The Only Man a Girl Can Trust Is Her Daddy
Darien hastily took a seat at the rough hewn table in the kitchen of the old farmhouse. “Why are you back? You were supposed to be gone all weekend,” he muttered. He noticed the girl’s car keys on the far end of the table. He half-stood, snatched them, and plopped his ass back into the chair. He barely had time to grab his spoon before Vickie entered the room.
“Honey? Whose car is that…” Vickie stopped midsentence and took in the sight of Darien, at the table, innocently eating soup.
“Car?” Darien asked.
“Parked on the side of the road. I could barely get around it.” Vickie put her purse on the counter and leaned against it, arms crossed. “You never eat soup, Darien.”
Darien dropped the spoon into his bowl with a clatter. “I am so tired, Vickie. So tired of your mistrust. So tired of you examining everything I do or say for clues…”
“Clues that you are cheating on me again? Oh, I’m sure that you are cheating on me, Darien. I don’t need clues.” Vickie pushed herself away from the counter and made for the hallway. “Where is she? In our bedroom? Did you fuck her in my bed?”
Darien considered just letting her go. Letting her see. But, he was helplessly drawn into the pretense. He had to play the part of the falsely accused lover because that’s what people did. “Was your sister not home? You are back early.”
Vickie ignored him. She stopped at the closed door of the bedroom. She hesitated for a moment, then reached for the doorknob, her hand shaking slightly. She looked at Darien and smirked nastily before she clamped her hand over the knob and threw the door open.
Vickie charged into the room. The normal, empty room. She stopped uncertainly in front of the high bed. It was neatly made, her grandmother’s handmade, patchwork quilt folded at the foot. There was a moment of self doubt in her eyes before she recovered. She opened the closet and thrust her hands between the hanging shirts and dresses. The hangers shushed back and forth on their metal pole. When she found nothing in the closet, she went back to the bed. She dropped to her hands and knees on the rag rug, stuck her fetching ass into the air, and looked under. Darien watched all of her wasted effort, wondering whether or not he should be amused.
Defeated, Vickie sat back on her heels. “I know someone is here. I know it.” Her voice was flat and hard. In a flash, she was on her feet again, shouldering past Darien and back into the hallway.
When she walked to the bathroom door, Darien hoped that nothing showed in his eyes, but his face felt like melting plastic. He wasn’t sure that he was maintaining his expression. He wished he could reach up, touch his face; make sure that it wasn’t changing. He mastered the impulse and his hands remained at his sides.
As if she were meeting a dare, never taking her eyes from his, Vickie pushed the bathroom door open.
The girl in the tub was naked. Her left wrist was handcuffed to her right ankle. Another pair of handcuffs shackled her right wrist to her left ankle. Hands crossed in front of her, she was hunched over in the huge, claw-footed tub. She raised her head and looked at Vickie, her eyes dazed and hopeless. The duct tape over her mouth bulged, then contracted slightly with her panting breaths. The panty gag behind the duct tape kept her silent. The panties were Vickie’s. The girl’s had been too soiled to use. It would have been disgusting.
“You,” Vickie said, tears in her eyes. She walked over to Darien and shoved the palms of her hands into his chest with all her strength. Darien stumbled, hit his tailbone on the sink. “You liar. You horrible, horrible liar,” she hissed.
Darien wasn’t really sure what to do. He certainly seemed to be trapped. Didn’t see a way out of this one. For form’s sake, though, he supposed he should at least try. “Vickie, I can explain,” he said.
“Explain?” Vickie barked a bitter laugh. “Explain THIS?” She motioned to the girl, who was starting to get ideas, starting to perk up. “There’s no explaining this, Darien. No explaining this at all.” She stared down into the tub, stared right through the wiggling girl. “I’m calling Daddy,” she said.
“No.” Darien took a step toward her
“I am,” she said, defiantly. “I’m calling my Daddy.”
She beat him to the door and was through it before he could stop her. Darien chased her into the kitchen, heart pounding. Things were out of control, now. Definitely out of control.
Vickie ran across the plank floor, past the phone on the wall, to a small door in the corner. She slid the board that rested across it out of the two metal brackets. It took her two or three yanks before the swollen door released itself from the frame. It creaked open.
Vickie cried into the darkness, “Daddy! Daddy, come help me! He cheated on me again!”
Darien stood in the middle of the room. He knew there was no use to run. Daddy always caught him.
Daddy crawled out of the cubbyhole, bloodshot eyes blinking unaccustomedly at the light. He saw Darien and a smile split his hairy face. He rose and crept toward Darien, knees bent and arms outstretched, as if he were corralling an animal. Darien took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling, surrendering himself to his punishment.
Daddy grabbed Darien by the shoulders with clawed, filthy hands. He spun Darien around and slammed him face down on the table. Darien stared at the sloshing bowl of soup as Daddy kicked his feet apart with cloven hooves.
About the author: Marina Bridges loves carnival sideshows, auctions, zombies, and her three small dogs. Past careers include theatre production coordinator, dog trainer, and antique picker (okay, okay, she went to yard sales and sold the stuff she bought on eBay). Marina’s ebooks include PICKERS AND PICKLED PUNKS and ZOMBIES TAKE MANHATTAN! Marina will be facing the possible upcoming zombie apocalypse with a plentiful stock of expensive dog food (for her dogs), maybe a jug of water she forgot she had, and some cans of Chicken and Stars soup.