Max took a deep breath and grabbed the doorknob. If his dad was in the mood to punch someone, better it was him than his mom or Sarah. His sister was only fourteen and on the small side. When their father hit her, it was usually pretty bad.
As he opened the door, Max heard his mom tearfully begging his dad to calm down. Max didn’t know why she bothered. He’d pleaded with his mother to take him and his sister and leave his abusive father for years. The three of them could stay in a local shelter or even move to Oklahoma, where his mom’s family lived. Someone out there would put them up until they could get their lives together, he was sure of it. His mother wouldn’t even consider it, though. She kept thinking her bastard of a husband would change and stop smacking them around if she simply loved him enough.
The moment Max walked into the living room, he could tell his dad had been drinking. He wasn’t drunk yet. Well over six feet and more than 250 pounds, his father was a big man, and it took a lot of alcohol to get him smashed, but he was obviously well on his way.
His father was standing in front of his old, worn-out recliner, waving his arms around and sloshing beer from his half-full bottle all over the place, yelling something about not telling him what to do in his own damn house. Fortunately, while he seemed pretty pissed, his eyes didn’t have that red-rimmed, insane look he got when was about to explode. This was just his normal, everyday kind of pissed.
Max’s mother didn’t even look his way. Instead, she stood there wringing her hands as her husband ranted like a madman. But his little sister saw him and flashed a quick smile to let him know she, at least, was happy to see him. It had always been the two of them against the world—or at least against their dad.
Max didn’t make it more than a few feet into the room when his father turned bloodshot eyes on him. “Where the hell have you been?”
Max almost sighed but stopped himself just in time. Sighing, rolling his eyes, hell, even looking like he had a pulse were all things his father would beat him for, and he was too damn tired to put up with that crap this morning.
“I was at work, Dad,” Max said, subtly moving closer and putting himself between his old man and Sarah, just in case.
His mom still hovered off to the side, her hands clenching and twisting together in front of her even more anxiously.
“I pulled a double shift…for a little extra money,” Max added when his father didn’t say anything.
His father’s lip curled in a sneer. “You think you’re the shit now that you’re making minimum wage down at the local Gas-and-Go? You think you’re better than me because you have a little change in your pocket?”
Max shook his head, hoping he could somehow defuse the situation, but when he saw his dad’s face turn red and his eyes get that crazy look, he knew it was too late. Dad had been looking for an excuse, and he’d found it.
Max didn’t bother trying to avoid the blow coming his way. It would just enrage his old man more than he already was, which would make the beating that much worse.
His father’s fist caught him square on the jaw, knocking his head sideways so hard little strobe lights exploded behind his eyes. There were times in the past when a shot like that would have put him out cold. But he wasn’t a little kid anymore. He wasn’t as big as his dad, of course, but he was nearly 190 pounds, most of it muscle. It still hurt to get punched in the face, but he could take it a lot better than when he was younger. Max ignored the pain, refusing to reach up and wipe away the blood running down his chin. Instead, he glared at the piece of crap in front of him, refusing to retreat even when his old man took a threatening step toward him.
“You think you’re tough now because you finished high school and got a job? I’ll show you tough, you little punk.”
Maybe that was why his father hated him so much. Maybe he was pissed at Max because Max had graduated high school. Something the big, tough Carl Lowry had never done. His dad had always crowed about never finishing fifth grade, like he was proud of it, but now Max guessed that wasn’t so true.
His dad cocked his fist back, and Max knew he was probably going to be pissing blood after this one—if he lived through it.
A flash of movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention; then, Sarah was latching on to their father’s right arm. “Daddy, stop it! Please, just stop it!”
Max wasn’t sure how it was possible, but everything slowed down right then. At first, his old man seemed shocked, but then his face darkened, and Max realized this situation had suddenly taken a very bad turn.
His mother must have figured that out, too, because she lifted her hand and placed it on his dad’s shoulder, tugging at him tentatively. “Baby, don’t…”
But it was too late for any of that. His father yanked his arm away from Sarah and backhanded her across the face. She flew backward, bouncing off the living room wall with a cry of pain. Eyes full of tears, she reached up to cover her bloody nose with her hand, sinking to the floor.
Their father grabbed her by the shirt and yanked her back to her feet, his face a mask of rage. “Don’t you ever try that shit again, you hear me?”
His voice was so loud Max was sure the neighbors heard. Not that they’d do anything. Shouting was a common occurrence around here.
His mother swallowed hard, her trembling hands tightly clasped in front of her now like she was praying.
Max refused to wait for God to come down to stop his dad. He’d said those same prayers often enough to know that no help was coming—heavenly or otherwise.
Hooking one arm around his old man’s shoulders, he yanked him away from his sister, slinging him as far across the room as he could manage. His father almost stumbled over the recliner but caught his balance quickly. Eyes wild, he charged at Max with a yell.
Max might have been scared as hell, but he stood his ground. He couldn’t let his dad hurt Sarah, not again.
His father swung first. Max jerked back so the blow barely grazed his chin, then went on the offensive. He’d never hit his dad before, and when his fist connected with his old man’s face, pain shot through his wrist and up his arm. He ignored it and swung again, then again. He kept swinging, forcing his dad back toward the recliner.
Max wasn’t sure how many times he hit his father, but when he finally felt someone clutching his shoulder, he looked over to see his mom standing there, tears streaming down her face. Breathing as hard as if he’d run a race, Max slowly turned his attention back to his father. His old man was half-sprawled on the recliner, his ugly face a bloody mess.
Max stared down at him, wondering what the hell to do now. It wasn’t like he could act like none of this had ever happened. He’d just beat the shit out of his old man.
