by Lisa N. Paul
“It’s okay, Lyla.” The social worker patted her back. “I know you’ve been through a lot, but this is your dad. He’s gonna take care of you now.”
Extending his hand, Mark smiled. “My daughter, huh?”
Lyla nodded, shaking his hand.
“All mine,” he added, his brown eyes twinkling. “I see your mother in you. Beautiful.”
While the social worker beamed over what appeared to be a lovely reunion, Lyla withdrew her hand and placed distance between herself and her father.
“It’s okay to feel hesitant, Lyla. You’ve been through a traumatic event and you’re in a new situation. Give it time. It looks like you’ll be in great hands here.” The social worker winked before leaving Lyla in the apartment and going to the car with Mark to get Lyla’s belongings.
Upon reentering the apartment, Mark said, “When I found out I had a daughter coming to live with me, I moved from a two-bedroom unit to a three-bedroom place. This way my little girl can have her own room and I can still work from home some days.”
Hmm, maybe she was judging him too harshly; maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy. The social worker handed them both her contact information, set up an appointment for a follow-up visit, and left.
Lyla went to her new bedroom and unpacked her clothes and meager personal items. With her bedroom door cracked open, she overheard Mark on the phone. When it sounded as though he was talking about her, she crept down the hallway and listened at the door to his office.
“What do you mean you won’t give me the money? I deserve every cent. I’m her father, Mr. Miller.”
Mr. Miller, Lyla had learned at her grandparents’ funeral, was her grandparents’ attorney. He had pulled her aside to offer his condolences and to promise her that no matter what happened, he would take care of her finances until she was old enough to do it herself. A week ago, that tidbit of information meant nothing. Now, it meant she wished she had given the man a bigger hug when she’d had the chance.
“Fine,” Mark snapped. “Then sell everything. No, I don’t have room for any of that shit in my house. Pictures? No. Sell them, toss them, I don’t care. She’s with me now. I’ll give her new memories.”
Tears clogged her throat and stung her eyes before she heard Mark slam down the phone and mumble curses. Quickly, Lyla tiptoed back to her room and closed the door. In her haste to leave her home, she had packed only the two framed pictures that had sat on her nightstand—one of her mom, and one of Lyla and her grandparents. Holding the frames tightly to her chest, she let tears fall over the only tangible images she had left of her family.
For months, living with her father was tolerable. He provided food with the expectation that she would make herself meals, aside from the weekly dinners they ate at local restaurants. Mark seemed to revel in the attention he received from waitresses and female patrons who noticed an attractive non-ring-wearing man out with his daughter. Apparently the women didn’t care that that same guy ignored said daughter to flirt with them.
For cleaning the apartment, Lyla received a small allowance for clothes and essentials. Occasionally Mark dropped her off at the mall with a time and location when he would pick her up, acting like a loving dad in public and a stranger once tucked away in the car.
Mark kept his interest in her academics and social life to a minimum—just enough to answer questions if the social worker checked in. He was more of a roommate than a father, and while Lyla was lonely, she preferred her own company to his.
Which worked out great since Mark had a way with women. Not just some women—all women. They flocked to him like flies to honey. And Mark loved his flies. He had different women staying over nearly every night. Lyla learned to keep her Walkman ready and the volume turned up to drown out the sounds coming from the master bedroom. She also learned to keep to herself in the mornings as the women strutted around the apartment thinking they would become a permanent fixture. They would try to make eye contact and smile at Lyla. They would sometimes even try for chit-chat, but Lyla knew the score. They would leave and never be back. Her dad didn’t “do second dates.”
The longer Lyla lived in the apartment, the bolder Mark became. She had been living with him for a year the night he brought home two women. Bile churned in her belly as she turned the volume higher that night to drown out the giggles and squeals coming from the family room.
With her coffee cup empty and the drive halfway complete, Lyla pulled into a rest stop, used the facilities, and grabbed a donut and a fresh cup of decaf. The memories had her wired enough—the last thing she needed was more caffeine. Once she was back on the road, like a movie, thoughts of her past resumed.
