Punishing Me (Shaft on Tour #6) (4 page)

“Big
Man, you know Bits can’t read,” Jazzie scolds, before she bolts into the next
room to save the dog with Hunter hot on her heels for backup.

“Welcome
home, Big Man,” I say, patting him on the back before heading down the hallway
to my room for the beers I have been saving in my mini fridge all week.

Mmm Meaty

Ireland

“What
an asshole!” I scream at the windshield, gripping the steering wheel so hard it
makes my fingers throb. Slamming on the accelerator, I fly down the highway,
needing as much distance as possible to get clarity.

Dominick
has always had a way with getting under my skin. I like to compare him to a
rash one would get from a shady toilet seat. He leaves me irritated and
desperate for a shower. Today, he pushed the invisible line that has been drawn
between us since I joined the band.

Over
the last few months, he and I have had a great silent agreement. He stays out
of my way and I pretend he doesn’t exist. It has worked rather well, if you ask
me.

That
is, until today, when the asshole decided to do something ‘nice’ and help me
carry my bags to my car.

I
have no desire to make nice with him. Call it impolite or bad manners, but I
see no reason for me to be courteous to the bastard and pretend I have anything
for him other than a very strong hatred and an intense desire to relocate his
junk from between his legs to between his eyes.

Since
both heads have to share that tiny brain anyway, I’d simply be making it easier
to relay messages between the two.

By
the time I get home, I have loosened my grip on the wheel and have allowed
myself to calm down. Most importantly, I have stopped plotting Dominick’s slow
and painful death at the hands of some sadistic, third world hitman and his
rusty tool filled torture chamber.

Leaving
the heavy suitcase for tomorrow, I grab my bag and guitar case from the
backseat. Making my way up the cobblestone walk, I stare up at the large, brick
home I grew up in. It would be intimidating if I hadn’t lived here all my life.

To
me, though, it’s just a house…

“I’m
home,” I call out when the usual beeping of the security system doesn’t
instantly greet me before letting the heavy front door close behind me. Dumping
my bags by the door, I toss my keys onto the entryway table and scan the dark, eerily
silent house for signs of life. “Hello? Mom? Dad? Serial killers waiting in the
wings?” I ask, because you never know.

I
probably have better chances at the serial killers being here than my parents…

Since
no one is jumping out to welcome me home or hack me to pieces, I flip on the
hall light. Kicking out of my shoes, I make my way to the kitchen. My eyes go
straight to the dry erase board my parents use to plan every detail of their
lives on. The words ‘dinner with investors’ is written in red beside today’s
date.

In
fact, every date this week is packed full of lab and clinical trial schedules,
all ending with the wining and dining of investors at five star restaurants.
There is only one thing missing from the schedule. Me. “They forgot I was
coming home,” I sigh, sagging onto the wooden barstool beside the island.

Yeah,
I’m disappointed, but can’t say I’m shocked. Yes, they are my parents, but they
have always been too busy for me. Which is why my trips home have been few and
far between the last few years. No real reason to come home to an empty house,
is there? Hell, I wouldn’t be here longer than it took to shower and change if
I wasn’t, at least, attempting to stay off the media radar to keep everyone off
my back.

As
a kid, I learned to be independent and to fill the empty hours by reading,
movies, and when I was old enough, volunteer work. I stayed as busy as
possible, leaving very little time to dwell, as if that would have made a
difference.

My
father always said the work they were doing would change the world someday. On
the rare occasions I complained, I would be reminded how I had my health and
anything my heart desired could be bought with the flash of a wad of cash or
black plastic card. I often felt guilty for crying because I wanted parents who
would tuck me in at night. The money and status meant nothing to me. I didn’t
want to be ungrateful for the life I was given; though, a lot of the time, I
was. I know there were people less fortunate than me, but I would have given
anything to be a normal kid on the playground. Sadly, Stephanie and Brady Tyler
never gave me the two things I really wanted: siblings to fill this big empty
house, and the attention and time of my parents.

