7. Scotty

It's been three days since Brody sent me away. Three days since he gave me the best orgasm of my life, only to kick me out. The first day, I cried a lot. I must have sent Brody at least thirty messages asking him to let me know he was okay. He didn't respond to any of them. The only thing keeping me from having the police do a welfare check has been seeing the read receipts. He was getting them, opening them a few seconds later, and simply not responding.

The second day, I took action. I drove past his lovely home a total of seventy-six times. I only stopped when one of his neighbors contacted the police with accusations of stalking. Stalking! Well, when Daddy finally gets out of his bad mood, I fully plan on having him find the caller's information and slit their throat while they sleep. I'll stand for many things—having my undying love be branded something problematic-borderline-illegal isn"t one of them. They will be shown no mercy when their life is snuffed out.

It's now day three, and I haven't been able to drag myself out of bed. Daddy could be planning on killing himself, and I'm here cuddled up in bed while Tatum fixes me lunch in my kitchen. I don't want his lunch. I don't even want him here. Given the chance, I'd shove him off my second-floor balcony if it would bring Daddy back to me. I'd creep up behind Tatum and hold his face down over the sizzling frying pan until his skin bubbled black, if it earned me just one answered text message.

Am I crazy? Probably. But it doesn't take away from the truth.

I love Brody. Even though I might not know much about him, I know his heart. I know it beats only for me. He can deny it all he wants, but it's clear in his eyes. He has one more day. If he doesn't get back to me by tomorrow, I'm going by his house, and I'm going to force him into submission by threats of death. It seems to be the only thing that works on him, and I'm not above risking a felony charge, if that's what it takes.

There's a loud bang in the living room, and for a moment, I think it might be him. Brody has come to his senses and realized we're inevitable. He's realized a life without me at his side isn't a life worth living.

It's a nice enough thought, but it isn't true.

When I rush into the living room to find Daddy, instead I find Tatum staring at the television with a look of horror on his face, and a frying pan resting on the floor beside him. Asshole. There's charred grime all over my pretty hardwood floor, and I'm not cleaning it up. I call his name to get his attention, but it's like he's got tunnel vision. When I look at the television to see what has him so despondent, I see why.

My father.

The man who gave me life, but not much else.

The man who hasn't personally acknowledged me in almost a decade.

He's standing on a stage with his wife and their three children. Behind him, there's a rainbow flag with flames creeping up each color, burning them down to ash. Dad-not-Daddy is waving at the crowd, beaming his politician's smile brightly, occasionally throwing a wink or a pointed thumbs up at the crowd. Below his smiling face, there's a headline scrolling across the screen.

Senator Mark Levinson announces presidential bid.

When Dad starts talking, I grab the remote out of Tatum's hand and turn the volume up.

"And that's why I'm proud to announce my candidacy for the presidency of the United States. Together, we'll take this country back. Together, we'll cleanse these great states of filth and debauchery. Together, we shall prosper. Thank you!"

Once the rainbow flag has been burned down to nothing, the screen behind my father flashes with images of gay couples embracing. Each picture that passes becomes more and more obscene until a video plays.

"Oh, my God," I say, dropping the remote. Tatum rushes for it, quickly powering off the screen and pulling me in for a hug. Somehow, my father obtained surveillance footage of me holding a rusty wrench to Brody's head as I rutted against his stomach in the gay bar bathroom. My penis has been covered by an eggplant emoji. In the video, Brody is staring at me, looking shell-shocked. Seeing him like that takes me by surprise, because it isn't how I remember our first time. Sure, he'd been playing hard to get, but I never got the vibe that this was anything more than a game to him. The weapon play, the feigned pleas for me to stop—all of it had seemed like he was in on the game.

Maybe he wasn't.

And if he wasn't, then it means I forced his hand. It means he really has been trying to murder me all along. I told him I love him. I've told him he's my forever, and he's probably just been laughing at me behind my back this whole time. Worse, it means I've taken something I had no right to take. Was every instance of consent he'd given me said because I had a weapon? Oh, God. Did I rape him?

My stomach spins, and it feels like I'm about to be sick. I make a mad dash for the bathroom, not bothering to close the door behind me. I haven't been able to eat since I left Brody's house, so the only thing coming out is dark yellow bile. It coats my mouth, the flavor relentlessly bitter, just like the bitter ache in my heart.

I don't know how long I've been clinging to the toilet, dry heaving until it feels like I'm suffocating. Then I hear it. A loud bang. The front door, bursting open. A deep voice screaming words I can't make out. Tatum's been with me this whole time, stroking my back, but he screams, and his hands fall away from me, leaving me feeling more alone than ever.

"Don't fucking touch him. I warned you last time. Keep your goddamn hands off my boy."

Oh, God.

"Get the fuck out of this apartment. Don't ever come back. I swear to fucking God, I'll drown you in the sink if I see you here again!"

And then Daddy's hands are around me, pulling me away from the toilet. Holding me tightly against his chest. The second I catch the familiar scent of vanilla and vodka, my entire body melts into him.

"Brody," I whisper, my voice choked and strained. I dig my nails into his back, clinging desperately to him, needing him to make it all better. Knowing he alone holds the power to bring me back from the darkness. But why would he? Why is he even here?

His fingers gently comb through my hair as he whispers, "It's okay. Daddy's here. I've got you. You're okay."

I shake my head, because I don't deserve his kindness. "I'm sorry." The words come out jagged and frantic. I need him to know. He has to know I thought he'd wanted it too.

His lips press firm against my scalp. "Don't you dare apologize to me, Freakshow."

"Please," I say, not sure what I'm pleading for. For him, perhaps? For the events of the last three days to be erased from my memory?

The next thing I know, I'm in my bed and Brody is laying in front of me, pulling the blankets over our head. The front door closes, and I assume it's Tatum leaving to give us a bit of privacy. I cling to Brody for what feels like hours before I can finally speak.

"Daddy," I whisper, too scared to say it any louder for fear he might disappear.

"I'm right here, baby. I've got you."

I want to rip the covers away and face him like a man, but I can't bring myself to. Pulling the covers away will make everything real. It will rip away any hope that what we've done has been just as true for him as it has been for me. I'm not ready to face that yet, so I just wrap my arms around him and let him carry the weight of our burden on his shoulders.