Page 61 of Dirty Roxie
I chance a look at Roxie again—her face the picture of agony. Not because she is in physical pain, but because she’s intuitive enough to know where this story might go, and it’s not to a good place.
“They came after him for the money lost from missed fights because of the lies he’d been spreading. So, my father made one last bet. The bet to end all bets.”
I get up close to her now, putting my scar on full display. The scar—one I rarely allow an audience—spans across my torso. The raised edges surrounding it still tinged red after all these years. She gasps through the gag, her breath catching in more of a hiccup.
“He bet my mother.”
Tears slip from her eyes and roll down her cheeks. I don’t want her pity. I want her to understand where I come from. How I’ve become who I am.
“To this day, I’ve not found out what the bet was. All I know is that he lost.” I stop my pacing for a moment, lost in my own thoughts. Remembering how my father came home, urging us to pack lightly and come away with him. His last decent act before releasing us to the wolves. “They came to the house like they’d been invited to Sunday dinner. My mother answered the door and welcomed them in like they were old friends. She didn’t know who they were, just that they were there for my father. Which automatically made them okay in her eyes.”
I can’t stop my body’s reaction—increased heart rate, jaw clenching, eyes squeezed shut, hoping to block out what’s coming next, tears escaping the very edges.
“It happened so fast. I came from my room to greet our company, as my mother had always instructed. It was polite, the courteous thing to do. Only these men were anything but deserving of such treatment.”
I finish the scotch, tempted to get another. Always tempted to continue drinking until my mind sinks into oblivion when I think back to that night.
“One man held my kneeling father in place with just a palm resting on his head. That’s all. No gun, no weapon of any kind. My father wasn’t even restrained. Just a fucking hand on his head, like a parent with a child.
“Another backhanded my mother, and she fell to the floor with a cry. The third just watched, smoking a cigarette. My mother hated smoking. I ran toward them, yelling as I went. My fist raised, certain I could take them all on with just the element of surprise to back me. The smoking man stopped me with one hand. He grabbed my shirt at my chest, then held me suspended in the air while the man with my mother hit her again. As an adult, looking back, I’m certain that’s when he broke her nose. There was blood everywhere. Her gasps for air audible.”
What I’m sure is a sob breaks free from Roxie’s chest. For such a tough girl, she’s certainly sentimental where this story is concerned. I mean, I know that it’s a horrible thing to have happen. But it’s my thing, I don’t expect it to be impactful for anyone else.
“And my father? He just sat there, taking it all in, his face void of any emotion.”