The one night a week women weren’t invited to the apartment was “guys’ night.” While Mark’s friends initially greeted her with kindness, over time, their looks made her uncomfortable. Even scared. On “guys’ night,” Lyla stayed tucked in her room with music thrumming in her ears and waiting for everyone to leave. Sometimes she thought she heard someone coming down the hallway toward her door. She swore she could see the shadows of their shoes under the seam of her door, causing her body to tighten and her breath to catch, but just as quickly, the bathroom door would close behind those feet, making her chastise herself for her own paranoia.
When the “guys” were over, the house smelled like cigarettes and another kind of smoke—years later, Lyla would recognize the smoke was marijuana—and beer. When they left, Lyla would quietly come out of her room and assess the damage in the family room. Often, Mark would be passed out on the sofa, drunk and stoned with a lit cigarette in his hand. Once, she came out just in time to put out a small fire before it had time to spread.
Mark was a fire hazard, a breeding ground for STDs, and a crappy dad. Lyla didn’t feel safe in his house, but she had nowhere else in the world to go.
Memories flashed through Lyla’s mind as she pulled into the hotel’s parking lot.
I’m here. Lyla texted Janie before leaving the car and checking into the hotel.
Janie: Good. Grab a bite to eat and take a sleeping pill. Visiting hours don’t start until 8:30.
Lyla laughed out loud. Of course Janie had researched the details.
Lyla: Got it under control.
Janie: Do NOT forget to call me as soon as you’re done. I will have my phone on during class.
Lyla: K. Love you, Jane.
Janie: I know. <3
***
SITTING AT HIS desk, Sebastian waited for his lawyer to pick up the phone. After what had happened with his grandmother, he was taking legal action against his mother. Carla would be served with a restraining order by the week’s end, letting her know that she was no longer permitted anywhere near Florence or Sebastian (their person or property).
But since his father had loved her, Sebastian felt obligated to offer his mother one more lump sum of money.
“Mr. Gage, I had you on my list of people to call today,” the lawyer said.
“I beat you to the punch, Michael. Tell me the latest.”
“I can have the money ready by Friday. Are you sure you want to hand her that kind of cash?” Skepticism colored the lawyer’s voice. He had been the family attorney for over twenty-five years, so he’d had a front row seat to Carla’s chaos. While he followed the family’s directions to the letter, he never hid his personal feelings about Carla Gage.
“Yeah,” Sebastian grumbled. “But I’d prefer if you delivered it to her. That woman needs to understand that she no longer warrants my attention. Just call me before you see her. I want to place a guard on Florence’s house.”
“Sure thing.”
With the call disconnected, Sebastian looked at the blank screen of his phone. Quickly scrolling through his texts, he landed on the morning texts from Lyla. The video byte of her tongue slicing through cream cheese frosting had him salivating. Damn, he wanted to text her—no, he wanted to hear her voice. Instead, he slipped the phone in his pocket and got back on the garage floor. Nothing b
etter to get your mind off a woman than to slip your hands into an engine.
Chapter Nineteen
Always Were The Drama Queen
MAYBE SHE SHOULD have heeded her lawyer’s suggestion and not made the trip, but once the judge and the prison warden gave her “the proceed with caution,” Lyla couldn’t back down. Hence the reason she was waiting on the stool in the public visiting room.
“Well, well, they said you were finally coming to visit your old man.” Mark was escorted to the stool facing hers. As usual, he used his height to intimidate her until the guard ordered him to sit down. “Never would have believed it if your sweet face wasn’t sitting right here in the flesh. Glad I kept your name on the list all these years, pretty girl.”
Lyla straightened her spine and cleared her face of any expression, refusing to let Mark see that that term of endearment still made her insides roil with nausea. “Mark.”
