Whistler by K.L. Savage

“You’ll be good today, won’t you?” Kenneth straightens his red tie as he stares into the mirror while I tie his shoes.

Yes, I’m on my knees tying a damn shoelace because that’s how fucking pathetic I’ve become. If I don’t, I get hit. If I run from him, I get hit, if I threaten to leave, he threatens to kill my dad.

I can’t leave. I have to do as he says. He’s already stealing from the company and Dad has no idea. I’m a horrible daughter, letting her father’s company fail because I’m scared.

Sacred isn’t a strong enough word.

I’m terrified.

“Yes, Kenneth. I’ll be good,” I answer automatically, tears threatening to spill. I can’t let them fall or he will really give me a reason to cry.

“Good.” I flinch when he runs his fingers through my hair. “I love you, you know. Just mind me and we won’t have issues, Charlie. Okay?”

“Okay, Kenneth.”

“I expect you home by five. I want lemon herb chicken with fresh green beans on the side.” He snaps his fingers as he thinks. “Oh, and those hand mashed potatoes that you make. They are so good.” He bends down and gives me a kiss on top of my head before wrenching me back by the thick of my hair. “The chicken better not be dry either. It isn’t fucking hard to cook. Don’t act dumb.” He shoves me backward and my shoulder slams against the bedpost.

I swallow a painful cry and push a smile between my lips instead. “Have a good day,” I say to him. Kenneth grabs his brown leather briefcase and swings his suit blazer over his shoulder before walking out of the bedroom door.

I don’t dare move or make a sound until I hear the car start and pull out of the driveway. I release a breath as the front door slams shut, vibrating all through the house until I can feel the floor shake under me. When the engine starts and the car pulls out of the driveway, that’s when I move, that’s when I push myself off the floor and fall onto the bed.

When did life become so hard? When did it become about survival? I can’t remember.

Yes, I do.

It all started when I met Kenneth Hasting, the handsome older guy who paid me attention the summer after I graduated from high school. I fell in love fast and hard. He was the first man I ever loved, so two months after we started dating and he wanted to marry me, why would I say no? He was perfect.

Until I woke up the next morning thinking it was the start of a beautiful life and he hit me. It was like a different man possessed his body, but really, he had been a really great actor in search of a girl he could boss around and use as a punching bag.

I fit his criteria to the T.

I asked him once if he hated me so much why he would continue to be with me, which only earned another slap across the face. He said I was his only one. That he loved me. And the days when he actually shows me that he loves me, which are few and far between, has me falling into him all over again.

Well, it used to.

His love isn’t love.

It’s manipulation.

He can keep his gifts when he feels bad. He can keep his fake love.

I no longer believe in it or in him.

Or in me.

He has beaten me down to the point where I’m too weak to attempt to leave. Risking my father’s life isn’t worth it. I have a roof over my head and food on the table. It could be worse.

The bed is soft and forgiving, tempting me to crawl under the fluffy emerald comforter. I could forget the world for a few hours and sink into the mattress, let the pillow catch my tears, and hope my dreams take me somewhere else.

As tempting as it is, I can’t succumb to weakness, not yet.

I’m not ready.

I push myself up and roll out of bed, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hands and wincing as I rub over a new bruise.

Stripping off my clothes, I head into the master bathroom and turn on the shower. While the spray hits the tiled floor, I stare at myself in the mirror.

Bruises everywhere.

And every bruise represents a moment I didn’t try to fight. I need to dig deep for my fucking will, the give a damns, and the need to want more for myself than this. I’ve been tired for so long that I’ve grown numb to the pain he gives.

When is my breaking point?

Unable to look at my abused self in the mirror any longer, I step into the shower stall and close my eyes as the water hits against my back. My shoulder twinges in pain and I know by the end of the day I’ll have a bruise.

I always do.

The one thing I can say about a nice hot shower is I’m able to let my thoughts run away from me and no one knows about them. They are my secrets, my simple pleasures, and if there is one thing Kenneth can’t take from me, it’s my imagination.

And right now, I’m imagining life without Kenneth. It’s what I usually do when I’m alone.

As I wash my hair with coconut-scented shampoo, Kenneth’s favorite, I picture myself in a red convertible. I don’t care about the make or model, I just want the wind in my hair and loud music blaring. I’m singing at the top of my lungs and I’m enjoying the sun on my face while I drive up the coast of California.

I want to smell the salt in the air and dip my toes in the ocean. I’ve never seen the ocean before. I bet it’s so peaceful. The water rushes over my face as I tilt my head back. It’s hot and comforting. I pretend the warmth is from the sun beaming down on me as I lay out on a beach towel, getting a tan.

My shoulders are hot from the sun, and I’m sinking into a lazy state. The sand sticks to my fingertips and the tops of my feet.

I’m alone.

I usually am in my dreams.

But this time, a hand sneaks out and touches mine. Calloused fingers skim up my arm and tuck my hair behind my ear. I turn my head to see who is there and it’s a man with messy raven-colored hair and eyes that shine amber in the sunlight. His body is kissed by the heat and his abs glisten from the ocean water dripping from his abs.

I snap my eyes open and gasp when Whistler invades my daydream. The one thing that is mine and he has invaded it. How? I can’t think of him. I don’t want to be with a man after I leave Kenneth, which I will, one day.

Just because Whistler seems kind, doesn’t mean anything.

I’ve been fooled by kindness once before. I won’t fall for man’s charms again and Whistler seems full of charms, winks, and smiles.

I bet women line up just to talk to him.

Not that I want to be with him. Like my California dream, that’s all Whistler is. The man is an escape from my harsh reality and it’s better to keep him in the back of my mind. If the time comes where I’m free, I’m running far away, and not even a man as tempting as Whistler will be able to stop me.

