Page 45 of Beautiful Defiance

17

SEVEN

Iglance from the tree to my bedroom window to the wired fencing rolled up into a ball next to the side of the house. Why the groundskeeper put it there is beyond my understanding, but I see how Leigh hurt herself. She must’ve scraped the back of her leg on the metal points the night she stole my lucky coin and my gear.

I stroke my chin and return my attention to the tree. The lowest branch is high up. The other branches are spread out.

She would have to have a running start in order to jump high enough to grab on to that lowest branch. Then she’d have to reach high, hug the next branch, and with her legs wrapped around it, somehow pull herself up into a sitting position before starting over and repeating until she’s in front of my window.

I shake my head. That girl is determined, crazy, brave, and . . . limber.

The front door opens and slams shut. My mom rushes out of the house and stomps off to her car. She’s carrying luggage. My dad marches after her.

“I said we’d fucking talk, Emilia.”

“You call that talking? We screamed at one another, Six.”

I watch, helpless, as my parents’ marriage unfolds into what-the-fuckery.

“Where you going?” He grabs her arm.

She yanks her arm from his grip. “Anywhere but where you’re at.”

Ouch.

“I’m done. We’re done.”

“Give me another chance.”

“You had your chance to explain and you didn’t. Why the hell was she in your hotel room?”

My dad opens his mouth. Shuts it. I kick at the ground. Damn him, why is it so difficult for him to open up to my mom lately when he never had a problem before? Or is he keeping his trap closed because that woman in his hotel room had something to do with his job?

My dad’s line of work has to do with foreign trade. He won’t get into the details, but he travels a lot. My hunch is what he does is super-agent secret shit, or he’s a mobster. He looks more mobster than secret agent.

He’s lined with muscles. Tatted. His sleeve tattoos are bold and frightening. Skulls. Snakes. The Grim Reaper prominent on his chest. Has a mean scar transecting his face from his right brow to the left corner of his mouth. He got in a bad knife fight. That’s all he’ll say. My mom says otherwise. She said he saved her life, and indebted to him, she agreed to marry him.

That’s the spiel she gives me on how they met, but I doubt she just gave in and married my scarred, mean-ass father. My mother is beautiful, with her kind eyes and infectious laughter. Every time she laughs, which is less often these days, my dad stops what he’s doing and stares at her.

I scram as soon as the heat level in the room goes from hot to sweltering hot. My parents, they are horndogs. Not lately, though. Lately, they’ve been sleeping in different rooms.

“Have your lawyer call mine. I don’t want to see you again.”

“The house, the cars, the money—”

“I don’t want any of that, Six.” She tosses the luggage into the back seat of her SUV.

“Anything. I’ll give you anything, Emilia. Stay. Please.”

She faces my dad. There are tears in my mother’s hazel eyes. I can’t decide who I hate more. My dad for making my mom cry. Or my mom for leaving us.

“I want the truth.”

“You’ll hate me.”

“I hate you now.”

“Emilia.” He extends his hand to her.

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