"Novikoff's dealers are getting brazen and craftier than they used to be and increasing their numbers like cockroaches in a crack house." His eyes drop to the liquor he's swirling in his glass as he thinks.
I run my palm down my beard. "How often are incidents like this happening?"
My father lets out a heavy sigh as the car starts moving. "Alek Belinsky was hit roughly four weeks ago. His warehouse took a major hit, and so did his pockets. The theft cost him a few million." He downs half his whiskey.
Staring out the tinted window, watching the industrial side of town disappear into sparse open land, I ask, "Perhaps we meet with Belinsky. With Novikoff being a nuisance to both our operations, he will be willing to give us any intel they have acquired."
Reaching over, my father presses a button, lowering the window between us and the front of the car. Victor peers into the rearview mirror. "Sir?"
"Arrange a meeting between Alek Belinsky and me."
"Yes, sir."
2
Leah
The first strike of my father's leather belt across my back seeps into my skin, setting my senses on fire, catching me off guard, and I scream. It's my fault for falling asleep instead of lying in wait. Had I been awake, I could've at least prepared myself for the punishment. Being away at school has weakened me, and I have become careless. I have forgotten how important it is to stay alert. I should have known when I came home this afternoon this was going to happen. Dad came back from work, acting his normal self, but mom was more nervous than usual. My mom always knows when dad is about to dole out one of his punishments. She never warns me, because that would warrant her the same beating, but she has certain ticks about her that I've cataloged over the years. Ticks that remind me of what's to come. Only today, I slipped and didn't pay close enough attention—a grave error on my part.
"Ahh!" I scream again as the belt strikes the back of my head. My scalp burns when the strap tangles with a large chunk of my hair, ripping strands from my scalp. "Stop! Dad, please!" I scramble out of my bed, landing on the bedroom floor with a thud. My move only allows me two seconds of reprieve before my dad is standing over me, face red and chest heaving in anger. I get a moment's glimpse at his snarling face before I cover my head with my arms, shielding my face from the next blow.
"You thought you could go away to college and start acting like a little tramp! Move in with a whore and that boy from school! You thought you could get away with going to bars and dressing like a slut! You stepped out into public and allowed men to see you dressed like that!" my father yells, delivering blow after blow, the leather hitting every inch of my body. I hear my mother's sobs from the hallway, but she doesn't intervene.
Part of me hates her for being so weak; for not protecting me. But the last time she tried, she ended up in the hospital.
"Were you stupid enough to think I wouldn't have eyes on you?" Thwack, thwack, thwack.
"I'm sorry," I scream between lashes, every inch of my body feeling my father's wrath.
"You're not sorry. But you will be by the time I'm through with you."
Soon, each strike of my father's belt mixed with my screams, his heaving breathing, and my mother's sobs begin to echo off the walls of the bedroom. The same bedroom I grew up. If these walls could talk, I know the nightmares they would tell.
I don't know how long the punishment lasts. My father won't stop until he's exhausted himself, this much I know. That's usually not for a while. The only thing I can do is pray that the next blow will be the one to knock me out. At seven years old, I stopped praying for God to make my dad stop hitting me and started praying for the strike that would take away the pain.
A second later, my prayer is answered when the metal buckle lands across my head, and I'm swept into darkness.
My eyes flutter open sometime later to an empty room—a peak of sunlight filters in through the curtains of the window above my head. The immediate pain that washes over my body is crippling. I bite my lip and suck in a sharp breath as I bring myself up to my hands and knees.
I mentally start checking off any symptoms that would warrant a trip to the ER. No nausea or dizziness, that's usually my main concern. Once I make it to a sitting position, I brace my arms on the edge of the bed and hiss when my ribs pinch in protest. I don't think they are broken, but they are sore and most likely bruised. Slowly, I make my way over to the floor-length mirror next to the dresser. Lifting the hem of my t-shirt, I take in the size thirteen boot print my father left behind, proving my suspicion right. Lifting my eyes to my face, I take in my split lip and the significant swelling around my left eye. I touch a finger to my injured flesh along my cheek. My chin wobbles, and I hold back a sob as I stare at my reflection.
