Christina (Daughters #1)

by Leanne Davis

  But sometimes, his actions are just so damn pointless.

  I feel the barest touch on my knuckle. I glance down as if the appendage didn’t belong to me. There is Max’s index fingertip on my knuckle. I stare in wonder at the unusual sight of his dark skin against my pale skin. I want to clasp his hand in mine. I want to lean on my knees and wrap my arms around him and press my head against his chest and have him reassure me. Because when he does those things, that crazy fighting, it really scares me. I worry about what could and might still happen to him if he continues putting himself in those situations. And what if he ends up getting really hurt? I cannot handle it. He is part of my everyday life. The best part on most days. But it’s so hard to accept he might get hurt; especially when the cause would be his own stupidity.

  But right now, he’s willingly touching me. My breath catches inside my throat and I keep my lips pressed tight. I can’t move my hand even a hair’s breadth, or he will jerk his hand back. He will turn his face away from me in near disgust and it will be over. Like smoke into the atmosphere, this moment will vanish.

  “I do it—” I wait. I am dying to hear what excuse he can possibly have to act like this. “Because it’s the only time I feel heard.”

  I didn’t expect that. I lift my head up and again, our eyes meet in a long moment. I want so badly to lean closer and press my forehead against his and say, I understand. I wish I could say that to him. I want to show him how much I understand him. How much his pain means to me. How much I care that he hurts so much.

  I only know bits and pieces of how Max Salazar came to be a part of my life. I know he grew up in a rough neighborhood in Northern California. I know the brother he cares about, Derek, sold drugs for their older brother in order to keep Max out of the family operations. I know from Derek that Max spent years without saying a word. He was only three when that started. He also witnessed Derek, who was then only eight, shoot their father who tried to hurt them. I know his mother was mean. I know they were hit regularly and mistreated and lived in filth and squalor. I know when help finally came, they found Max alone, in a junky apartment. He reeked and was street fighting to make enough money to eat. I know now he can’t stand to be dirty. His clothes. His car. His hands. His school backpack, all have to be pristine at all times. I know Max’s silence results from a lot of anger, and a lot of rage. I know his fights are how his rage comes out. And that is why, perhaps, they so terrify me. When I see that look in his eyes, like I saw tonight, I don’t know Max anymore. He isn’t the Max who I ride home from school with, or lounge around either of our houses, doing homework, or eating junk food. In the midst of fighting, he is totally lost to me. He is gone. I am no longer the one person who knows him best. And when I lose that connection with him, it makes me feel like he cut out my heart. I want to run under a table and cover my ears and squeeze my eyes shut as if to keep it from happening.

  As if I could block out the pain inside him.

  I shake my head and tears fill the bottom rims of my eyes. “You make me hurt. I hear you, Max. I hear you every day. When I don’t hear you, is when you do this,” I whisper, shutting my eyes on the images of Max. He looked like he wanted to kill that drunken, out-for-a-good-time, college freshman.

  As always, his answer to me is silence. Finally, he asks in a more normal, conversational tone, “What are you doing here?”

  He’s done. He pulls his hand off mine, or I should say, his teeny, tiny, fingernail-width touch, as if my skin suddenly started radiating toxic fumes. His eyes go blank and dull, back to Max not understanding anything. Or sharing anything. I slip my hand under my other arm as if he bruised me. I shake my head and stare him down. I wish I could hurt him as much as this insanity of his hurts me. Instead, I grab the doorknob and open it, saying over my shoulder, “Having sex. Get home safe.”

  Yeah, not my nicest or my finest moment. I shouldn’t taunt Max like that. I mean, we are nineteen and eighteen-year-old, boy/girl best friends, but there are just some things I save for my girlfriends and never discuss with him. Sex is one of those things. And vice versa. To date, we’ve never really confirmed or denied the other’s sexual activities, or lack thereof. I highly doubt he’s done anything with anyone, however, because his fingertip on my knuckle is about all he can handle before freaking out. That, and I am the only person our age he has any kind of lasting relationship with.