Eventually,
I learned to adapt. I went in search of the things I longed for and somewhat
sated that need. My volunteer time at the community center, possibly the
closest I came to having anything resembling a family. Every day, I’d look
forward to those hours in which I could pretend I had a loud house full of brothers
and sisters before going home to the silence of my reality.

I
was accepted and that was all I have ever wanted.

Opening
the fridge, I cringe at the labeled containers of pre-planned meals. Meatloaf
Monday, Turkey Taco Tuesday, a tub of my father’s favorite turkey chili, and
nothing that resembles anything vegan friendly. No vegetables in the crisper,
not even an apple or banana in the fruit basket on the island.

Digging
through the freezer, I finally manage to find a bag of French fries. “At least
I can count on Dad keeping one thing you can classify Vegan friendly around
here.” Digging out a baking sheet from the bottom cabinet, beside the stove, I
cover it with aluminum foil before arranging some of the fries on it. Grabbing
the Rosemary and Thyme from the rack, I give them a little spice before putting
them in the oven, since I am sure the grease in the fryer is tainted with the
dead animals my dad has no problem eating.

While
I wait on my food, I grab a juice from my bag and my notepad to make a list of
things to get from the store. No way I’ll survive eating nothing but French
fries all week.

Just
as I think I’ve gotten everything written down that I’ll need, I hear the front
door swing open. “Darling, did you forget to set the alarm before we left this
morning?” my mother’s voice echoes from up the hall.

“No,”
my father replies, sounding certain. “Wait, I know I didn’t leave the lights
on. Stephanie, this is just like that Supernatural show. We need to get to the
kitchen for the salt. It could be a demon.”

I
can’t help laughing at the ridiculousness. Leave it to my dad’s head to go
straight to demons inhabiting his house, instead of his offspring. “Or, it
could be your daughter,” I deadpan, pushing to my feet and stepping into the
hallway.

Their
eyes land on me, widening in surprise and realization. “Ireland,” my mother
says, hanging her jacket on one of the hooks beside the door. “Demons,” she
laughs, shaking her head at my father. Walking towards me, she wraps me up in
her arms and sighs. “I wasn’t expecting you, Sweetheart. I wish you’d call and
let us know when you plan to come home.”

“I
mentioned the break in the tour when I called last week,” I remind her. “I also
called you earlier today when we stopped and left you messages here and at the lab.”

“Hmm,”
she says, sounding completely shocked. Releasing me, she glances back at my
father. “Brady, did you put it on the board? I know I’d have remembered had we
written it down.”

“It’s
fine,” I say, knowing that one will blame the other and it will only be another
twenty minutes of conversation that won’t get anyone anywhere. “You’re busy, I
get it. These things happen. Anyway, I’m just going to eat really quick and
crash. I’m beat.” Turning, I make my way back into the kitchen to check my
dressed up French fries.

“Well,
had we known,” my mother says, stepping into the kitchen, “you could have
accompanied us for dinner with the Miller’s and Bob Shultz. You remember Janice
Miller. All she talked about was how exciting it must be being parents of a
world famous rocker,” she rambles on and on about dinner, her back turned to me
as she scribbles on the dry erase board and talks about people I have never met,
as if they’re our closest relatives and I missed the family reunion. “I know!”
Spinning around, she points the tip of the marker at me, a smile spreading
across her face. “I should invite them to dinner, here, tomorrow night. They’d
get a kick out of it.”

“I
don’t know, Mom,” I say, using a pot holder to get the fries from the oven and
placing the hot pan on the stove top.

“Oh,
come on,” my dad says, stepping around the bar and opening the fridge. Digging
out a container, he smiles at me while fumbling with the lid and popping it
into the microwave. “You two girls could make an afternoon of it.”

