The Dark Side of the Moon

16. Complications

When I woke I was still tired, but edgy as well. I got dressed quickly, careful to not jostle the injuries from Charlie last night.

Breakfast was the usual, and he sat down quietly for once, probably still hungover.

"About this Saturday..." he began, walking across the kitchen and turning on the faucet.

I cringed. "Yes, Dad?"

"Are you still set on going to Seattle?" he asked.

"That was the plan." I grimaced, wishing he hadn't brought it up so I wouldn't have to compose careful half-truths.

"I'm not sure I trust you to take the truck and not drive off." He glared at me as he turned around, yanking me closer to him.

"I'm not going to need it, I think my teacher has an extra copy I can borrow," I said quickly, terrified about whatever he was about to do.

"Good," he spat, before forcing my arm under the scalding hot water. "I'm case you get any ideas, you know exactly what waits for you."

I nearly screamed at the burning of my own flesh, before he released me.

Charlie left then, I went upstairs to bandage my arm, change my sweater and gather my books. The burn was pretty bad, and it took a thick layer of cream and some ice to soothe the pain. I made certain the fresh bruise on my cheek was covered completely before I was satisfied.

When I heard the cruiser pull away, I could only wait a few seconds before I had to peek out of my window. The silver car was already there, waiting in Charlie's spot on the driveway. I bounded down the stairs as best as I could and out the front door, wondering how long this bizarre routine would continue. I never wanted it to end.

He waited in the car, not appearing to watch as I shut the door behind me without bothering to lock the dead-bolt. I walked to the car, masking my urge to wince at each step with a smile, pausing shyly before opening the door and stepping in. Every movement agitated the cuts and welts on my body. He was smiling, relaxed — and, as usual, perfect and beautiful to an excruciating degree.

"Good morning." His voice was silky. "How are you today?" His eyes roamed over my face, as if his question was something more than simple courtesy.

"Good, thank you." I was always good — much more than good — when I was near him.

His gaze lingered on the circles under my eyes. "You look tired."

"I couldn't sleep," I confessed, automatically swinging my hair around my shoulder to provide some measure of cover, nervous that he could tell what had just happened.

"Neither could I," he teased as he started the engine. I was becoming used to the quiet purr.

I laughed. "I guess that's right. I suppose I slept just a little bit more than you did."

"I'd wager you did."

"So what did you do last night?" I asked.

He chuckled. "Not a chance. It's my day to ask questions."

"Oh, that's right. What do you want to know?" My forehead creased. I couldn't imagine anything about me that could be in any way interesting to him, afraid he'd ask the thought ones from yesterday.

"What's your favorite color?" he asked, his face grave.

I rolled my eyes, relieved. "It changes from day to day."

"What's your favorite color today?" He was still solemn.

"Probably brown." I tended to dress according to my mood, not that I had many options.