I shove him in the back, and he trips up the final step.
“Fucking prick!” he curses, then pulls his phone free and calls Priest.
Chapter Nine
Roni
The door slams shut, making me jump. “Fuck!” I hiss, slamming a hand down on the counter. Pushing away from the counter, I take a walk around the apartment while I chide myself for being so damn stupid. Thank god I’m on the pill. My father would be so fucking proud for proving him right. But I’m disappointed with myself.
As I reach the master bedroom, I decide I did what needed to be done. Trailing a finger along the footrest of the fancy bed, I think about all the women Mickey has fucked in here. And somehow it makes me feel better, rationalising it was just sex. We both had an itch to scratch and that’s it.
The intercom buzzes announcing the arrival of the moving company. If I have to be here, I’m sure as shit going to make the most of it. Especially being away from my father.
I spend an hour unpacking boxes and reorganising the furniture, getting a little enjoyment out of Mickey’s reaction if he could see what I’ve done to his carefully arranged apartment. I’m thinking about showering when my father calls demanding my presence.
Knowing if I take the time to shower and change it will only make him angry, I snatch up my coat and leave.
“Roniiiii, looking sexy, but I much prefer you without your clothes,” comes Fletch’s voice behind me. I take a steadying breath and plaster a smile on my face as I turn around.
What the hell are they doing here?
“Well, I hope you locked that image down tight in the spank bank because it was a one-time opportunity,” I tell Fletch with extra emphasis on the one-time part especially for Mickey’s benefit, who greet then walk away.
I hear Mickey shout something to the guys over the road who were whistling at me, but I don’t know what he said. Probably egging them on.
It takes me twenty minutes to get to Dad’s thanks to the traffic, and I find him in the study.
“Daddy, everything okay?” I ask as I enter, spying the amber liquid filled glass in his hand and the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the occasional table beside his leather armchair. He has a book resting in his lap and his glasses resting on his nose.
His head doesn’t move as he lifts his eyes, looking at me over the top of his glasses. “Where have you been?”
I feel like this is one of those trick questions your parents ask when they know you did something you shouldn’t but are testing your honesty.
“Moving into the apartment, of course.” No point in lying. But I’m aware of what’s about to come next.
“And why would you do that, Veronica?” He gestures for me to come forward with a wave of his hand.
A shiver runs along my spine as I step closer to him. I make sure to keep smiling and my walk confident. “We need to make it look real, Daddy. Don’t you think he’d be suspicious if I wasn’t living there?” I stop walking just out of his reach thinking it might protect me from his wrath.
He swallows the last mouthful of his drink, then places the glass on the table beside the bottle before removing his glasses, resting them on the arm of the chair. He cups the open book in both hands and gets to his feet, towering in front of me.
He slams it shut, and I jump—for the second time today. “In case your forgot, Veronica, you’re engaged to be married. Can you imagine what Clayton will say when he discovers his fiancée is living in Mickey Rawlins’ apartment?” He arches a brow. “And fucking him too!”
I open my mouth to refute his words, even though they are true, but he grabs my face with one hand.
“Once a whore, always a whore. But you will ensure nobody but me knows about this, and certainly not Clayton. He knows you’re no virgin, but you can at least act like your legs haven’t been opened more times than Tower Bridge, dear daughter. Is that clear?” His hold on my face tightens as he waits for me to reply.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Good. I’ll permit you to stay there a couple of times a week to ensure the charade remains in place, but on the other nights you will be here with me or entertaining your future husband.” He leans forward and in his usual move when he’s been an arsehole to me, he kisses my forehead. I’m not sure why he thinks a quick kiss will lessen his disappointment of me or his spiteful treatment.
It does absolutely nothing to ease the bone deep pain of knowing my father thinks so little of me, that he doesn’t care about me.
I slip from the room and head for my bedroom—my now half-empty bedroom. I manage to find some shampoo and shower gel, and I hop in the ensuite shower. I spend an unhealthy amount of time scrubbing my body. The dirty feeling from my confrontation with my father lingers long after I’ve dried off. I sit at my dressing table in an old fluffy dressing gown and brush my hair. As I switch sides, my eyes catch on the picture of my mum. Laying the brush down, I pick up the photo of the two of us from when I was around five. She was smiling and so happy, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes as I take in the picture, suddenly seeing the truth behind the smile. My eye is instantly drawn to the dark shadow under her right eye. You’d never notice if you didn’t know it was there, but I know what hides beneath her make-up.
Three days before, Mum had smashed a plate after dinner and Daddy came home as she was clearing it up. He was furious when he walked through the door, so when he found my mum crouched and sweeping up the broken pieces of china while I hid under the table, he went crazy.
I shake the memory away. Nothing good will come of letting those thoughts have free rein of my mind. I snatch up the brush and hurry through brushing the rest of my hair, then I find something comfy to wear and curl up on the bed.
