Page 39 of Unorthodox
Christopher laughs darkly into the phone, and I clench my fist around the playing card in my pocket, taking it out and laying it flat on my desk as I stare down at the matte black face, raised edging around the king and hearts.
“He’s long gone now,” he continues, and I don’t know what the fuck that means, but Christopher keeps talking. “I’m not sure what happened with them. You understand, Max, I’d never intentionally put my daughter in harm’s way.”
I arch a brow, say nothing. We both know he’s full of shit. I won’t do him the favor of calling him out on it.
“But something seemed to change in her, one summer I was down in Mexico City. I came back, and her and Danik were…withdrawn. Skittish, around each other. My brother said nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but my brother has always been a little strange.”
Runs in the fucking family.
I flip the playing card over, running my finger down the plain, black backing, waiting to hear the moral of this story.
“I’m not sure what he did to her, Max, but I’d imagine whoever it is that wants her, he wants a virgin.” Christopher blows out a breath and I sit up straighter, my palm trapping the playing card underneath. “I’m not sure she qualifies. Not after that summer at least.”
I stare straight ahead at my office door, unblinking.
Not breathing.
I’m not even sure if my heart is beating.
“Hit him, Maximus.”My father’s voice is calm, steady. We’re in the shed behind the compound, a large, empty building with boarded up windows. It’s hot in here, and I’m drenched in sweat, even though I’ve done nothing yet.
The person in front of me is tied to a chair, arms bound behind him. Blindfold over his eyes. Duct tape over his mouth, so he doesn’t start humming like he does when he’s nervous or upset. He’s rocking in his chair, but it’s bolted to the floor.
He can’t escape.
My father won’t let him.
Even though Oliver is his son, too. He’s five years younger than me.
Eight.
He’seight.
“Hit him, or I’ll do it for you.”
I don’t move. My hands ball into fists. I watch Oliver’s bare chest rise and fall rapidly, his pale skin glistening with sweat, the sharp bones of his ribcage visible with his youth.
I know why my father wants me to do it. Oliver peed in his pants again, didn’t tell anyone because he can’t talk, and my father happened to find him first, his beige shorts turned brown with urine.
If I had found him… If Mom had found him…
My heart twists in my chest.
It doesn’t matter. We didn’t.
Our father’s voice in my ear makes my legs tremble. “If you don’t hit him, Max, I’ll bring in Coda.”
I close my eyes for a second, bite my tongue so hard I taste blood, all so I don’t whimper. If I whimper, this won’t end well for any of us.
I take a step toward Oliver, and my father claps a hand over my shoulder, meant to encourage me.
I lift my fist. I’m strong. My father trains me. I lose, often. Just last year, he broke my arm. The year before that, a rib.
But I’m stronger now.
I’m a man. After I had my first woman last year, on my twelfth birthday… I push that thought aside. It wasn’t as enjoyable as my father had led me to believe it would be.
I get closer to Oliver. He’s holding his breath now, his body rigid, tendons flexing in his neck, but he’s still rocking, still nervous.
