Chapter 5

• "Dad. Dad," I said louder, almost yelling to try to catch his attention. When I did, I saw nothing but fear and worry and regret in his face. "We can't run from this. You know that. I bet if you looked down at the street that one of his body guard guys or whatever they are is sitting in a car outside. He knows your instinct will be to run."
• "You can't go work for him. You can't go live with him!"
• I took a deep breath, trying to calm my own nerves that were screaming the exact same thing in my head. As was almost always the case, I had to be the level-headed one, I had to be the grown up. "I have no choice, Dad. And he said he wouldn't hurt me."
• "He said not like that."
• "Exactly so he won't..."
• "Beat or rape you, no," he said, the bluntness there making me flinch. My father wasn't blunt. My father was flowery words; my father was waxing poetic; my father was purple prose. "But you don't know him. You don't know what he is capable of."
• "Dad, he was willing to shoot you. In front of me. I'm pretty sure I get that he's the bad guy to end all bad guys. But that doesn't change the fact that I don't see any way out of this."
• "There's always a way out. There's always..."
• "A shortcut? A side exit? Some slight of hand to give you a chance to escape? No, there's not, Dad. There's always someone who has to go back and collect the shit and put it to rights. There's always someone who has to settle the debts and..." I clamped my mouth shut before I could say anything I would regret, anything that would hurt him, that would imply he had done anything other than his best for me. Because, while he had screwed up a lot and I did have to grow up fast and shoulder a burden too heavy for my little shoulders, I knew that was the truth. He did his best he could by me. He was sick. His addiction was no different from a heroin-user, a smoker, a pill popper, an alcoholic. He got high off the thrill and the win. He crashed when he lost it all. Then he needed that high again, by whatever means necessary. It was an illness. And it wasn't right for me to be angry about it.
• "And that has always been you," he said, surprising me as he dropped everything he was holding onto my couch and sat down beside the pile, holding his head in his hands.
• "Dad..."
• "Don't, Prue. Don't try to smooth it over. I know it's true. It's always been you. Before you, it was your mother. I scared her away. And now I'm having you taken from me. I'm such a..."
• "Don't," I said, moving to sit next to him, my ass half on the pile of my stuff.
• "Dear, dear Prudence..." he started, his voice thick.
• "I said don't," I interrupted, making my voice steel even though I felt like my insides were all cracking. "This is a mild setback. He can't keep me there forever. I will go. I'll do my job. And then we will get back on track. Stop worrying about me. I'm a big girl. I can handle myself."
• "Yeah," he said, shaking his head, not looking at me. "I guess you've had a lot of practice over the years."
• "Dad..." I tried again, wanting to take that tone out of his voice, the weight off his shoulders.
• "Okay," he said suddenly, clapping, surprising me enough to jump. "Let's have a going-away party then, shall we?" he asked jumping up and going for my fridge. "Leftover Chinese and pizza. I'll throw together a salad with all these greens. And we can use up this milk with some giant milkshakes for dessert," he said, his tone almost Santa Claus-cheery. But I would take fake happy over real sad with my dad any day.
• So as he moved around my kitchen, humming some song I didn't recognize because it was probably older than me, I walked into my bedroom under the pretense of changing into comfortable clothes and quickly and efficiently starting to pile necessary items into a box and a suitcase. I figured that would be the maximum amount of items that would be considered practical and I rolled my clothes to make as much room as possible, packing things that were practical: a few blouses, pairs of slacks, jeans, a couple tees, a sweatshirt, pajamas, socks, undies, and bras. Then I socked away all my bathroom essentials, grabbed a picture of my dad and an old copy of Sense and Sensibility, and called it a day.
• Then I went out and had a going-away party with my father.
• He gave me a huge hug and said goodbye to me like he expected to see me the next weekend, like always.
• But I knew better.
• And I knew he knew better.
• So it stung a little that he was leaving it at that.
• With a pit the size of Russia in my belly, I called my manager and laid it on thick about a family emergency. I told her my dad was really sick and, in my mind, it wasn't a lie. He was sick, just not in the way I was implying. I checked my savings account, deciding against subletting, and paying my landlord for the next three months ahead of time. I couldn't imagine I'd be gone longer than that. It left me woefully low on cash for when I eventually did re-emerge, but I would figure it out.
• I always did.THREEPrueSomehow, the house looked even bigger as I pulled up in my crappy little fifteen year-old white sedan and parked it far to the side of the lot, not having been given instructions on what to do about my car. I flipped down my visor and looked into my eyes as I smoothed my hair back into the ponytail where a few wisps had blew about in the breeze of the open windows.
• "You can do this," I told myself, pretending not to hear the hint of hysteria in my tone. It had been building all morning. My alarm had buzzed, as per usual, at seven. I climbed up with an immediate plummeting sensation in my stomach as I looked at my bag and box stashed next to my bedroom door. It only got more and more intense as I grabbed clothes: a pair of black slacks, a light blue silk blouse, and sensible barely-there kitten-heeled shoes, and made my way into the bathroom to shower. Then it became positively nauseating as I forced myself to drink coffee and eat a corn muffin from the coffee shop on my way over. I had no idea what my day would entail so I wanted to be caffeinated and have something in my stomach just in case.
• I exhaled loudly, pulling out my keys, then climbing out of my car. I went to my trunk, popping it, pulling out my rolling bag and box, then making my way toward the door where the same guard from the day before stood there, watching me struggle and not bothering to offer any kind of help.
• Apparently Byron St. James wasn't the only asshole in residence.
• But that was fine.
• It was okay.
• I had spent my entire working life dealing with difficult people.
• I could do it with a smile.
• I could bite my tongue.
• I trained for this.
• "Am I supposed to stand here all day?" I asked, keeping my tone mild as he stood there in front of the door, seeming to make no move to let me inside.
• "You're early."
• "Ah, yes," I said, brows drawing together. It wasn't like I was obnoxiously early. It was ten minutes. I always left myself a ten to fifteen minute buffer in case of traffic. I'd never found someone who thought being a teensy bit early was a bad thing.
• "He'll be ready for you at ten."