Page 38 of The Masks We Break

Rage replaces reason, and my vision turns a dark shade of red as it wraps around my spine, holding me in place. It’s as if I’m stuck in quicksand, unable to do anything to fix this. I can’t give Remy what she wants, and in turn, can’t expect her to listen to any objections I may have in her dating someone.

The conundrum adds to the swell of frustration, expanding my chest, taking up any available space. It forces my lungs to work harder to breathe.

I’m losing control of my—

My father returns not a second too early and stops at the edge of the mat. He eyes me for a minute, and I do my best to keep my face passive, to not show him that I can barely see, let alone think with the blood surging through my body. But like he’s taught me to do so well, he reads everything. A smirk takes over his face.

Get control.

I say it over and over, but it does nothing. As soon as I make it to the center of the mat, he swings, not waiting for me to get ready, and collides with the side of my face. Physical pain replaces the emotional anger radiating across my skull.

It’s a cheap shot, and he knows it, but that doesn’t stop him. Instead, he takes full advantage, stepping into his next hit and catching me in the jaw. I react without thinking, letting the pain steer me, swinging my elbow, and making contact with his nose.

Fuck.

I move back, but in my fatigued state, it isn’t fast enough, and the six consecutive blows come down one after the other. I do my best to cover my head, but the tang of copper hits my taste buds, screaming my failure.

At last, he relents, and from my blurred sight, I see him back off, clearly satisfied with himself.

My body thrums with agony, and even blinking sends tremors down my back.

“Honey, you know he has a game tomorrow.” My mother’s voice appears from nowhere and somehow makes it through the pounding in my ears.

“Do I give you the impression that I care, Helen? That sport is a distraction at best. The boy needs to purge those things and remain focused. If he were paying attention, I wouldn’t have gotten the upper hand.”

My mother tsks, her heels echoing on the tile, growing louder as she nears me hanging off the soft mat. Every step sends another spike of pain through my temple.

Forcing myself to rise, I amble to my knees, resting on my haunches.

“Oh, Steel. He looks like he got into a bar fight.” A cold, frail hand skirts along my jawline, her wine-rich breath replacing the air around me as she leans in closer. The loose hairs from her bun brush against my ear, sending a violent tremor down my spine. “You’d better get up, son. Best not to keep him waiting.”

With that, she rises, turning back toward my father. “I have bridge with the girls, so I won’t be back until later. You’ll be a doll and send a driver around midnight?”

My father grunts his response. I’m sure he’s too busy watching the seconds to care about what she’s saying.

But it’s enough to satisfy her, and she disappears.

I don’t ever expect my mother to say anything when she finds me a broken mess on the floor. It’s not in our family’s DNA after all, but sometimes I wish she could buy me a little more time. Six minutes is rarely enough for me to gather my bearings, let alone rise and go six additional minutes with the man.

About sixty seconds left. I make a guess based on the shuffle of my father’s feet as he readies to walk toward me.

Get up, Bardot.

I repeat the phrase, but it doesn’t help. My body is too tired, too worn.

Twenty seconds.

If I don’t find the ability to get up, he’ll deliver a knockout blow, teaching me what being unprepared can do. Whatdistractionscan do. I remember the first time I made that mistake.

“You see what happens, Blaze, when you give the enemy the opportunity? They take you out. Every. Single. Time. Let this be a lesson to you, pup. We can’t afford the luxury of a distraction.”

Five seconds. Sucking in a guttural breath, I rise, pushing my feet into the mat. My muscles scream, pulling tight everywhere. I already know I won’t make it for six minutes and decide if I’m going to get knocked out, I might as well imagine the one thing that alleviates the tension.

Before my father’s fist makes contact, my last thought is inky black hair under my palm and Remy’s lips pressed against mine.

* * *

“Why the fuckdidn’t you call me, bro?” Bellamy moves around my bed, dipping a clean towel in the bowl of water on my nightstand.

---