Forsaken Desires (The Deepest Desires 2)

chapter twenty-nine

Knox

“So, Son,” my dad says from across the dinner table. Why we must pretend to be a happy fucking family is beyond me. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

I immediately tense at the question. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t. I’ve been busy.”

Shoving my food around my plate, there is nothing more I want than to be done here so I can escape to my room. Being around him for any amount of time is unnerving. He’s getting meaner and more difficult to be around the older he gets.

“You know my office is having their annual party on Friday,” he bites out. “You’ll be expected to go.”

Fucking joy.

“I know, Dad. We go every year.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, boy!”

“Honey,” my mom chimes in, pointing at me with a look of annoyance. “Let’s just have a nice dinner. Your father is just trying to be helpful.”

“You’ll take my boss’s daughter to the party.” He drops that bomb like it’s no big deal.

“What?” I can’t even help the bitter tone I spit at him.

“You heard me. You will take Charlotte to the party. You’ll be her date.”

“I don’t want to be her fucking date.”

In a flash, he’s out of his seat and stomping toward me. Standing up, because I refuse to cower in front of him, I square my shoulders and look him in the eye.

“When I tell you to do something, you fucking do it, boy. I wasn’t asking.”

“I’m. Not. Fucking. Taking. Her.”

I knew it was coming half a second before his fist connects with my jaw. Fiery pain explodes on the right side of my face, my mom gasps, and I lose it. In the back of my mind, I know reacting isn’t a good idea, but I don’t fucking care. Shoving him until his back hits the china cabinet, my arm pulls back, sucker punching him as hard as I can. Being the fucking Hulk that he is, though, he’s barely even fazed. He can’t see anything through his blind rage, his eyes filled with so much hate, and he gets one more punch into the side of my face before I fall to the ground.

I’m not given enough time to curl in and protect myself, before his loafer connects with my stomach hard enough to know I’ll have bruised ribs tomorrow. A cry falls out of my mouth before I can stop it. Vaguely, I can hear my mother mumbling about the broken china, but per usual, not doing a goddamn thing to stop her psychotic husband from beating her child.

Leaning down until he’s hovering over me, he speaks through gritted teeth. “You’re taking that bitch to the party. End. Of. Discussion.” As if the ass kicking he gave me wasn’t enough, he spits in my face before storming out of the dining room.

My mom comes running over to me, gaping at all the broken dishes before pinning me with a detached look. “The first-aid kit is under the sink,” she says apathetically.

“Trust me, Mom. I know where the fucking first-aid kit is,” I croak. Using the chair beside me, I get back on my feet and leave the room.

Fuck him and fuck her for doing literally nothing to stop him.

Going out the back door, I make my way across the lawn in a hurry to the guest house. Once the door is locked behind me, I go over to my dresser and pull the bottle of vodka out that I have stashed there. Twisting the cap off, I take three large pulls, wincing at the warm burning feeling making its way down my throat.

My phone goes off as I’m sealing the bottle back up. Reaching into my pocket, I pull it out and see it’s Aston.

JT: Hopefully your night is going better than mine. Bored as hell.

How I fucking wish my night could be boring. Must be fucking nice.

Me: Same, bro. Where you at?

JT: My house.

Me: Can I come over for a bit? Just to chill?

JT: Yup, come on over.

With that decided, I take one more generous swig from the bottle, grabbing my keys and wallet, and locking up behind me. Hopping into my Rover, I peel out of the driveway as the Bluetooth connects to my phone.

When Mansion by NF comes on, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry at the eerie resemblance the lyrics have to my life. Turning it all the way up, I sing every fucking word until tears are streaming down my face.

Goddamnit.

He doesn’t deserve my fucking anger or my tears.

“Fuck!” I scream as I hit my steering wheel repeatedly until my hand hurts. Pulling over to the shoulder, I jump out, not bothering to shut the door behind me.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Picking up a rock, I throw it into the darkness, a guttural roar coming from deep in my chest. Pain radiates in my torso as I scream and fall to my knees. Holding myself, I know it’s my ribs causing the pain, and I remain on my knees right there on the side of the road, cradling myself while the tears I can’t seem to stop continue to fall down my face.

