Forsaken Desires (The Deepest Desires 2)

chapter thirty-eight

Knox

The last week has flown by surprisingly fast, and without issue. I’ve spent a hell of a lot of time with Weston and Branson—going to local shows, playing in Weston’s garage like we did back in high school, and going to parties. Luca’s tagged along quite a bit too, and I’m shocked that Aston hasn’t been around at all—not that I would dare ask about him.

Tonight, my dad is insisting we have a family dinner, which can’t be good. I’ve managed to avoid him almost entirely since walking in on him with that blonde. I’ve mostly avoided my mom too. She’s a whole other shitshow I don’t even want to touch on.

Pulling up out front of my house, my phone chimes in the cup holder.

Katie: Hey, stranger. What’s going on?

Me: Hey. Just got home. Have to have family dinner—kill me, now.

Katie. Yuck. Call me after?

Me: Yup. Shouldn’t take more than a couple hours. Call you around 7 my time.

Katie: Good luck! ;)

The caterers are walking out of the house now, so they must’ve prepared the food already. My mom never has them stay during the duration of dinner, just cook and go.

Sighing loudly, I run my hands through my hair, getting out of the Rover. I hate the pit that’s formed in my gut. It’s dinner, that’s it. Granted, it’s unusual for my father to call a dinner for us. He didn’t sound angry when I spoke with him, but that doesn’t mean anything. He’s a beast, always calm right before he strikes. Other than catching him with that woman, nothing has happened that I know of.

I’m sure it’s going to be fine.

I run my sweaty palms down the front of my jeans, locking the car and making my way inside. The mouthwatering scent of prime rib hits my nose as soon as I cross the threshold of the house, and my stomach growls. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until this very moment. I haven’t eaten anything since Dad called me and told me about dinner tonight.

Checking the time on my phone, it’s four minutes past five. Great, I’m late. Only by a few minutes, but that doesn’t matter to Daddy Dearest, especially if he’s already started drinking, which I’m willing to bet my entire trust fund that he has.

“Well, how nice of you to join us, Son,” my dad bites out from his spot at the head of the table.

“Hello to you, too, Dad.”

“Sit down, Son. We’re hungry and would like to get started while it’s still hot.” Would you look at that, an almost empty whiskey tumbler in front of him.

“Hi, honey,” my mom mutters. Her wine glass is almost empty as well. Lovely. This is going to be an interesting night.

“Hi, Mom.” Pulling my chair out, I take a seat and place the fancy napkin on my lap. The food in the center of the table looks fucking delicious. With the prime rib, there’s baked asparagus, garlic mashed potatoes, balsamic roasted baby carrots, and biscuits. Yum.

Looking toward my mother, I ask, “Can we dish up?”

“Go ahead, honey.”

After we’ve all filled our plates, and Dad’s refilled his glass, we dig in. Just like I thought, it fucking tastes amazing. The one and only thing I miss about being here when I’m at school is the food. College guys just don’t cook like this.

Halfway through our meal, and another whiskey in, Dad finally speaks. “So, Knox, I had an interesting conversation with my boss yesterday.”

“Oh, yeah?” His voice is too calm. Sitting up straighter, dread immediately weighs down my stomach and my heart rate kicks up. I don’t know what I could’ve done, but it must be something, though, if he’s bothering to tell me.

“Yeah, he actually told me about an interesting conversation he had with his daughter, Charlotte.” He picks up his glass and downs the rest of his whiskey, refilling it and never taking his eyes off me.

No.

A cold sweat breaks out across my skin, and I move my hands to my lap, so he doesn’t see that they’ve started to shake. There’s only one thing she could’ve said to her dad that involved me.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

“You remember Charlotte, right?”

“Yes, Dad. The girl I took to your work party months ago.”

He takes another large gulp of whiskey, then sets it on the table, dabbing his lips with his napkin. “I’m glad to hear you remember her. I wasn’t sure if you would, since it sounds like you abandoned her at the party to leave with some guy.”

Shit. Motherfucker.

“That party was months ago. She probably forgot what happened. She was pretty wasted when I picked her up.” I fucking hate how my voice has raised slightly.

“I thought it was weird too. Now, why would my son blatantly disobey my order, leave her at the party to—what did she say?” He takes another drink from his glass. “That’s right! Argue with a guy… she actually said it sounded like he was jealous. She compared it to a fight between a couple. That can’t be right, can it, Knox?” His voice is dangerously low.