My father said he had someone watching me while I've been away at school. I should have known. I knew going to Crossroads with Alba and Sam was a mistake. My father has his ways of finding out everything. My dad, James Winters, is Post Creeks's Chief of Police. He has several resources at his disposal. One of them is being able to keep tabs on me, even if I am nearly four hours away in Bozeman. If it wasn't one of his rookie lackeys doing his bidding for him, then it was the pastor's son. Last I heard Pastor Lawson's son, Aaron, has joined the academy. Aaron is probably my father's number one butt kisser these days. James Winters has everyone in this town fooled. On the outside, he's an upstanding citizen—the respected Chief and all-around wholesome family man who is front row at church every Sunday. Dad grew up in this town alongside Pastor Lawson. You can say the two are good friends. My father preaches the word of God in our house and holds my mother and me to a certain standard. Although, I don't think God would agree with him beating them into us.
He's not a man of God—he is the devil in disguise.
Hearing my mom bustling around the kitchen, I head to the bathroom across the hall from my bedroom to clean up. My father will be expecting me at the table for breakfast this morning. That's one of his many rules; meals are eaten together as a family. Family. What a joke. Biting back tears that threaten to spill as the pain wrecks my body, I wash my face and change my bloody t-shirt. I stand rooted in place and take several cleansings breaths to prepare myself mentally and physically for the day ahead before I make my way down the hall and into the kitchen. When I walk into the kitchen, dad is sitting at the table with a coffee mug sitting in front of him. He's dressed in his uniform and ready for the day. He doesn't bother looking up from his phone when I pull out a chair and sit down across from him. My mother abandons her post at the stove, shuffles over to me and kisses the top of my head. "Morning, Leah." Then goes back to scrambling eggs, not even batting an eye at my injuries—something else I'm used to.
"Morning, mom," I murmur.
A minute later, she sets a plate of eggs, sausage, and toast down in front of my dad, followed by setting the same in front of me. But before her hand leaves the edge of the dish, dad stops her. "No. Leah gets oatmeal. Not only has her behavior spiraled while she's been away, but so has her weight."
Shame washes over me, and my cheeks heat. I've struggled with my weight most of my life. One day I had the body of a little girl, and the next, I was wearing a bra to accommodate my large breasts. Also, my hips spill over the sides of the chair when I sit, and I have a bit of a chubby tummy. It didn't take long for my father's side, handed comments over the years to affect how I looked at myself. The bullies in high school didn't help either. My father insisted my peers taunting me would serve as motivation to lose the weight. It didn't. If anything, it made me hate my appearance even more. Being short and chubby, paired with frizzy hair and glasses, made me a target. The same kids that tormented me in school were the same kids who sat next to me at church on Sundays. Life has a way of showing us how sick and twisted it can be for someone like me. No matter how bad things were at school, they were never as bad as my existence at home. It's pretty messed up when you prefer to spend your days with the kids who bully you, rather than go home and face your father.
> Finally, looking up from my lap, I push my glasses up my nose and meet my father's eyes. "You'll never find a husband to take you on if you continue to let yourself go. No man wants a fat wife, Leah."
He should know. My father still controls every bite of food that goes into my mother's mouth. I bite my bottom lip as the humiliation of his words washes over me.
Mom sets a bowl of plain oatmeal down in front of me. I sit for several seconds. My eyes once again cast down. The words my dad speak next has my head snapping in his direction and all the air leaving my body.
"I want you to head back to Bozeman today, pack up your belongings, and be back home by the time I get off shift tomorrow. You're done with school. It was a mistake to send you. You have proven too unruly for me to allow you to continue your education away from home."
My protest is on the tip of my tongue, but my father holding my stare reminds me better of it. In this house, his word is the law. There is no negotiating, and there is no arguing. It was a miracle my father let me go to college at all. A woman's job is to stay home and take care of her husband and kids. Not go out into the workforce to support their family alongside her husband. Nope, that would make her an equal. Being equal to any woman is not something my father can fathom. His reasoning for allowing me to go to school is he doesn't believe I will find a man to marry me. He says I need to make myself useful so I can take care of myself. James Winters' beliefs are outdated, and he is misogynistic. Thank God he and my mom never had a son to pass his warped way of thinking down to.