 Looking
between them, my eyes stop on my mom. The excitement in her blue eyes is
something I definitely don’t remember coming from anything that had to do with
me. She found her joy in her work and my father was always there to push and
take pride in each and every accomplishment, leaving no room for me. Though, I
never liked it and wished it was different, I understood it was how it was
supposed to be. In all my life, I was never invited to join in while my parents
entertained guests. I was quickly shuttled off to bed or handled by sitters
until I was old enough to handle myself. It’s always how it has been and I never
in my wildest dreams expected it to change.

“Of
course,” she says, agreeing with my father. “I suppose I could take a half day
at the lab. You and I could spend the afternoon getting things ready.”

“Okay.
Yeah, I guess that could be fun,” I reply with a nod. The words rushing out of
me at the shock of her offering to leave work early.

“Prefect!”
dad says, clapping his hands. “That settles it then. I’ll call in the morning
and let them know that the plans have changed.”

Turning
my attention back to my food, I peel back the foil and dump the steaming fries
onto a plate. The delicious scent hits me, making my stomach rumble. Living on
the bus or out of a hotel most of the time doesn’t always make it easy to eat
well. Though I do my best to keep fresh fruit on hand, as much as possible, the
guy’s diner habits have me eating a lot more French fries than I’m used to. I
have learned that spices and seasonings are my taste buds’ best friends when it
comes to dressing up a potato.

I
don’t have the time, or desire, for anything in my life to be boring.

Unable
to resist myself, I grab one and pop it into my mouth. “Mmm, just enough rosemary,”
I say, reaching for another.

My
father fumbles beside me, his attention going to my plate. “No, no, no, no. Try
them like this.”

Before
I can say a word, he dumps the contents of his container from the microwave
onto my plate. My heart sinks, my appetite fading to nausea almost instantly. “I
put turkey chili on everything. It is a dietary staple and should be its own
food group.” Taking a fry, he swirls it through the meaty nightmare he just
poured over my plate before shoving it into his mouth. “That’s so much better
than the stuff they tried to pass off as edible tonight. I have never left a
restaurant hungrier than I was when I entered. Hurry and eat them, or I will,”
he taunts with a chuckle.

“Go
for it,” I say, pushing the plate away. “I can’t eat that.”

“What
on earth has gotten into you, Ireland?” he asks, lifting the plate and inhaling
the scent.

Bile
rises in my throat and I have to fight back the urge to heave into the sink. Or,
better yet, onto the plate of food I can no longer eat. “I’m Vegan, Dad. I don’t
eat meat.”

“That’s
ridiculous,” my mother argues. My dad stands stock still, unable to say
anything, his eyes going from me to the plate and back again. “Of course you
eat meat. Who doesn’t eat meat?”

“Actually,
a lot of people don’t eat meat, Mom,” I correct her. “As for me, I haven’t
eaten meat since I was eleven years old and watched the movie Babe.”

For
weeks, after watching that damn movie at school, I had nightmares. All I could
see when I closed my eyes was talking animals being taken to slaughter, begging
me for their lives, all with faces of people I knew. It was then that I began
researching everything I could find. I quickly began realizing that animals
have rights, the same as we do. They are living, breathing beings of this
planet, no different than we are. I firmly believe that no one should live
their lives in fear of being herded in mass quantity onto some truck and driven
to where they are killed for the sake of someone’s sandwich filler.

I
am fully aware that animal based products are heavily engrained in our society.
There are some things that I simply cannot always avoid, especially with my
life being as crazy as it is at times. I do, however, feel that I should do my
part in making the world a better place for all who inhabit it. If I can lay my
head down at night happy with the choices I have made, then it’s a good day.

“That’s
just silly,” my father says, finally finding his words. “Not just cutting out
the red meat for health’s sake, then, eh?” he asks, looking almost insulted as
he studies me. I really should introduce my father to Hunter. “You’ve gone and
cut it all out? Everything with a face? You know, potatoes have eyes, Smartass.
Don’t expect me to jump on that bandwagon,” he chuckles, scrunching his face up
in disgust.

“Night,
Dad,” I say rolling my eyes. Scooping up my notebook and pen, I retreat up to
my room to shower and crash for the night.