“Got my letter, huh?” She refused to acknowledge the letter or the threat behind it. Not that he seemed to care. Stretching out his long legs, her father crossed his arms. “Still so pretty, ain’t ya? I gotta tell you, girl, that last night…” He exhaled, shaking his head. “Shit got out of control.”
Was that remorse on his face? Could he possibly regret the things that happened?
“Every minute of every day was out of control,” Lyla said in an even tone, the weight of the past gradually easing from her chest.
Mark’s eyes closed briefly, as if he was thinking about her statement. When they opened, the dark irises sparkled. “Come on, pretty girl, you’re old enough to admit it. You loved every second of it. You craved it.”
Acid gathered in Lyla’s stomach, a ball that grew with each second. “You’re still sick enough to believe that?” Her words were whispers, for fear that she would explode if she raised her voice. “You hurt me, your own daughter. You beat me, abused me, shamed me, and that paled in comparison to what you let them do to me while you sat back and did nothing. Oh, wait, you did do something, didn’t you? You made sure those moments lived on forever.” Her volume raised. “Why? Why!”
A slow smile eased over what had once been a handsome face as Mark leaned inches closer.
“Distance, Gruber,” the guard yelled from the corner.
“You know why. I told you the first day you came into my life.” Mark stared as if willing her to remember and was disappointed when she didn’t. “You’re mine. My property. Mine to do with how I saw fit. Mine!”
“Gruber, keep it down or the visitation is over,” the guard yelled.
“Sorry, sir,” Mark responded with ease.
Lyla swallowed and looked at her father, really looked at him, and saw the crazy that lived inside him. A crazy that as a child, she’d seen as mean, as an adult, she remembered as cruel, and sitting in front of the man now, she finally saw the truth. He was twisted. Utterly fucked up.
Yet as children of abuse often do, she searched for parental love… acceptance… something. “Mark, do you realize if not for Jimmy, I would have died that night? They would have killed me.”
Unabashed depravity lit up his gaze while curving his lips into a smile. “Always were the drama queen, weren’t ya, L.P. Jodes?”
Fear slid down her spine. How the hell could he know her pen name?
“That’s right, pretty girl, you’re mine. Always have been, always will be.”
Fists balled tightly at her sides, Lyla stared into her father’s eyes. Mumbling more to herself than to her father, she said, “Hope you enjoyed the visit, because this is the last you will ever see me.”
“Go ahead and leave, pretty girl. In fact, run.”
Lyla leapt from her stool, tipping it over in the process.
Mark grabbed her wrist. “I love the chase.”
She tried to yank her hand from his grasp, but his hold was too tight. “Get off!”
“Gruber, stand down. Now.” The guard ran to Mark just as Mark released Lyla’s wrist.
“I will get out of here, daughter,” he snarled like a rabid dog. “And I will find you.”
No way would she let him see he’d rattled her. Lyla stalked out of the visiting room and through the main entrance, leaving the coat she’d checked at the security desk. Screw it, she didn’t care for that coat anyway.
“Ms. Dalton?” someone called repeatedly.
Her feet picked up their pace. Stopping for any length of time would result in a public breakdown.
Cry, pretty girl, show me the power I have over you.
No! She held all the power.
Once securely in her car, the engine running and the doors locked, her tears fell. Silent at first, they slid down her cheeks, their warm wetness a small breach in the dam. But after a moment or two, the breach became a chasm, and oceans of salty water burned her cheeks as pain over the past lanced through her soul.
She cried for the little girl who’d lost her mother, her grandparents, and the idea of a father. She cried for the loss of her childhood and her innocence. And she cried because she had no idea how she could ever be whole. Not while Mark loomed over her head. Not while the past stayed so firmly in her present. Not while she was too goddamn scared to look to the future.
Decades’ worth of feelings purged themselves as she trembled in the driver’s seat, no longer aware of time or place. Not until her cell chimed with a text did Lyla realize her car still sat parked outside the prison walls.
Janie: Are you finished? Waiting to hear from you.
