Page 21 of Obsessed Mr. O’Brian

Maybe if I hadn’t taken a break from work after Shannon died I would have what he needs, but I don’t. My entire body quakes with fear.

“I don’t have—”

He shoves me against the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of me.

“Fuck off with your lies, Mills,” he snarls before releasing me and wagging his finger in my face. “I saw the fancy car you just climbed out of. I don’t give a shit if you’re wiping a spoiled rich brat’s ass all day or fucking some ancient old crony; you owe me money,” he demands.

“I just got hired today. I was out of work for—”

I shrink back as he crowds closer, the aggression and fumes wafting off him nearly choking me.

“Have you forgotten again already?” The fury in his eyes reminds me of just how violent he can be. All thoughts drain from my head, and I stand like a deer in the headlights, except I know what’s barreling toward me and still can’t move out of the way. “It’s your fault your brother is a retard and your mother is a nutcase.” Every ounce of color drains from the world. “And it’s your fault I lost my job and started gambling again, so get me the money before I go see your mom,” he threatens.

The world dims. He’ll hurt them again. My mother will never recover and my brother will lose the one person he can rely on. I panic.

“Daddy, I don’t—”

He punches my stomach. I double over in pain, only for him to shove me back against the wall and bury his fist in my ribs, cutting my cry of agony short and filling my entire torso with anguish.

“Don’t call me that, bitch. I’m ashamed you’re what came out of me climbing on top of your worthless mother.”

My heart feels more bruised than my abdomen, but I don’t dare speak out for fear of worse retaliation. I flinch when he reaches for me, but he grabs my wrist, yanks me away from the wall, and flings me toward the door to my apartment. My wrist throbs and burns from the mistreatment.

“Get me the money,” he snarls.

I fight the urge to cower and instead brace against the door and speak in what I hope sounds like a strong voice, but it emerges small and weak.

“My client is taking me out of town for three days.”

He closes his hands into fists. My shoulders curl forward.

“If I don’t have it in four days, I’ll visit your mother. Understand?” he snarls.

I nod.

With a condescending sneer, he turns and stumbles down the hall and into the elevator.

I stand frozen long after the doors close between us, too afraid I won’t be able to pull myself back to my feet with the pain in my torso if my knees buckle. When the haze of shock finally mutes all thoughts and sensations, I fish my keys out of my bag, unlock my apartment, and pull my suitcase out from under my bed. I glance around, searching for items to pack, but everything I own except the landscape picture I bought on clearance and the lamp I snagged from a discount pile at a nearby thrift store is already packed. Empty-handed and empty-headed, I wander into the hall bathroom, but the dollar store hand soap and mini travel shampoos and body washes don’t need to come with me, so I meander into the living room and kitchen. Nothing is mine. I’ve never chipped in for furniture or décor. Other than a few supplies, like hand towels and trash bags, I don’t contribute to the household.

No wonder Isaac wanted more rent from me.

I shuffle back into the bedroom, unzip my suitcase, change into a long-sleeve shirt with a higher neckline, and take a few pain relief pills before folding the shirt I took off, tucking it into my laundry bag, and closing my suitcase. After lifting it onto its wheels and slipping my purse onto my shoulder, I write a text to Isaac, turn off my light, and exit the apartment.

Shame threatens to sneak into my cocoon of numbness when Artur meets me at the curb, but I offer him a smile and avoid his eyes as he takes my suitcase.

My reunion with Lola thaws my protective shell, but I harden it with the physical pain and pour my effort into hiding my discomfort and caring for the sweet little girl.

No matter how expensive the plane tickets or posh first-class seats may be, three-year-olds and flying are a tricky combination, so I dive into my role as caretaker and look to Artur only when strictly necessary.

By the time Artur transfers a sleeping Lola from his arms to the crib in the hotel suite, exhaustion adds an extra layer of protection around my numbness. After a lightning-quick shower and towel dry, I braid my hair, since drying it seems like too much effort, and don my long-sleeve pajamas to hide the ugly bruising on my wrist. The aching along my spine and deep throbbing in my shoulder blades warns of worse bruising on my back, so I use the privacy of the bathroom to take a few more pills before exiting into the main suite.

Terror streaks through me as masculine shoulders block my view of the room, and even as I recognize Artur in the dim lights, I jump back, whack my shoulder on the doorframe, and pinwheel out of balance as blinding-white pain streaks through me. Strong arms wrap around me and pull me upright.

My panic grows even as relief flows through me. Artur’s warmth and scent threaten to shatter me into a million pieces, so I shove out of his arms and stumble a few paces away.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I lie.