I have no idea how long I cry on the side of the road, but eventually the tears stop falling and the numb feeling settles over me in waves. Getting up, I wipe my knees and hands off, rub my hands over my face, then get back in my car as if nothing even happened.

Turning the music off, I make the rest of the drive in utter silence, none of the previous feelings able to penetrate me anymore. About five minutes later, I’m pulling into Aston’s long, steep driveway, parking behind the Tesla. Allowing myself a few deep breaths, as deeply as my angry ribs will allow, I get out and make my way to his porch.

The door opens before I can even knock, so he must have been waiting. The smile on his face falls the second he takes me in. I probably look like a fucking mess and probably should’ve rethought my plan to come here, but it’s too late now.

“Knox, what the fuck happened to you? Get in here.”

“What do you mean? I’m fine.” Lies.

“You’re fine? Man, you have dried blood on your lip and your jeans look like you just rolled around in the dirt.”

“I’m fine. Can we go to your room and not do this here?”

Seeming to let it go for now, he turns and heads up the stairs. I follow behind him, having never been inside this house before. It’s huge—bigger than even mine, I think. Going into the third door on the left once we reach the top, he turns on the light, and I notice we’re in the bathroom, not his room.

“What are we doing in here?”

“You’re a mess. Going to clean you up,” he states, grabbing a washcloth and getting it wet. Walking until we’re toe to toe, he puts the warm cloth to the side of my face, a hiss escaping me at the stinging pain I feel.

“You going to tell me what happened?”

“Nothing happened. It’s no big deal.”

He rolls his eyes. “Right, that’s believable. Also, you reek of vodka. How much have you had to drink?”

“Not much.”

“I see we’re cryptic as fuck tonight.” He bites out his words, but continues to look at me with concern and touch me with care.

Once he’s satisfied, he throws the washcloth in the hamper, takes my hand, and leads me to his room. It’s also huge, with a massive bed right in the middle. Taking my shoes off by the door, I make my way over to the bed, feeling his presence right behind me.

Turning around until we’re facing each other, he lifts his finger and pushes my hair out of my face. His gaze is intense and curious, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he leans in, capturing my lips with his. His tongue glides across my bottom lip and when I open for him, he tastes minty, like he just brushed his teeth. I groan as his tongue massages mine, exploring my mouth eagerly, but also taking his time, like we have all the time in the world.

Bringing his hands up to my shoulders, he pushes my jacket down until it falls to the ground. He walks me back the few steps it takes for me to bump into the bed, and I take the hint, climbing on while he follows. Now sitting in my lap, he breaks the kiss and reaches behind him to pull his shirt off before returning his lips to mine.

My hands find their way to his hips, running them all the way up his back, loving the hot feeling of his skin under my palms. This. This is what I need—him. A distraction from everything.

I grab at the hem of my shirt, and he shoves it over my head, breaking our kiss again. When my shirt’s off, his lips find my neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses on every available surface until he reaches my ear. “Missed you,” he admits. The confession causes a lump in my throat, leaving me unable to say anything back, even though I feel the same.

Running his hands down my chest, I wince before I can stop myself when he passes my inflamed ribs and, of course, he notices. His hands stop in their tracks, and he rips his lips away from mine. Looking down—and probably not seeing anything yet—he looks back up and meets my eyes. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” I growl, annoyed that I have to keep saying that.

“You’re obviously not fucking fine. You showed up here with a bloody lip and you’re clearly in pain. What the fuck happened, Knox? And don’t fucking say nothing.”

“Fuck, I just got into a fight, okay? Not a big deal.”

“A fight? With who?”

“It doesn’t fucking matter, Aston. Fuck! Can you just shut the fuck up and kiss me?”

He looks over my features, visibly apprehensive and not wanting to drop it, but he finally does what I ask, crashing his lips back down on mine. The sting caused by the brutal kiss on my split lip is welcoming and clears my head better than the cigarette burns ever could.

All I want—no, need—is to get lost in Aston for the night.