Page 32 of My Girl
“You really think Michael Hall is—” Crave stops, laughing to himself. “No—you think Michael Hallwasyour father?”
I scrunch my nose. “Why wouldn’t he be my father?”
“Did your mother show you a picture of him, or are you doing all of this on hearsay?” His voice gains pitch slightly; he’s entertained by his own words. I ball my fists at my sides. He goes on: “You know, your bitch mother must be a liar, keeping secrets too. A whore who spreads her legs for anyone who can make her feel something. Like mother, like daughter.”
I don’t care if he calls my mother a bitch. It’s a word. It doesn’t change anything.
But why does Crave thinkI’ma liar? Does he know about Vegas? About getting fired?
How could he?
I search his bondage mask. My mind travels back to the night I was fired.
Who the fuck is Michael?I screamed.
Your father,my mother whispered.
Was my mother lying to me?
No. Crave is wrong. He’s just messing with my head so that I question everything. I know I’m right. For my entire life, I’ve wanted to know who my father is, and my mother kept it from me like she was holding a treat over my head. Now that I’m this close to finding him, I’m not going to back down.
I’m not a violent person. I’m aware of my size disadvantage compared to Crave, and yet I can’t stop imagining punching him in the face. Tearing off that stupid leather mask. Bruising his eyes until they’re puffy and red. Laughing in his face and saying,Who is the little girl now?
“Do you even have a DNA sample?” Crave asks.
I grit my teeth. “What are you saying?”
“Your mother probably didn’t even know who she was fucking. Just like you.”
And that’s the last straw.
I race toward him, my fists swinging. I connect with his chin, but then he darts to the side. I stumble forward. My shoulder impacts the wall, and he grabs me from behind, pinning me to the wall’s surface.
“Feisty,” Crave teases, his motor oil scent surrounding me. “Is your mother like that too? Or did you get that from your father?”
I swing my neck around as much as I can and spit into his face. The glob of saliva lands on his leather cheek, clumping like an egg white. He snarls.
“Fuck you,” I hiss.
His fingers curl into my ribs, digging between the bones. Pain spreads across my body, and I swear it’s like he’s stabbing my lungs. I curl into myself, and he throws me to the floor. I flip over, struggling to crawl, the cement biting into my knees. He grabs my foot and pulls me back, my shirt bunching up under me. The brittle floor scrapes my skin.
“What the fuck?” I scream.
He climbs on top of me, twisting our bodies until he’s on top, holding me in place. Metal cuffs—where the fuck did he get those?—bite into my wrists. He locks them above my head. He stands up, and I roll over, pushing myself up on my bound wrists?—
Whump!His steel-toed boot smacks the side of my stomach. I cough. He steps on my fingers, and the pain surges to my temples. I wail.
Leather and fabric slide against skin. Is he taking off his mask? I quickly look up.
He changes into a new pair of black gloves. I pant. Frantic nerves swell in my head. I have no idea what will happen next.
“Roll over,” he says.
“What am I, a fucking dog?” I snap.
“Roll. The. Fuck. Over.”
“You’re standing on my fingers.”
