Leather Kisses

Leather Kisses. 4

"Riley?" My mother's voice echoed from the kitchen to my bedroom. "Could you set the table?"

Sighing, I put down my Latin textbook and accepted my mother's request. The smell of rosemary chicken, au gratin potatoes, and steamed broccoli filled every open room of the house. My little brother, Charlie, was sprawled out on the living room couch, reading his newest comic book. My father was lounging in his big leather chair on the opposite side of the room, reading today's issue of the New York Times. My mother, still dressed in her pencil skirt suit, was diligently cooking in the kitchen. Wisps of hair had fallen out of her earlier perfect work bun, framing her make-up faded face.

Collecting all of the necessary dining utensils, I began to set the table for four people.

"Thanks, honey," Mom said, mashing up the potatoes. "How was your day?"

"Fine," I replied. A neutral, one-word answer was better than explaining my negatively eventful day.

Pouring myself a glass of iced tea, I took my seat the dining table. My mother plopped the food down in the center of the table and called for the boys to join us.

With my plate loaded, I indulged into my mother's superb meal. Quietly eating, I tuned out of my parent's discussion about their workdays. Charlie was doing the same, except he was sneaking pieces of broccoli and chicken under the table for Athena.

"Riley!" My mother exclaimed. "What the hell happened to you?" A sliver of my head bandage must have peaked out from under my hair because she was pushing back my hairline to get a better examination of my concealed wound.

"I fell on some ice," I murmured, repeating the same lie I gave Dean. I snuck a glance at my father, who gave me a knowledgeable stare.

Dad knows about Blake. At first, he was smitten by Blake's charm and appeal, in the same way I was. But he knew the truth as soon as I did. The first beating left me with a severe black eye. When my father asked about it, I said some girl elbowed me in P.E during volleyball. He saw right through me. After all, as a criminal case lawyer, that's his job - uncovering the truth behind a story. He's doing his best to help, but he's seen a lot of court cases with similar situations, and the end results are never pretty . . . It's hard for him, knowing what's at stake, knowing what could possibly happen to his daughter.

I know sometimes he wishes he could be a normal, impulsive father who calls the police or beats the crap out of Blake, but he's different. He's seen too much to know the dire consequences of acting irrationally. He's the one that has stressed to me that we need to handle this situation delicately and strategically because he's seen it all. After studying dozens of cases where the abuser ends up either raping or killing their victim after filing for a restraining order, he knows the precautions he has to take. It doesn't help that Blake exhibits the same bi-polar, sociopathic behavior as the ones that commit murder: the obsession, the irrational aggression, the manipulation, the denial and disillusion of reality. I trust in my father's wisdom and guidance on the matter and I'm honestly grateful that he's not reacting like people think a father should. I know that sounds twisted, but for me, it's a matter of life or death.

Dad and I have been working together for quite some time, devising a plan of how to take Blake down. Maybe we're not taking the conventional route, but this isn't a conventional case. Like every abuse situation, it's not as cut and dry as some may think. And with the forces we have working against us, it only makes things ten times harder. In order for this to override Chief Salato's jurisdiction, it has to be taken to court at the federal level. And to that, we need a strong enough case. Like Rome, a winning case isn't built in one day. It takes time, evidence, witnesses and even some blood and tears. But we were getting close . . . very close. One day soon, justice would be served.