Page 30 of Her Defiant Heart (Damaged Hearts 1)

“I’ll go look for a job tomorrow.” I throw the covers back and climb into bed, desperate to curl up into a ball and forget about all my troubles. I’m so tired, and still weirded out by my boss Jim grabbing my butt. He acted like it was no big deal, like I shouldn’t have a problem with him touching my ass, but come on. This guy is old enough to be my father. It’s creepy.

I don’t regret slapping his hand away. I don’t regret telling him no either. I do sort of regret losing the job, because it’s never fun to go out and find a new one, but if I let that guy get away with it, what would he try next?

No way did I want to find out.

“You need to get back out there right now.” Dad grabs my covers and yanks them away from my body. “Get up and go find another job. We can’t afford to lose any more money.”

“What did you do with the money I gave you last week?” That check had been almost six hundred dollars, a pretty substantial sum for us.

“It’s gone.” He snaps his fingers, as if the cash disappeared into thin air. “We need more.”

I sit up, smoothing my hair away from my face. “It’s all gone? Like, you spent every last dollar?”

“Yep.” My father nods, and there’s something in the way he’s not looking at me that makes me suspicious.

“What did you do with it all?” I leap from the bed so I can stand in front of him, noticing how he won’t look me in the eye. He’s hiding something. But what? “Dad. What happened to all the money?” I know he didn’t spend it on rent. That’s not due for another ten days.

“I let Norah borrow it,” he admits, his head still bent.

“What?” He jerks his head up at my roar and I throw my hands up into the air. “You barely know that woman!”

“I know she’s good for it! She said she’ll pay me back. She’s just a little short, is all!”

“We’re always a little short. We don’t have that kind of money to loan out.” I can’t even wrap my head around what he’s saying. He’ll support his friend, but not support us? Me? I don’t understand. Since when did I become such a low priority in his life? “You need to tell her she has to pay us back ASAP.”

“Just go find another job. We’ll be fine.” He waves his hand, dismissing me, my words, my concern. I hate it when he does that.

Hate. It.

“I don’t want to find another job. And no, we won’t be fine. You’ve become the Bank of fucking America, lending out our money to neighbors we don’t even know. What the hell is wrong with you?”

He slaps my face so hard, I swear my head snaps back. A gasp escapes me as I rest my hand on my cheek, staring at him. It stings where he hit me. Tears immediately spring to my eyes, and I realize I’m shaking.

“Don’t you ever speak like that to me again.” He points his index finger in my face, his bloodshot eyes wide, his body vibrating with anger. “I’m the one in charge here, not you. If I want to loan out our money, then that’s my right. And if I want you to go out and find another job, then you better damn well do it before I kick your skinny little ass out in the street.”

I’m full-blown crying now. His words hurt, hit me in my most painful spots. I’m terrified of being on my own, yet life with my father isn’t that great either. As he gets older and more depressed, he becomes meaner. It’s hard to deal with. I love him, but his constant anger confuses me.

Maybe l

ife would be better out in the street. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with my father all the time.

“You’re just like her, you know.”

Oh, here it comes. The words are familiar. He started the comparisons about six months ago, when he caught me sneaking back into the trailer way past my curfew. His disappointment had killed me. Made me cry.

Now I’ve become numb to it. I blame her. She broke him. She made him this way.

“Lazy. Always said men wanted her, how they would touch her and say suggestive things. You know what I realized?” He sends me a questioning look.

Yes, dear old Dad, please tell me what you realized.

“That your mother was nothing but a worthless whore. And if you don’t watch out, you’re going to turn out the same exact way,” he announces. He wants me to hear what he’s saying.

And I do. Loud and clear.

“Thanks for your faith in me, Dad,” I mutter as I push past him. I escape out of the trailer, never once looking back, even though he’s calling my name. I hop into the shitty old car we share and start it up, pulling out of our space just as Dad exits the trailer. He waves a fist at me, but I ignore him. Instead, I hit the gas, the tires spinning in the dirt until they catch traction and the car lurches forward.

I drive aimlessly with the windows rolled down, the wind in my hair, my tears dried on my cheeks. It still hurts where he slapped me, and the anger fills me.

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