  But this time, I hope it hurts him. If he can come to college parties and get thrashed up and make his stupid bets, I can lose my virginity. Doubly determined now, I find Brad and snuggle up to him. He glances down, somewhat surprised. I’m not sure he realizes I ever left his side.

  So I let Brad take my hand and pull me towards one of the empty bedrooms upstairs. The stairs creak and seem to shudder as we step on them. I hope they hold up. I can just see the headlines “College Crowd Killed In Freak House Collapse.” For some reason, it makes me giggle. Max would appreciate that. But then again, he always laughs at everything I say. Sneaking a glance at Brad, I don’t think he’d get it.

  I have to admit my nerves are starting to gurgle in my stomach. I mean, this is kind of a big deal. It could hurt, and who likes getting hurt? That is exactly why I have to get it over with before I start college. It seems so high school to be shy and scared of sex. Not a college thing. I tried a few times with boyfriends in high school, but their clumsy groping made me laugh and that killed the mood. Brad’s groping was not so funny to date, so I’m hoping to get past that this time.

  Brad leads me into one of the bedrooms and shuts the door behind us, locking it. I sit down on the bed. In a lame attempt to appease my nerves, I spring up and down as if testing the bounciness of the springs on the old, smelly, queen bed. All that accomplishes is a cloud of dust, which fills my nostrils and makes me sneeze. It smells like old lady clothes and mothballs.

  I am slightly repulsed when I think about lying back on the faded bedspread. It has a dark, age spot over the floral pattern. But that shouldn’t matter. I lift my gaze up to observe the too-pretty guy I’ve been dating for the past month. He approaches me with the distinct impression we are going to have sex right now. I suppose his bold gaze, now sliding up and down me, should turn my insides to goo and anxious desire, right? Only… it doesn’t. His ears are a little too large and stick up on the ends. I can’t help watching those, as he comes closer to me and sets a knee on the bed before leaning over. I have no other option, so I lie back and let his chest press against mine as his lips engulf my mouth. He’s not a very good kisser, and uses a little too much tongue, delving too deep right off. He doesn’t give me a chance to even swallow my spit before he explores the inside of my mouth. He makes a slurping sound as he tries to tilt his head and move his mouth back and forth over mine.

  My open eyes are staring past him at the popcorn ceiling. I try closing my eyes, but the wild back-and-forth tongue action keeps them wide open in surprise. I mean, wow! Can he stretch his tongue out far! I shouldn’t be thinking that; it’s making a giggle start from way down deep in my chest. Oh crap. It’s starting to climb up my throat. I have to giggle. I’m going to choke on Brad’s tongue if I don’t.

  I push on his chest and get him off me to breathe some much-needed air. I pretend to be overwhelmed as I drop my gaze and play with his collar. I hope he thinks my smile is just me being coy, and not actually laughing at him.

  Taking a chance, he ditches his shirt. That’s way better. Some of his muscles are cut and he has more manly hair than some of the naked, skinny-chested boys I’ve seen at school. I bring my hands up to glide over his shoulders and down his toned arms. He interprets my action as encouragement to start kissing me again. Why can’t he just slobber less? At last, he nearly falls on top of me and suffocates me. I try to wiggle around to get some air and move my legs out from under him. It might be nicer not to get smashed by his dead weight. He lifts up just enough to slip his hand under my shirt, and I kind of like it when his fingers play with one of my nipples. I always liked that
though.

  I was honestly hoping for a more skilled lover. Especially, this first time, when some pain could occur. At least, he was kind of making me relax, finally. I could stop him at any time, of course. I could simply wait and find someone I’m a little more into. But all I can see is this great abyss that represents my future, although I have no idea where it’s headed. All I can relate to right now is high school. Even if there’s only a month left, it’s all I can focus on. I don’t want to graduate a virgin. So instead of waiting for the mythical first love, I’m choosing to end my virginity now.

  Closing my eyes, I strain to ignore the sounds and sloppy kissing in order to concentrate on what I like. His fingers. I like what they are doing. I try to make that work for me. I can’t be all tense, like I’m about to take a final exam. I need to be relaxed. I really don’t want it to hurt.

