P { margin-bottom: 0.08in; } I was standing in the kitchen, the sweet smell of spaghetti flying around the kitchen. I could hear a game of beer-pong going on. Royce had his friends over again, I suppose. It seemed like they were over all the time.
I moved my arm too quickly to pick up the garlic powder, and a shooting pain shot up my arm. I pulled my long sleeve up, seeing the bruise and bite mark. My eyes started to water with the painful memory, but I pushed it back and continued to cook. I took a deep breath, willing the tears to go back into my eyes.
It never does any good to cry, that's what he taught me.
"Robyn!" His angry voice boomed up the stairs.
"Yes, babe?" I called back, trying to hide the fact that my voice was still shaky.
"What did I tell you about calling me babe?" He sounded angry, and drunk.
"I'm sorry, Royce. What did you want?" I asked, trying to make my voice light so that he didn't get angry that I couldn't think of anything more polite.
"When is food going to be ready, because last I checked, it didn't take a woman that long to cook, seeing as how she is in the kitchen all day!" He added.
"I'm sorry, it is ready if you want some. I'll set the table," I said. That last remark cut me, but I got over it.
"You better set it right this time!" He yelled.
"Okay, I will!" I said, remembering that memory. The broken lamp was still in the dumpster, the trashmen hadn't come yet to pick it up. I started loading the plates up, estimating by how much each man weighed and how much he usually ate. Sometimes, though, they wanted more or less, and if I messed up, it wasn't any good for me.
I heard them coming up the stairs, drunk and wobbly. I popped them all beers and settled myself to sitting on the counter and eating in between running errands for them. I sighed, sad that I had to eat alone again. It was whatever, though. I could understand why he would want to be alone with his friends... or just with himself and not me. I annoy him.
"I have to work on that," I muttered to myself, remembering the table manners that he taught me. I had to have my legs crossed tightly, so that I didn't look like a ho. I had to have a napkin on my lap at all times, and my hair had to be tied up in a bun or ponytail, but nothing ugly. I had to wear makeup at all times, and if I had any revealing clothing that would show off my bruises, I had to cover them with makeup. I wasn't allowed to wear a bikini in public, and I wasn't allowed to go to public pools. I had no phone, no contact with my friends, and especially no guy friends. If there was a guy working at any restaurant or Starbucks or cafe, I had to ask to see the female on duty, and if there wasn't one, then I couldn't go there and had to leave.
And he always knew when I didn't leave.
"Robyn!" He screamed, I jumped out of my thoughts and off the counter. I ran into the kitchen, smiling and trying to hide what I was thinking.
"Yes, sir?" I said, remembering that he liked to be called sir. He looked angry, so if I could soften him up just a little bit it would make tonight hurt a lot less. I agitated him a lot today, so may as well try to minimize the pain of tonight.
"There is a hair in my food," he growled, "And it most definitely isn't mine," he pulled out the hair. It most definitely was his! I had chocolatey brown hair, and his was almost black. That hair was short and black.
"I'm so sorry, let me get you more food," I went to take his plate and he slapped my hand so hard I nearly cried out. I bit my tongue though, making it bleed. His friends laughed at the brief moment of pain I showed.
"Not if you get another hair in it," he said, smiling like he was ready to beat me. Knowing him, he probably was.
"I'm so sorry, sir. It won't happen again," I said, taking his plate and walking back into the kitchen to fix his plate.
****
My whole body ached, and I wanted to smash my phone when it rang. Why did it have to wake me up out of my nice dream? For once, I wasn't having a nightmare, and it had to wake me up. Figures, with my luck.
"Hello?" I asked, inspecting my arms, which were covered in new bruises. A broken plate lay at the foot of the bed, the glass pieces still in my hair. I was surprised some of it didn't get buried in my scalp.
"Hello, this is Modest! Management, and we were wondering if you would be interested in doing a photoshoot with One Direction. It would pay generously," the lady said. I was a photographer, the only money maker in this house. And he still got my checks. It was okay, though, he needed them.
"Of course. When do I need to book them?" I asked, trying not to let my voice break from its professional tone as I walked around, in severe pain, to find my calender book thing.
"Well, we were wondering if you could do the pictures today," the lady said, sounding embarrassed.
"That's totally okay, I don't have anything to do today. So, where do I meet you?" I asked, getting out a pen to write down the address.
"Meet us here at Modest! Management building downtown. It's the largest building there, you won't miss it. It's directly in the center, on Town Square Boulevard."
"Thank you, I'll see you in a few moments," I said, hanging up the phone and dropping back on the bed. I hurt so bad. It was ridiculous.
****
The hot shower had washed away some of my pain, but I was still in a lot of pain. I had a few bruises around my neck, so I covered those with makeup then got dressed. I was wearing:http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/set?id=100821552 with my hair in loose waves down my back. I walked downstairs, hearing my beloved Royce asleep on the couch. I wrote him a note.
Royce,
I got a job today. I don't know when I'll be back. I love you. Leftovers are in the fridge, and money is in the usual place. Love you, Robyn
I set the note on the counter then walked out the door.
****
I heard the yelling of four loud young boys. If these boys were actually 20 and older, I was a two year old who was the chosen child of god, or something ridiculous like that.
"Hi, I'm the photographer that was called," I said politely to the receptionist at the front desk.
"There in there, waiting for you," she said brusquely. I nodded and walked towards the loud room, where 5 gorgeous boys (men) were sitting or playing around. I knocked, then walked in self-conciously. I hoped my bruises didn't show, and I hope that the stiffness I was feeling wasn't showing in my walk.
"Hi, I'm the photographer," I said, smiling at every one of the boys. My eyes lingered on one boy in particular, a cute little lad with dimples and green eyes. His curly brown hair made my breath catch, but I pushed how gorgeous he was aside.
I loved Royce.