"Do I make myself clear, Leah?" he snaps when I don't answer right away.
I swallow. "Yes, sir."
Satisfied with my response, my dad stands from the table, walks over to my mom, and kisses her cheek. I watch as she closes her eyes and leans into his touch. After almost twenty years with the monster, you can still see the love and devotion she has for him. I want to hate her. I want to hate her as much as I hate him. I want to grab her, shake her and ask, "How can you still love him? Why do you keep letting him do this to us?" Mom always takes his side. Not that she doesn't love me, because she does. I just think she loves him more.
The moment dad walks out of the front door, and his truck can be heard pulling out of the driveway, mom sits down in the chair next to me. Bringing her hand up, she palms my bruised cheek. "Oh, Leah."
I finally let the first tear fall.
"Why must you anger your father? You knew he would have someone checking up on you. I told you not to fall in with the wrong crowd, Leah. Your father told me about the dress and the bar. He says you have been spending a lot of time around a football player and even moved in with him and a pregnant girl. For God's sake, child." Mom shakes her head.
She's referring to my friends Sam and Alba. My only friends. Two people who have been able to look past my outer appearance and how insanely awkward I am to the real me. I've never had true friends like that. And now I am being forced to give them and school up. With no energy to deal with my mom, I brace one hand on the table and the other on the back of the chair and stand. The movement causes my ribs to pinch, and I whimper. Mom looks away with shame marring her face. "I'm going to get ready and head to Bozeman," I tell her then make my way back to my bedroom. I don't bother trying to explain anything to my mom. It doesn't matter that Sam is just a friend. Male friends are against the rules, and I broke the rules. I broke another one by dressing the way I did and going to that bar. It doesn't matter that my actions were harmless. All that matters is I went against the boundaries my father set in place.
"I'm sorry, Leah," she says just before I close the door. I don't bother with a response.
As I'm about to leave and head back to Bozeman, I spot Mrs. Mae sitting on her front porch across the street. I've known Mrs. Mae my entire life. Growing up, I didn't have friends, but when I was five, I was out riding my bike in front of my house when I heard music coming from an open window of Mrs. Mae's house. It didn't take long for my curiosity to get the better of me, so I'd snuck across the street to peer in. That's when I found the source of the music—Mrs. Mae was playing the piano. I was mesmerized.
"Are you just going to stand there, child, or are you going to come in?" she asks.
I smile big and rush up the steps of her porch. Mrs. Mae is already at the door to greet me. "You're the Winters' little girl, aren't you?"
I nod, my curls bouncing over my eyes. "My name is Leah."
"It's nice to meet you, Leah. My name is Mae. How about you come in while I phone your mom, let her know where you are so she won't worry."
"Okay, Mrs. Mae"
I watch as Mrs. Mae calls mommy. They speak for a minute before Mrs. Mae hangs up. She gives me a warm smile. "Would you like to learn the piano?"
I nod vigorously.
That was the day Mrs. Mae became more than just a neighbor. She became my best friend and my haven. Mrs. Mae taught me how to play the piano, and how to cook. She was my shoulder to cry on when the outside world would chew me up and spit me out. It didn't take long for Mrs. Mae to realize I was starved for some kind of emotional connection to another human. Mrs. Mae lost her husband before they had the chance to have children of their own, and she never remarried. I might have been a kid, but I think I was her best friend too.
Mrs. Mae stands from her seat on her porch and waves me over. I don't want her to see my current state, but I won't ignore her either. It's not like she hasn't witnessed the evidence my father's belt leaves behind. Besides my mother, Mrs. Mae is the only other person who knows what goes on in my house. She thinks I don't know about the time I was ten, and she confronted my father. I had shown up for my piano lesson with a black eye. Mrs. Mae paid gravely for that talk she had with my dad. The very next night, someone attacked her during a home invasion. Mrs. Mae suffered a broken wrist, and her home ransacked. I knew my dad was behind the incident, and I suspect Mrs. Mae knew as well. It only made me love her more for trying to stand up for me.