  What is that? The door handle to the room is jiggling. Brad keeps kissing me, but I’m sure someone is trying to get in. Of course, the door is locked, so whoever it is should go away. I relax my neck muscles and try to let him continue drooling all over me. But then, crap! The door is being knocked on hard. Someone is trying to smash it in. I push Brad off me and sit up. What the hell is going on? Fear climbs up my throat. Brad turns and eventually notices the commotion. Is the party being raided by the police? My heart plummets to my stomach. Oh God, no! That would be the worst thing ever. That would—

  “Christina Jessica Hendricks! Open this door, right now!” Oh my God! It’s so much worse than the police! It’s my dad.

  Chapter Two

  ~Christina~

  I SHUT MY EYES in complete horror as my entire body starts to burn up with heat. Was it shame? Being caught like this in front of my dad? Or embarrassment?

  “Who is that?”

  “My dad,” I squeak out, pulling my shirt down and grappling around to find Brad’s.

  “NOW!”

  I fling Brad his shirt. “You’d better just run when he enters. He’s big, and mad, and strong and… just run.”

  Poor Brad’s face blanches at my warning. I am really sorry to put him in such a precarious position. He didn’t do anything wrong besides being a bad kisser, which he didn’t even know he was.

  I stand up on shaking legs. There is a window, but it looks like it hasn’t been opened in decades; and besides, it’s a long way to the ground. I’d surely hurt myself if I jumped, although I do consider it for a half a second. I try to smooth my hair. I have freakishly long hair; it’s dark brown and thick and falls to the top of my butt. Shaking it out, I cling to the hope that any tangles won’t be noticeable to a guy like my dad, who knows nothing about fashionable hair or styles.

  “Damn it! Open up before I break the fucking locks, Christina!”

  With no other choice than to obey my father, I wrap my hand around the old, brass knob and hear the door unclick as I let my father in. I can never live this moment down. Or forgive him.

  My dad enters the room, and as quick as a rabbit, Brad scurries past him, barely making it by before my dad realizes what’s happening and can’t grab him.

  I stand there, fully clothed, trying to screw my facial expression into a hard glare, one as mean as I can make. I am trying to emphasize how ridiculous my dad’s arrival is. “What are you doing here? How dare you do this? I will never forgive you!” I shriek at him, my hands on my hips and yes, acting totally typical. Saying what any teenager says to her parents at some point. But really! Coming to a party and threatening to break down the door?

  And oh my crap! Dad looks pissed off. I step back, finally. He’s not your typical dad. He’s still got really big muscles and a facial expression that is cold enough to freeze a glacier.

  He merely crosses his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows. “Are you really asking me what I’m doing here?”

  “B—but…” I falter. Who dares to admit to her dad she was on the prowl to lose her virginity and tonight, at this location, was where she planned to execute the deed. But how could he know? I didn’t tell Melissa and totally, not Emily, as they are both too young to explain it to. I told a few girlfriends, but none that would rat me out to my dad. Maybe they told their own parents, who then called mine…

  Max.

  That realization hits me like an anvil! It is quick and deep and cutting as my brain tries to process why and how my dad could be standing here right now before me. Max must have called him. Damn Max. I’ll never forgive him for this. He is always trying to act like the big, protective older brother, which is such crap since I’m only half a year younger than him. And no, we are not siblings. We’re legally cousins, but not biologically speaking. I didn’t even meet Max until we were both thirteen years old.

  Damn Max.

  My dad doesn’t even bother with trivial niceties. His gaze scours the bed and seems to get visible satisfaction in finding it barely rumpled. He arrived in time to save my virtue. Stepping forward, he grabs me roughly by my upper arm. His teeth are clenched and the muscle under his ear is tight. Crap. I am in some serious trouble.

  “Let’s go. Now, young lady. We’ll discuss this in the truck.”

