Dahlia

LISTENING TO MY FATHER has me ready to lower the tinted window in the back of the limo and hurl into the street.

Oh, he would love that, I’m sure!  But the horror on his face would be worth whatever punishment that would follow. And there would be punishment. There’s always punishment.  Even at nineteen years old, I’m under his thumb and barely able to meet his eyes.

“The attorneys are working on that clause as we speak.  Yes, as soon as the heir is produced, I understand that.  Yes, I sent over the results from her exam. She should have no problem conceiving.”  His voice is flat, indifferent, as though the thought of a man I don’t even know sticking his dick in me and impregnating me practically against my wishes affects him as much as loading the dishwasher.  All in the name of securing the crumbling family dynasty.

Not that my father has ever loaded a dishwasher.  So, yeah, how would he know? 

He pushes the button and barks to the driver.  “Stop here, Jerald.”

“I’m blocking traffic, Mr. Ferrell, there’s no parking right here—”

“I don’t give a shit!  They can go around us.”

Leave it to my father to have no interest in how he inconveniences others.  I look out the window, trying anything to distract my mind from what’s going to happen. We are in downtown Lubbock on our way back home after another embarrassing doctor’s appointment.

He puts the cell phone back to his ear.  “So, I have some things to do this afternoon.  We will meet at my house at six tonight.  Get everything signed, you can look at the test results, we can set the date for the marriage...”

My gag reflex spasms and bile rises in the back of my throat.  The way it’s done for the last six and a half days now, since I was ambushed in my father’s office.  He called me down, via text message of all things, and when I walked in there he was behind his desk. Didn’t raise his eyes, just pointed to the empty chair between two men I knew vaguely from a few parties and other social gatherings.

“Dahlia.”  My father had finally looked up at me with boredom.  “You know Mr. Petrov and his son, Nikolai.”

Neither of them acknowledged me, but I nodded politely, barely able to breathe.  The next half hour I fought back tears. But crying in front of my father never helped.  It would only incite his cruelty so I bit my lip until blood streamed warm over my tongue. Distracting me with its metallic flavor as I swallowed, feeling my stomach turn. Fighting back the urge to purge all over his fifty-thousand-dollar pretentious antique desk.

By the time I was excused, there was a ring on my finger.  Placed there by Nikolai without uttering a word, just a whispered ‘produce an heir as quickly as possible’ still ringing in my ears.  The next day, I was at a doctor’s office, having blood drawn and tests performed that made me feel like a brood mare.

The worst part?  Oh, that’s easy.  My own cowardice.  I just took it all.  Let him put that stupid, ungodly large diamond on my finger. Laid there with my feet in those stirrups and let the doctor probe and prod me to his content. 

I. Took. It. All.

My self-loathing is at an all-time high. When I lay in bed at night, I play out all the things I should have done.

All the things I should have said.

No fucking way being the top contender, along with kicking them all in the nuts, packing a bag and hitting the road like Jack Kerouac.

But, I did not. 

I didn’t do it because I am a Good Little Girl.  More than that, I’ve always been petrified of my father.  For good reason.  Not only for the variety of punishments he’s perpetuated on me over the years, but because I know who he is.

He’s Stewart Ferrell.  Cattle rancher.  Oil investor.  Philanderer. And on the side, a fact he doesn’t know I know, he’s also a man who doesn’t hesitate to function above the law to win.  I used to hide when he and my mother fought, but even hiding didn’t keep me from hearing things a child should never hear.

Wasn’t just the way he practically paraded his extra-marital affairs in front of both my mother and me.  That I could just about cope with.  But what made me sick to my stomach was how he described what happened to them if they stepped out of bounds.  More than once, I heard those stories.  There’s a lot of acres on our family ranch, and if the cadaver dogs ever showed up, I’m pretty sure they’d find at least a few interesting scents buried around.

What I’ve managed to figure out in the last week, is if I marry Nikolai and produce an heir, it will benefit both families.  Ours, by an influx of cash from the Petrovs.  And for them, they will be introduced and legitimized into the closed world of Texas oil royalty.  My father may have fucked up our family’s finances when my mother divorced him and took nearly everything, but his roots are deep and his connections deeper. Texas is all about the good ole boys club and getting in means knowing the right people. Seems it’s all about who you know, and the Petrovs are itching to sink their roots into all things Texas.  Especially oil.

“Dahlia!” 

“What?”  I jump.

“I said get out.”  He points to the door, his head jerking in encouragement.  “I’ll pick you up in an hour.  Or so.  Don’t leave that coffee shop.”

I shake my head, trying to figure out what he wants, when the blast of a horn snaps my father’s head to look behind the car.

“What the fuck?”  My father turns to look behind us and my eyes follow. 

There is an enormous red pickup truck behind us, laying on the horn.  The chrome grill fills the view from the rear window and the deafening sound fills the back of the car.

And just for a second, I love it.  I love it because he hates it.

The windows in the limo are tinted near black, so seeing inside is close to impossible.  But seeing out isn’t a problem.

From my place in the back seat, through the windshield of the red pickup, something unnerves me and sends a shiver from my shoulders to my toes.

A glint of green eyes, set into a heavy brow, bore into me.  It’s a flash, a fraction of a second, but I’ve never felt anything like it from another human.  Let alone a human seen through two panes of glass.

“Go.”  My father barks as Jerald clicks my door open from the outside, ushering me out onto the sidewalk into a blast of summer heat while the horn continues to blare from the truck behind.  “Stay in there until I text you and we will pick you back up when I’m done with my...meeting.”

As soon as I stand, disoriented by the sudden change of scenery, silence descends.  No more ear numbing, blasting horn.  I dare to flick my gaze to the driver of the truck, and find him staring straight back at me.

Those same breath-stealing green eyes are there again, raising the hairs on my arms, and as quickly as I take him in, I turn away, rushing at a stumbling half-run into the mezzanine of the building.

Inside the door, I’m gasping.  Heart pounding.  My feet stick solid onto the marble floor.  The chill of the air conditioning evaporates the slight sweat that covers my skin.  The heat outside is one thing, but the heat even the quickest of glances at that emerald-eyed man generated inside me rivals any Texas summer.