I miss the woman I used to be. The one before Kenneth. The one that lived life and wouldn’t take any bullshit. Where did she go? Where is her strength? I think back to all the times I said I’d never be that woman in a bad relationship or the woman that would be too afraid to leave, because how hard could it be? And I want to slap that girl.

If I knew then what I know now, I would have been smarter, kinder, and more sympathetic to other women in the same position.

I was doomed the moment I met Kenneth. My naïve-self believed every word that fell out of his rotten mouth. I’d give anything to pry his lips apart and stuff him full of every lie, hit, kick, and punch he has ever given me.

Maybe then, when he is about to explode, he’ll rethink his next move.

I turn off the shower, snag the towel from the rack and wince when throbbing pain takes over my shoulder. Half of the mirror over the vanity is fogged but I can still see myself. I turn and see a bruise starting to form over my shoulder where I hit it against the bedpost.

How am I going to explain the bruises to my dad and the crew now? I’ve used every damn excuse in the book, and I’m running out of pages to turn.

Tearing my eyes away from my body, I go about my usual routine. I spray my hair with leave-in conditioner, and it smells like coconuts which takes me back to my dream of being on a California beach. I think about seagulls and their chirps and drift off to dreamland while blow-drying my hair. Beach waves crash in the front of my mind as I try to hide the bruises on my face with makeup.

Color corrector is a life saver. Green covers red, orange, and red cover darker tones like purples and blacks—perfect for bruises. It isn’t perfect. It isn’t full coverage, but it’s better than nothing.

I don’t bother with mascara. I’ll just end up crying it away throughout the day from the pain. The counter hits my hips as I lean against it, and I give myself a once over.

Damn it, Charlie. You’re better than this. He doesn’t love you and you sure as hell do not love him. Run. Run as far as you can and never look back.

“I can’t,” I whisper out loud to my own inner thoughts.

I could kill him.

I gasp and run out of the bathroom, covering my hand over my mouth from the shock of the thought. I hate Kenneth so much and every time a violent idea crosses my mind, I tremble. I’m not a confrontation personal. How could I defend myself against Kenneth? My attempt to defend myself would take too long and he’d strike.

Kill him.

The more I think about it, the more appealing it becomes, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in prison for murder.

And the one thing I know for sure… I’d feel bad for him once he was dead. I’d be ridden with guilt. I’d regret it. I’d feel sorry for him even though I shouldn’t, and I hate that quality about myself. I wish I didn’t care about people because then maybe I wouldn’t be here in this situation. I would have gotten rid of Kenneth ages ago.

My phone buzzes and when I see Dad’s name flashing across the screen, I realize I’m running late. I’ve been caught plotting my husband’s death… again. It would be sweet.

Bloody?

Definitely.

In my dreams, I’d prolong it. I’d cut him, stab him, and torture him like he did to me.

An-eye-for-two-eye’s, bitch.

That’s where I’m at with him.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m about to walk out the door,” I say as I answer the phone, putting it on speaker so I can get dressed.

“Great, sweetheart. No rush. Me and the guys just got to the job site. Can you pick up some coffee? And those—”

“Maple apple donuts you like so much? Yes,” I chuckle. Dad has the biggest sweet tooth. He must have donuts every day but is healthy as a horse since he works so much. And besides breakfast, his other meals are healthy. That’s why I don’t get onto him about what he eats.

“You’re the best, Charlie. You didn’t tell me this was for a biker club. This is good business, sweetheart. They are talking about so many projects.”

“Oh, damn. Dad. I’m so sorry. I forgot to tell you they already backed it. In cash. A hundred thousand. I’ll bring it to you so you can take it to the bank.”

“A hundred thousand!” he balks. “Wow. Charlie. Holy shit, this is exactly what Fletcher’s needed.”

“I know, Dad. I’m happy for us. I’m on my way. Be there soon. Love you.”

“Love you too. Drive safe.”

I hang up the phone and slip it into my back pocket, then slide on my work boots and tie the laces tight. The forest green Fletcher’s Construction shirt I tug over my head has been worn a hundred times and is soft from a hundred washes. It feels like heaven against my skin.

Kill him.

I’ve never thought about it so much and I’m not too sure what the breaking point was for me in order to have that thought play on repeat in my head now.

On my way out the door, I snag my teal purse and take an inhale of the fresh air.

“Hey there, Charlie. How are you doing today?”

I wave at Mr. Grant, the elderly next door neighbor who thinks he needs to pick up the newspaper with a parted plush robe on and tight briefs. “I’m doing great. Yourself?”

“Just about to read the arrest reports.” He slaps the newspaper against his knee and gives me a toothless laugh. “It’s my favorite. I always see someone I know.” He scurries to his front door, leaving me shaking my head like I always do.

He’s obsessed with the arrest reports.

The truck door is heavy and the hinges grind as it swings open, which causes me to cringe. I hate that sound.

The first thing I check for is the money by shoving my hand under the seat. I gag when I feel crumbs and questionable…things, but pat around until the two stacks of cash hit my palm. I pull them out and fan them to make sure it’s all there.

Another reason why I don’t want to take this to the bank is because I’m always supposed to take ten thousand off the top, but if Dad does it, Kenneth has to get over it. If Dad deposits the money, the earnings are safe.

If I do, I’m forced to steal.

I always try to get Dad to deposit anything we earn, but most of the time he can’t.

I’m tired of being a liar, a bad daughter, a tool for someone else’s gain, and punching bag.

Kill him.

If I do, all my problems would be taken care of, and I’ll be free from the Devil.

It boils down to one thing:

Do I have what it takes to kill Kenneth?