  Lacking the balls to yank my arms from his, or tell him off, or stomp away from him, not that I’d get very far anyway, I comply with his order. He can easily outrun and maneuver men half his age. Did I mention that he used to be some kind of super soldier in the Army? I can’t even imagine it. It used to make me outright laugh whenever I tried to. My dad? He’s like, well… picture a well-meaning, straight-laced TV dad from any popular Disney Channel sitcom: that would be my dad. Not that I’m complaining. I mean, he’s always been a good dad to me. But a super soldier? And dangerous? It makes me almost giggle to think about him like that. Well, that is, until now. I don’t often piss him off.

  He drags me out of the room and down the stairs, where the humiliation hits me fully. The room is quiet. The people occupying the room are staring at my dad… and me. I feel the flaming blush on my cheeks. I drop my head and vow to transfer to another school tomorrow. Sneaking a glance around, I am slightly relieved to see there isn’t anyone I recognize from my high school. Mostly just college kids I don’t know. My dad’s dramatic entrance and attempts to nearly smash in a door certainly made our presence quite spectacularly known.

  I find him. Max. He is across the room, holding a plastic cup and putting it up to his lips. I know it was he. He must’ve called my dad. Glaring at him mercilessly, I shake my head, trying to somehow tell him from fifty feet away and over twenty-five heads how much I detest him. Oh, how I hate him! I want him to know I will never forgive him. He, of course, doesn’t react. He doesn’t bow his head, not even a fraction, or show the slightest trace of shame or understanding of what he’s done.

  He betrayed me. I turn from him, absolutely heartbroken over his irrevocable action. It makes my chest hurt, and not just in anger.

  When my dad tugs on my arm to haul me out the door, I try to forget Max and concentrate on now, being alone with my dad. Should we discuss how I was trying to have sex? My hands start to sweat as he pushes me into the cab of his big, black truck, his staple in vehicles. He doesn’t speak as he starts the beast and slips it into gear. His jaw is still clenched. Not a good sign. It might start jerking in spasms soon. He drives in complete silence. There are only barren roads lacking streetlights. A moon splits the dark of the sky. I wait… for something. Anything. Some kind of reaction from my dad. He said only a handful of words, but I’m now sure he must have buckets more to say about my indiscretion. My dad is no quiet wallflower; he’s not afraid to say what he thinks.

  “Max called you?” I finally ask, unable to stand the interminable, disapproving silence. For all my attitude, I hate to disappoint my dad.

  “Damn right he did.”

  Stupid Max. My heart drops. I hoped maybe there was some holdout, and he wouldn’t betray me like that. But he did. He really called my dad. “He called because he should have. What are you doing at a party like that?”
/>   Yeah, as if I’m going to answer that one.

  “Why do you think? I’m not a little girl anymore,” I finally say, making my tone more reasonable. I’m trying not to sound childish or confrontational. That would only inflame him all the more. My statement works, making my dad’s face crumble and kind of appear sad. It almost makes me feel like apologizing and promising to never ever, have sex again. But that right there, their attitude about me, is half the point of this entire night. “I was there to be part of the party. I’m eighteen years old! I graduate next month; and you all still treat me as if I’m twelve years old and you caught me skipping school. I’m allowed to go to those parties! I wasn’t drinking, so you can’t even use that.”

  “You were alone, locked in a room. You—” He shuts his eyes as if a physical pain was suddenly stabbing through his temples. “You’re my little girl,” he says finally. “That’s not what I want for you.”

  “You had no right to come in there like that and completely embarrass me. It was so over the top. I can’t even believe you did that.”

  He keeps his gaze carefully off me. “Max called and said you were at a college party; he was afraid it might get out of control. He was worried about your safety. When I got there, he said you went upstairs. I wasn’t sure you’d gone there willingly. You can’t imagine—”

  Then, quite strangely, my dad’s entire body kind of shivers and he shakes his head as if warding off something really bad. “Look, when I was in the Army, sometimes I witnessed things. Things men do to young girls like you. Unpleasant things that I know are always out there. Things I swore when you were born you’d never know about. Not if I still had a breath left in me. So when Max called and said you were here, and he was worried about the crowd… I’m sorry. Maybe I overreacted. But you just don’t know. You don’t know the things—”