I can’t catch my breath, and I can hear the blood whooshing in my ears. It’ll be fine. I’ll give him some excuse, some logical reason for why I was fighting with Aston. It’s fine.

I’ll be fine. If I can manage to not vomit everywhere or pass out first.

Breathe. I need to fucking breathe.

Slamming his palm down on the table, I jump halfway out of the chair, a gasp catching in my throat. “I asked you a fucking question, boy. I expect a fucking answer.”

“I… I do-don’t know what she thinks she saw, but she’s fucking wrong.”

“Yeah? Then why can’t you fucking look at me when you say that?” He refills his glass, draining half of it in one go. “You’re not a faggot, are you, Son?”

Wincing at the slur, as if he physically hit me, my eyes jump to his. He’s livid. Drunk and pissed, never a good combination with him.

“I know I didn’t raise no cock-lover. We fixed that problem years ago, right?”

My mom groans beside me, like this argument is annoying her. “Knox, can you just fucking answer him, so we can go back to enjoying our meal?”

Her nonchalant behavior toward this argument unfolding in front of her pisses me off. My molars grind together so hard, I’m surprised they don’t crack. Something shifts inside me, and the dread and panic that was filling me is now replaced with fury.

“Fuck you,” is all I say. At this point, I’m not even sure who I’m directing it to.

My father chokes on his drink. “Excuse me?”

“You fucking heard me! Fuck you, both of you!”

His lip curls into a wicked snarl seconds before he throws his drink in my face. The whiskey burns my eyes. Wiping my face, I kick my chair back and jump to my feet, ready as I’ll ever be to face off with the monster in front of me.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, boy, talking to us like that?”

“Someone who is fed the fuck up with your bullshit!” Standing tall and squaring my shoulders, I look him directly in the eye and say the one thing that will sign my death warrant. I’ll probably never know what possessed me to say this, but I can’t keep it bottled up any longer. “And you know what, Dad? Charlotte’s fucking right. Your son is a fucking faggot, but I’d rather be a faggot than a fucking bigot, cheating asshole who gets his rocks off kicking his own kid’s ass. You fucking disgust me!”

Red hot pain explodes on the side of my face, my hand flying up to cup it. The faint, distinct, coppery taste envelopes my taste buds, and there’s blood on my hand when I pull it away from my face.

Charging toward him, I slam him into the wall. Drawing my arm back, my fist collides with his jaw, sending his head flying to the left. When his eyes find mine again, they’re blazing with anger, and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, I fucked up.

The whiskey tumbler still in his left hand comes up, smashing into my skull, sending glass shards flying everywhere. With the adrenaline pumping through my body, I don’t feel the pain, but know my head is a bloody mess when I feel the warm, thick liquid drip down my face. Stumbling for a second before I right myself, I raise my fist to try and hit him again, but he’s quicker. A fist packed with enough force to take down an elephant slams into my gut, knocking the wind right out of me. My legs give out, sending me tumbling to the ground, where his foot takes a turn, connecting with my stomach.

A broken sob flies out of my mouth as I try to protect my stomach from his brutal attacks, but it’s no use. His foot slams into my arm that’s trying to cover myself, and I hear a sickening snap—my wrist. Leaning down and towering over me, his left hand fists my shirt, bringing the top half of my body off the ground, as his right hand lays hit after hit on my face.

“No fucking son of mine will be a faggot.” Hit.

“You’re a fucking embarrassment to this family.” Hit.

“A pussy excuse for a man.” Hit.

Excruciating pain pulsates through my entire body that even the adrenaline can’t mask. Releasing my shirt and letting me fall to the ground, his shoe connects with my ribs.

Instinctively, I try to block the blow with my arm, and violent pain explodes from my wrist. Screaming out, I push my hand to the floor and try to lift myself up, but my strength is gone, and I collapse once more. My body is failing me and he’s winning. Looking over, my mom is standing in the corner, watching with wide eyes, but not doing a goddamn thing to stop him or help me.

Knowing I can’t win against him, I give up. Succumbing to the pain I must deserve, I lie there and take hit after hit, kick after kick. I’m not sure how long this goes on before I finally pass out. The last thing I feel is his foot colliding with my skull, then the whole world goes black.

So. Fucking. Black.