Barely able to read the words on the screen, Lyla yanked a napkin from the center console and wiped her eyes.
Janie: Ly? Are you there? Worried.
Lyla: Here.
Janie: Calling you.
Lyla: NO!
Lyla: I can’t talk. It was bad, Jane.
Janie: You promised you wouldn’t shut me out again.
Lyla sighed. She had made that promise and she wouldn’t renege, but she needed some time.
Lyla: Promise to talk. But can’t promise to drive carefully if I don’t pull my shit together. Will call when I get home. PROMISE.
Janie: Love you, Ly. Always.
Lyla: Same. Gotta go.
Janie: Please drive carefully.
Lyla: K
Chapter Twenty
Zero Fucks to Give
WITH THE WINE and Spirits store to her back and a brown bag filled with bottles of vodka in her arms, Lyla walked through the small parking lot to her car. The three-and-a-half-hour trek back to Charistown was nothing more than a blur, leaving her grateful that she’d made it back in one piece. She wanted nothing more than cold vodka and her warm bed. The heavy bag reminded her that the drink would require ice, but her bed would be waiting.
“So you’re what he’s going for these days. Interesting.” The three-pack-a-day voice came from beside her.
With a killer headache and no patience left, Lyla did little more than shift her eyes toward the pest that managed to keep pace with her stride.
“Can’t say you aren’t attractive, that’s for sure.”
Lyla stopped midstep and did a double take at the woman who shared Sebastian’s dimples and full lips.
“Ahh, not just a pretty face. Good for you.” The woman Lyla assumed was Carla smiled wider, showing off her yellow-stained teeth. “You’re clearly smarter than his fiancée. I’m Gage’s mom, Carla.” She extended her hand.
The word fiancée pinged around in Lyla’s brain like the steel ball in a pinball game, causing even more discomfort than she’d had moments before. Not that she’d show the bitch one ounce of emotion. Ignoring the woman’s hand, Lyla continued walking to her vehicle.
“Hmm, not one for making nice with the mommy I see. No worries, it makes me like you even more,” the emaciated woman spouted as she rushed to catch up. “Bet a pretty girl like you could use some extra spending money. I’m sure you know my son is loaded.”
Pretty girl… pretty girl… those fucking words repeated in her head. Her father’s voice, his f
riends… words that were blades used to cut her flesh and take away her control, her self-esteem, her confidence, her choices. Coming from Carla’s mouth, they sounded like they were being used to manipulate and hurt.
After the day she’d had, she was done. Done being played. Done being used. Just done.
Lyla yanked open the passenger side door of her BMW, shoved her bag onto the seat, and slammed the door before whipping around to face the woman who was quickly becoming as much of a nuisance to her as she seemed to be to her son. “Listen, lady, I don’t give a rat’s ass who you are or what you think I know about your son’s money. Fact is, I don’t need one damn dollar of anyone’s money. Not ever. Do you understand me? I don’t want or need you or whatever fucked up plan I see you formulating to screw over your kid. You were right when you said I was smart. I’m smart enough to see what a crazy bitch you are.” Lyla’s heart pounded as she continued. “Now get out of my way before I run your sorry ass over, because I have zero fucks left to give today and I won’t feel bad if there’s one less asshole in the world.”
Carla’s wide-eyed expression would have been comical, but Lyla wasn’t kidding when she claimed to be emotionally tapped out. She didn’t spare Carla another look as she opened her door, slid into the seat, buckled up, and revved the engine. Thank God the drive back to her house was short, because her need for drinks just tripled.
***
Lyla: I’m home
Janie: I’m calling
Alanis Morrisette’s “Guardian” played, and Lyla stared at her phone. Both women had chosen the song as their ring for the other, stating the singer must have been thinking of them when she wrote it. But as Lyla lay in her bed with the covers over her head, she couldn’t bring herself to answer the call.
Janie: If you don’t answer, I’m coming over.
“Shit.” When the song played again, Lyla picked up.
Chapter Twenty-One