I finally got the truth from her about what was going on with Deke, and it turns out, every time she was alone, the fuckface would approach her and demand she spend time with him. Every time she said no, he got more and more aggressive. Wilder noticed the bruises on her wrist one day—it infuriates me that I didn’t—and cornered her about it until she told him the truth.
I’m not entirely sure what it means, the fact Wilder cared enough to encourage her to open up to him, and that he went apeshit on Deke’s ass—who is still in hospital by the way, with a punctured lung and bruised spleen—but the fact he was able to look out for my friend when I wasn’t, has his name permanently placed beside Emilia’s in the best friend category.
Left alone, I focus back on my work, and with Emilia’s words playing in my head, I actually try to focus. While the thought of just paying my way in somewhere sounds so fucking sweet right now, it’s not how I want to get by in life—relying on money and the Davenport name. I want to make my own way in this world, and that starts with not completely failing these exams.
Chapter 18
The day my father got locked up was surreal. It was one of those things I’d always wished for—that, or for him to just drop dead; or better yet, die a slow, painful death. He deserves a far worse fate than rotting away in a prison cell, but honestly, so long as he’s out of my life, I don’t care where the fuck he is.
He turned my childhood home into a place of nightmares. Made me scared to go home at the end of the day, fearful to leave my room, and terrified to be in his presence. His temper was so volatile, the slightest thing would set him off—if the server dripped a single drop of red wine on the white linen, if I had the slightest scuff on my shoe, if my mother had a hair out of place. He looked for any excuse to unleash the horrific creature that resided inside of him.
My mother hid behind her specially produced makeup that covered the marks he left on her, and I hid behind excuses—a broken arm from skateboarding, a fractured eye socket from fighting. The only ones who knew the truth of what went on behind closed doors were Hawk, Cam, and West. They were the ones that would help clean me up when I was left bruised, bloody, and broken on the floor. They’d bandage up the lashes from his belt and provide me with the necessary excuse to spend the night elsewhere. They’d listen when I vented, be there when I cried, spar with me when I needed an outlet. They were my saving grace when everything else around me seemed hopeless.
What was worse than the always present fear and the beatings though, was the blank expression my mother wore as she watched him break me into pieces. I don’t know if she was just so immune to the violence that it didn’t affect her, or if she genuinely didn’t care. Or maybe she was just so broken herself. Whatever the reason, watching her sit there, unresponsive, while I cried out for her help…that was what shattered me. It wasn’t the physical pain, or the embarrassment, or the fear. It was knowing my mother was sitting right there, watching it all, and she did nothing. There was no pleading for my father to stop, no crying, no soothing me after he’d stormed off. Like the dutiful wife, or manipulated puppet that she was, she’d rush after him, apologizing and begging for him to let her make it up to him. I understand that she was a victim too, but I just can’t wrap my head around that level of detachment.
The clanging of the gate as it slides open jolts me out of my inner turmoil, and I step forward.
“Arms out to your side, legs apart,” the guard barks.
I do as he says, and wait for him to pat me down. When he’s satisfied I’m not smuggling anything illegal into the prison, he waves me on, and I quickly join the back of the line at the one-man reception desk.
My foot taps impatiently against the floor as the line slowly shuffles forward, and eventually it’s my turn at the desk.
“Inmate’s name,” the woman behind the desk asks, not even bothering to look up from the clipboard in front of her.
“Frank Hayes.”
“Relationship?”
“He’s my father.”
She ticks a box and points toward a small waiting area. “Take a seat. You’ll be called when they’re ready for you.”
Doing as I’m told, I take the last empty seat, beside a young woman with a crying infant in her arms. She’s not paying the baby any attention, too busy on her phone to do anything more than bounce him up and down on her knee.
Mary, Mother of Joseph, please don’t let me have to return to this hell hole again. Once is more than enough.
Hadley was incredibly persistent that she come with me today, but she’s seen the inside of prison walls more than anyone should, so there was no way I was about to let her accompany me. I managed to talk Cam into distracting her while I slipped out this morning, and I’m sure she’s blowing up my phone with all sorts of pissed off texts, but I left it in the car, wanting to focus purely on what I came here to do.
Getting my dad to hand over his shares is going to be no small feat. He’s a callous man, one that only ever gave a shit about his own wants and needs. He’ll want to maintain control of his quarter of the company, but I placed a call to his lawyer before I came here today, and he explained that my dad is looking at a life sentence without parole. He hasn’t had his trial yet, but with the extensive evidence against him, it’s effectively a slam-dunk case. The lawyer has been pushing him to hand over power of attorney; the stubborn bastard just hasn’t done it yet, so I’m hoping it shouldn’t be a huge struggle to convince him.
Despite his lack of regard for anyone other than himself, he’s a very traditional man. He’s always believed in the eldest son taking over responsibility of the company, and stepping into the role as head of the family when the time came—I just don’t think he expected that to be any time soon. His reasons for being so ‘tough’ on me—as he described it—was because he was building me into the man I’d need to be to continue on the family legacy. I have no doubt there was probably some element of truth to his thinking, knowing what I know now about Nocturnal Mercenaries. I’d well believe it's a cutthroat industry, something Barton already confirmed, but the thing is, I am not my father. It might be his blood in my veins, his genetic makeup in my DNA, but that’s where the similarities end.
Cam has struggled a lot these last few months, carrying the weight of his father’s crimes, and I can understand where he’s coming from, but it’s not a burden I bear. I had to realize at a young age that the sins my father commits are not mine. The things he does, the person that he is—that’s not me. Every time he beat on me and whipped me bloody, I didn’t see how alike we were; I saw how different we are. Every whoosh of his belt through the air only strengthened my resolve, that I would never, ever, end up like my father.