“You’re so vile,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes at him.
He tugs his bottom lip and runs his perfect teeth across the plumpness. It’s a pity those features are being wasted on such an asshole of a man. If I didn’t hate him as much as I do, those lips might actually be considered kissable. He leans in, his mouth too close for comfort and whispers in my ear. “You have no idea just how vile I can be.”
I grit my teeth and channel all the pent-up aggression I have toward him. As my body tightens, I twist my wrists, trying to loosen the grip he has on me. Strands of my hair start falling from my messy bun, and I can feel my chest and neck flushing.
I know I must look ridiculous. Adrenaline rushes through my veins as I try to gain control. After struggling for what feels like minutes, I drop my legs from under my body. If he wants to keep me here, he’ll have to hold me up with those big muscles he likes to flaunt around. But he doesn’t allow me to dangle for too long. Travis releases me, but on his terms— when he’s ready—and my ass hits the floor with a loud thump.
“Aww, little V is all worked up.” He stands over me with a confident smirk that I’m tempted to slap off.
I pull myself up on my feet and push a finger to his chest. “Touch me like that again and it’ll be the last.”
“Are you sure you’d want that, princess?” He’s not at all affected by my threat, and it pisses me off even more.
“Fuck you,” I hiss.
“Now you’re talking about fucking,” he says with amusement in his tone. “All these mixed signals are getting confusing.” He glances down my body and pauses on my nipples that are so hard they could etch glass.
Quickly, I cross my arms, but it’s way too late; they’ve already given me away.
He slowly lingers over my curves, and I realize every insecurity I have is on display for him to judge. As a sarcastic laugh escapes him, somehow I know it’s at my expense.
With nostrils flaring, I try to speak in the calmest voice I can as he moves toward the doorway of his bedroom. My hands find their way to my hips because I’m not standing down. Not this time. Not ever.
“This is war, King.”
“Game on, princess,” he says before slamming the door in my face.
Chapter 6
Travis
Viola has me so fired up, I hit the gym extra hard Friday morning. Since I’m off work, I don't have to rush and can do an extra three miles on the treadmill. Maybe that’ll get my mind off her.
I focus on the TV screen in front of me, but no matter how much I fight it, memories of her invade my mind.
It was the first summer I met Viola and Drew, and they had immediately made me feel welcomed into their home. Their parents often invited me to stay for dinner, but I always felt too nervous to accept until I finally ran out of excuses. I knew my parents wouldn’t mind—or even notice—so finally I agreed to stay one night.
Viola sat across the table from me, her brown hair pulled back in pigtails. She twirled one around her fingers and nervously chewed on her lip. Drew sat next to me, tapping his foot against the table leg until his father cleared his throat to stop him.
“Dinner’s just about ready,” their mom announced from the kitchen.
“Do you need help, sweetheart?” Mr. Fisher called from the table.
Moments later, Mrs. Fisher walked through the swing door, carrying a platter of ribs. “No thanks, darling.”
I watched them together as Mr. Fisher took the platter from her hands and placed it in the middle of the table. He gripped her chin and placed a quick kiss on her lips, thanking her for preparing such a wonderful meal. The love they shared was evident, but I’d never witnessed it in my own home.
Was this what a family was supposed to look like?
“Stop sucking face,” Drew blurted out. Mrs. Fisher’s cheeks turned red as Viola giggled.
“Drew,” Mr. Fisher warned. Drew slumped back in defeat.
“It’s fine,” Mrs. Fisher reassured. “We’re so glad you could stay, Travis.”
“Glad to be here.” I cleared my throat as I sat up straighter.
“You know, I’ve been meaning to invite your parents over for a cook-out—”
“Oh, I wouldn’t bother,” I cut her off without thinking. Everyone froze, staring at me. “They aren’t really the grilling out kind.”
More like they aren’t really the sitting-at-the-table-eating-as-a-family kind, but I wasn’t about to admit that out loud.
With a nod and small smile, she dropped the subject.
I watched as Mr. Fisher sat on one end of the table and Mrs. Fisher on the other. They mirrored a picture-perfect 1950s sitcom family. They gazed at one another from across the table, completely in sync, as they served up our plates. I watched as he winked at her, and she smiled wide.
I’d never seen anything like it before.
There was no yelling. No tension in the air. No feeling like you were stepping on eggshells and had to watch what you said before you said it.
It was nice. Freeing.
Drew and Viola went on eating, unaffected by how their parents looked at each other as if they were still newlyweds on their honeymoon. It was normal for them. Normal family behavior.
To them.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d ever seen my parents act like that. I couldn’t remember because it’d never happened. Not in my family. I knew then my parents weren’t in love. They were together for appearances, and it hurt. Watching the Fisher family interact showed me what I had been missing for all those years. The adoration in the room was almost contagious.
Looking back, I could remember a time when my mother would at least pretend to be happy. She’d paint a smile on her face to cover up the hurt and pain and tell me everything was just fine.
Then she eventually stopped pretending. I was just a kid, but I knew. I heard my father yelling over inconsequential things, and I saw the way it affected my mother. I didn’t realize just how dysfunctional my family truly was. Until I saw what it meant to be a family, how a man was supposed to treat his wife, and how loving the Fishers were to one another.
Drew and I grew up together, but we didn’t grow up the same. He was rugged on the outside but wore his heart on his sleeve. After that dinner, I prayed for a family like the Fishers. But every day, I woke up in a house that served as my own personal prison.
When you’re told to get over it and be a man, you bury any feelings that threaten to surface. Showing emotion meant you were weak, and if my father saw weakness in me, he’d exploit it. I learned to be numb. Men don’t cry, he’d tell me. Men definitely didn’t show remorse.
I knew, even as a young teen, that my dad was a hard-ass. He never said he loved me or my mom. He didn’t express love or show affection or give any indication at all that he wanted us. We were a burden, and yelling was his way of communicating. It was his way or the highway. His iron fist ruling was eventually what drove me away. Once I left, I swore I’d never move back home, regardless of how much I struggled. Struggling was better than being around the man I grew to hate.
The first time I ever liked a girl, I was eleven years old. She was in the Sunday school class that my mom made me go to every week. I knew she liked me because every time I sat by her, she’d avoid eye contact with me, and she’d blush anytime she caught me looking at her. A girl who sat on the other side of her giggled and stared at me. The more she laughed, the more I wanted to scream at her to shut up. Stop laughing. Stop looking at me. Why the hell is she laughing at me?