Thirty-Eight

Alyssa and I don't have to drag the guys inside after the power hour ends.

No, they proceed to drink for the next hour, and then we deal with them. Alyssa handles Dalton, I take care of Lander, Everett naps on the lawn, and Frank continues to prove his liver's capabilities by wandering the main house, stumbling as he goes.

It's mid-afternoon, but Lander collapses onto the bed, dangling precariously while half-heartedly removing his shirt. He gets one arm out before quitting, so I finish the job for him and help him into bed. He's in for a hell of a hangover if he doesn't get some water in him though.

Downstairs, the main house is quiet. In the kitchen, I pour two glasses of water and put together a pitiful hangover plate for Lander: toast, a banana, and what little brie Alyssa and I didn't decimate. I'm poking around in one of the cabinets, trying to see if there's anything carby besides bread, when a hand touches my lower back.

I whirl around and a pair of brown eyes meets mine. Alarmed, I clasp my chest with my palm. "Frank, you scared me."

He's disheveled and pink in the cheeks with a layer of sweat lining his forehead. Without a word, he reaches over and picks up the minuscule piece of brie I left on the plate for Lander. He watches me while he pops it into his mouth, and his eyes are glazed but probing, tracking my movements like a hawk circling and preparing to nosedive.

Before I can say anything, the toaster oven beeps. I grab Lander's toast with the little wooden tongs and layer it on the now-empty plate, acutely aware of how closely Frank is still watching me.

"That for him?" he inquires.

"Yes." I grab the butter bell from the center of the island and begin spreading it onto the toast.

Frank leans back against the island, his head tilted thoughtfully. "So how much?"

"Pardon?" I ask, glancing up.

"Let's do ten grand a month. I can put you up in a place in Dupont. You'd be right around the corner from my office."

Confused, I stop what I'm doing as Frank moves closer. Before I can process what's about to happen, his hand rises and fists the hem of my skirt.

"What the fuck," I hiss. I shove him away, but he's fast. He presses me against the stainless-steel fridge and his hand grazes my thigh.

"Fuck, you feel soft," he mutters, putting his face close to mine. His breath is sharp from the liquor, so potent it stings my eyes. His hand continues, rising until it cups my ass cheek. "No wonder he wants to fuck up his life for you. I thought he was crazy for fucking a whore from god knows what country, but I get it."

Repulsion and fighting instincts kick in. I shove him again, managing to get him off, but he's back on me immediately.

"I watched you for an hour last night," he goes on, slurring. "One of your old videos. Got me so fucking hard. I had to come while watching you. You're a bad little slut, aren't you?"

My pulse is like an alarm blaring. I push Frank away with full force, catching him by surprise. Before he can fling his body against me, I rotate and let him envelop me in his arms.

When he thinks he can subdue me, I drop my weight low into a partial sprawl and fling my arm back, catching him in the face with my elbow.

"Motherfuck!" he bellows, stumbling backwards.

When I whirl around, finally free, Frank is clutching his nose. His face has tinged to a splotchy pink, and while I didn't make him bleed—not because I couldn't, but because I chose not to—I've obviously won.

"You bitch," he hisses, glaring at me with enraged eyes. "I'm going to ruin your—"

"Frank?" a voice calls out, distant and accompanied by footsteps on marble.

Alyssa.

I take the water and plate from the counter and dart out of the kitchen before Alyssa shows up. As I'm retreating, I hear her alarmed yelp and Frank's quick, collected response of, "I walked into an open cabinet."

My heart pounds as I charge up the stairs and my eyes are welling. I want to scrub my skin raw, if not peel it from my body and burn it. The thought of ever allowing a man other than Lander to fuck me is revolting and fuck fuck fuck this is what men like Frank do, isn't it?

My disgust piles on top of everything that lives deep in my soul, that corrosive, all-consuming frustration with the way so many men can disregard women like it's nothing—like we're not worthy of their respect, their decency. I was raised by a man like this, not one who ever touched me, but one who treated me like I was beneath him. Like I didn't have thoughts of my own, dreams of my own—as if I existed solely to be controlled by him.

That primal urge rises in me again. I wish there was a way to make men like Frank—like my father—pay.

But I'm so fucking tired.

I swallow down the sob clawing my throat and fling myself into the bedroom, finding safety behind the closed door. My entire body feels alien and repulsive and exhausted, but those reactions pale in comparison to the dread I feel knowing I have to tell Lander.

Well, so much for family.