Leather Kisses

Leather Kisses. 8

"Working hard or hardly working?" My father asked, dropping his coat and briefcase onto an empty chair.

My father's eyes glazed over the leather-cladded, tattooed boy sitting across from me. But my father was not one to judge a person by their cover . . . that was my mother.

"Hey Dad," I started, glancing at Dean, then back to my father. "This is my friend, Dean."

Dean immediately shot up, approached my father, and shook his hand eagerly.

"It's great to meet you, sir," Dean said, eager to make a good impression on my father.

"You too, Dean," my father warmly replied. "How was your day?"

Dean and I glanced at each other, silently debating who should drop the bomb.

"Dad?" The shrill of his name echoed through the dining room. I stood up, pushed the hair that covered my face away, rolled up my sleeves, and walked towards them. The fluorescent ceiling lights illuminated every cut, bruise, and scab. "Blake and I broke up."

My dad scanned my body with his eyes, horrified by the damage done. He looked back at Dean, his concerned eyes fixed on the black eye and minor scratches. Dad's eyebrows rose, as if he had a realization, connecting all of the pieces together.

"This is a good thing, right?" I asked. "We won't have to worry about him anymore."

But my father didn't seem to think that at all. In fact, he looked more troubled than ever before, as if he was holding something inside. My heart dropped into my stomach, afraid to know what was running through my father's mind.

"Come with me," Dad ordered, his voice low and cold. "I want to show you guys something."

Dean and I followed him up the stairs, into his office. We stood in the corner, as my father pulled out law book after law book, and piled files and documents into a mountain on his desk. We watched silently as my father furiously flipped through the pages, sometimes ripping the pages by accident.

"The day I found out about this . . ." My father started, vigorously shuffling through loose papers. He picked up a book, tore through the pages, and then threw it over his shoulder. "I started searching for a way out of this mess. I couldn't just call the cops, considering his father's position. Not to mention, you never know how someone in his sort of mindset will react. We certainly couldn't sue him and file for a restraining order . . . seeing how Darcy Buhmann, Michelle Castillo, Laura Aceves and many more women of abuse all did that and ended up dead because of it." My father ran his hand through his slick hair, causing it to stick up in different directions.

I wiped away the tear that ran down my face as I watch my father rip apart his office and mutter to himself as he searched endlessly for an answer to all of our problems. I had caused my father to crack and crumble to pieces. This great lawyer I call my father was trained to be reasonable, calm, and level-headed under pressure. But my problem, my stress, my burden had broken him, filling me with unbearable guilt.

"What did Blake say when you broke up with him?" My father now rested on the floor, surrounded by his mess. My father was never this unkept; his blazer was off, his tie was loose, his hair was messy, and his face was flushed with anxiety.

Because the sight of my father paralyzed my mouth, Dean answered for me. "He said Riley would live to regret this, and that I had to watch my back."

"Oh great . . ." My father muttered as he crawled to his bottom bookshelf. Dean crossed over to me, and placed his hand on the small of my back.

"I can't do this to him . . . I can't stand to see him like this," I whispered, tripping over my words.

"Riley, it's going to be okay. I'll take care of this," he whispered back, reassuring me. I bit down on my bottom lip, nodded, and trusted his words.