As I start across the street toward her house, Mrs. Mae gives me a big smile. The closer I get, her smile drops. Her shaky hand covers her mouth. "Dear God. Come here, child." Taking me in her arms, she leads me inside to the kitchen table. "Sit here so I can get a look at you." Her face hardens when she flips the light on, getting a more unobstructed view of the damage. "Something has to be done. Someone needs to put a stop to that man."
My shoulders slump, and I shake my head. "There is no stopping him. My father is the man people go to when they need help. It doesn't work that way when the person who is supposed to protect you is also hurting you."
Mrs. Mae sits in the chair next to me and takes my hand in hers. "You should leave this place, Leah. Leave and don't ever look back."
I swipe the tear that rolls down my cheek but don't say anything. I wish it were that simple—that I could just hop in my car and leave my problems behind. I have no money, no family, and nowhere to go. Several minutes pass before Mrs. Mae stands and gives me the peace I was looking for when I crossed the street. "Come and play something for me before you go."
Sitting down on the familiar bench with Mrs. Mae at my side, I run my fingertips over the familiar keys, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, I smile. From the moment my fingers first touched these piano keys at the age of five, it became my escape—a way of letting go of all the pain. The old piano weeps as I pour my sorrow into the notes. Closing my eyes, the world around me fades away, and I turn my pain into a beautiful melody.
The sun has set by the time I reach the apartment I share with Sam. A few months ago, I met Alba and Sam at the campus library. They approached me one day out of the blue and struck up a conversation. The three of us have been inseparable since. Sam is from Texas and is a football player here at Montana State University on a scholarship. Alba is my age and is in her first year, like me. She came to Bozeman from Polson. Long story short, Alba found out she is pregnant and wanted to live off-campus and take online courses. She and Sam asked me about living in an apartment wi
th them. I stupidly thought my father wouldn’t find out. It's been months since he has ridden me about anything. I figured if I gave my weekly updates and came home often, he wouldn't snoop.
Pulling up and parking my old Toyota in front of the apartment, I turn the car off and suck in a deep breath. The four-hour drive was brutal. I wanted to cry with every turn and bump I hit. The pain reliever I took hours ago has done little to ease my discomfort. Grabbing my bag from the passenger seat, I reach inside and find the pill bottle I'm after. Unscrewing the top, I fish out two more pills, pop them into my mouth, and down half a bottle of water. After taking a moment to collect myself, I scan the near-empty parking lot for Sam's truck. I breathe a sigh of relief when I don't see it. As of a few weeks ago, Alba no longer lives here. She ran into some trouble with a stalker and went back home to Polson. The whole situation was scary. Alba, Sam, and I had been out to dinner. And when we returned home to our apartment, it had been ransacked. Not only that, but there had been a skin-crawling message left for Alba. I had taken a terrified Alba home to Polson while Sam stayed behind and dealt with the police. I was shocked when Alba directed me to an MC clubhouse. It turns out her family is The Kings of Retribution. I don't know much about the MC, but I don't live so far under a rock that I haven't heard of them either. You hear about things when you have a cop for a father. Alba has had nothing but good things to say about the club. To be honest, I trust her word over my father's any day.
Shaking those thoughts away, I open the car door and step out, allowing the cold winter breeze to whip at my battered face. Pulling my coat snug around my body, I make my way to the apartment. Luckily, it's not the same apartment that had been broken into. Sam was able to get him and me into a different one. Still, I get creeped out whenever I'm home alone.
Using my key, I unlock the door and step inside. Once I have the lock in place, I flip on the lights. I planned to stay here tonight and get some rest before packing and driving home tomorrow, but Sam texted me on my way here saying he left his father's place early and was catching the first flight out of Texas. I can't risk Sam seeing me in my current state and then explaining to him why I have to move. So, I'm going to get busy packing now and drive back home tonight. What I want to do is crawl inside my bed here, where I feel safe and wait for my friend to come home. Once in my room, I sink to the floor beside the closet just as a sob escapes my mouth. I feel so hopeless.
Nikolai Page 2