A selfish part of me wished I could at least have brought Scarlett with me, but even if I could have gotten her away, the fact was that I didn't like to bring her around my father.
I didn't like the way he looked at her. It was unsettling and infuriating, some strange mixture of distaste, recognition, and animal lust. It made me want to hurt him.
I'd taken to sheltering her from my father even more diligently than I did my mother.
I only had to stay with Leo a few weekends a year, but they were always particularly dreadful.
This one was no exception.
I wasn't greeted at the door of his penthouse apartment. I had to ring the doorbell several times before a redheaded woman in her underwear answered the door.
She smiled when she saw me. "You must be the birthday boy," she said and took off her bra. "I've got a present for you, D—" She paused, then called over her shoulder, "Leo! What's your son's name again?"
"Dante," he called back from somewhere in the large apartment. "Happy Birthday, boy!" he shouted.
At least he's here, I thought wryly. Drunk off his ass, but here.
It wasn't even my birthday. That'd been over a month ago, and I'd seen him at least once since then.
The topless woman started moving closer, and I warded her off with my hands. "No, thank you. I have a girlfriend."
She giggled and went down to her knees. She put a finger over her mouth and said in what I think she thought was a quiet voice. "I won't tell her if you won't. Now come here. Let me see if big cocks run in the family. Don't be shy. I don't have a gag reflex."
I wanted to leave right then, but I was too proud. My father would say I'd run away like a * or something along those lines. He always turned everything into a test for me, like he was some standard to be held to, which was a joke.
"No, thank you," I told her, coldly and politely. "Which room is my dad in?"
Another woman walked into the entryway, this one blonde, wearing a corset around her middle and nothing else. The blonde was not natural.
"I'll show you to him, baby," she purred at me. "You guys are into some fucked up shit—the father/son kink, but I'm down. Ever double penetrated a woman? If you're into that, I'm your girl."
I was genuinely horrified. I didn't consider myself a prude, but she'd more than shocked me.
"I want to talk to him," I clarified. Translation: I wanted to chew him the hell out.
She nodded her head toward the billiard room. "The party's in there, birthday boy. You're in for a treat, let me tell you."
It was not a treat.
Well, not for me, at least. Leo seemed to be enjoying himself.
I hadn't thought I could have less respect for my father, but I'd been wrong.
The first thing I noticed was the two girls on the pool table. They were naked, on hands and knees, facing away from each other, and they were moving. When I realized what they were doing, I felt myself blush.
The next thing my eye caught was my depraved father. He was sitting on one of the low leather couches with a glass in one hand, while the other was tucking himself back into his pants, his eyes glued to the pool table. The woman beside him, his mistress, I realized in shock as she straightened up from his lap, was wiping her mouth.
"Can I have a word?" I asked him sharply.
He sent me a glare that made him look like a spoiled child told to put down his ice cream. "Oh what now? You're not happy with your birthday party?"
"I'll be in the kitchen," I told him and left the room, having to shrug off two half-naked prostitutes as I went.
He didn't make me wait as long as I thought he would, only ten minutes or so, but in that time I had to kick five working girls out of the room.
"It's not my birthday," I said when he finally made his way leisurely into the kitchen.
He leaned against a countertop, his dirty blond hair mussed, part of it standing on end. I don't think he noticed.
He folded his arms over his chest, glass of liquor still in hand, staring me down. It wasn't very intimidating considering he was swaying on his feet. "It's not?"
"It's not." But that wasn't even the point. "You do know I'm only fifteen?" I asked him, curling my lip with the question. I wanted him to know how disgusted I was with him.
I always wanted that. It was the focal point of our relationship for me. I wanted, always, to establish how different I was from him.
How I was nothing like him.
He blinked a few times slowly, his mouth opening in what could only be described as a vaguely shocked, drunken pout.
I'm not even sure why his reaction surprised me. It wasn't at all out of the question that he'd forgotten how old I was.
"Fifteen?" he finally got out, taking a long swig of his drink and pursing his lips. "I thought it was fourteen. How the years go by. Damn, I hope you're not still a virgin?" He laughed. "Have I neglected my fatherly duties?"
I wanted to punch him right in his smug, drunken face. I was shaking with the urge.