on, always searching the room for me to make sure that I saw that he was wearing his disgusting shoes in the house.

Sometimes I swore he stepped into the dirt on his way inside just to spite me. As a big wig real estate mogul, the man never saw anything but concrete and asphalt. God forbid he actually have to get his hands dirty.

Needless to say, as I was taking off my shoes, I felt a stab of anger roll through me.

Not that I would ever, and I do mean ever, call him on it.

I was a pushover.

It literally hurt my soul when faced with confrontation. My skin broke out in a cold sweat, my heartbeat accelerated, and my flight or fight response was activated. And let’s just say, fight was never my response. It was always flight.

When my feet were bare, I peeked around the corner to see if my father was anywhere in sight and found him nowhere.

Running through the kitchen, I stopped at the next checkpoint at the mouth of the hall, peering down it to make sure my father’s study door wasn’t open.

When it wasn’t—meaning he was working—I took off like a shot down the hallway, making sure to keep my feet light so he didn’t hear me pounding past.

I spent the majority of my time in my room when my brothers weren’t here.

So when I got to my bedroom, I gathered my things, then headed across the hall into Chevy’s room and closed, then locked the door.

Much more comfortable now that I was in a room with a locking door—Dad felt that I wasn’t responsible enough for a lock on my door—I showered in relative peace, uncaring that all I had to clean myself with was Chevy’s bougie man body wash.

Once I was finished, I walked out of the bathroom with the towel wrapped around me, heading for my clothes on Chevy’s bed, and froze.

My dad was sitting on Chevy’s bed, eyes gleaming.

I swallowed hard, my flight instinct kicking in, and I ran.

My dad had made the mistake of keeping the door open, which worked out well for me because I hauled butt right out of it and made a beeline for the only other place that I knew I’d be safe—my neighbor’s place.

Not that she knew that I was there, but her greenhouse had a lock on it, and I stayed there a lot when my brothers weren’t there because I knew he wouldn’t follow me.

I didn’t make it out the door, though, when my dad caught me.

His arm went around my waist and he pulled me back into his huge, disgusting body.

Bile rose in my throat, and I closed my eyes as I disappeared into my mind.

Roses.

I loved roses.

I loved Zinnias even more. I loved how they were all different colors, shapes, sizes and so vibrant.

I loved…

An unholy roar tore me out of my head and into the present.

I was naked, standing in the middle of the kitchen, and my dad was down at my feet.

What was surprising was that my brother was there, too.

He had Dad down on the ground, and he was kneeling over him, straddling his body, and punching him over and over again in the face.

The sound of flesh meeting flesh should’ve been terrifying.

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