My name is Ken Clarke. Mackenzie Belle Clarke.
I was named after my father, Robert Mackenzie Clarke, and my stepmother, Isabella Offner. Isabella and my mother were lesbian partners. I was born and raised in an unconventional home. No father, only two mothers. But I was raised in a home full of love and respect.
Ever since I could remember, I never wore skirts or blouses. I dressed the way my mother and Isabella dressed. Unisex clothes. Pants or shorts, T-shirts and jackets, boots or sneakers. No sandals, no flip-flops, and most definitely, no stilettos.
I never had long hair. I liked wearing it short like that of a boy, the way Isabella wore her hair. But I was also taught to take care of my body as a girl should, the way my mom did. I would soak myself in bath oils or apply masks on my face and hair. I would shave as often as required and shower at least two times a day to make sure no trace of sweat and sun would be left on my body.
In the world that I grew up in, gender didn’t make a difference. A girl could do anything else that a boy could. She could take care of and protect herself and those around her. She could go out with a girl or a boy… whoever would give her that spark, that connection. She was free to fall in love—regardless of the other person’s physical appearance.
My mother loved one man and one woman in her life. The man—my father—was a despicable human being. The woman—Isabella—made her happy beyond belief. Maybe that was why I grew up thinking that no man can be trusted. I believed that no guy would ever be worthy of my love.
I have my rough edges, but I was raised well. My manners were always up to a T. Sure, I cursed a lot, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have respect for those around me, regardless of age, gender, or race.
I loved playing drums and basketball. I do things guys do. But I also loved going to the salon to have my skin and hair taken care of.
I don’t wear girly clothes, but my features were unmistakable. My cheekbones were high, with a naturally pinkish complexion. My striking blue eyes were framed with long dark lashes. My lips probably didn’t go with my whole look. I wanted to look rough and tough. But my lips, well, they were pink and pouty. I also have deep dimples on both cheeks, which show up the second I open my mouth. I didn’t even have to smile.
I remembered Brett telling me one time, “You know, I never understood why you’re hung on Gracie. You do know you’re a hundred times prettier than she is, right?”
He was not the only one who said that. I heard guys whisper the same thing when they thought I was out of earshot.
“What a waste! She’s attracted to girls, and she’s not even aware that she’s more attractive than they are!”
Just because I didn’t dress like a girl doesn’t mean I’m automatically attracted to girls. I just believed that individuality knows no gender. People were quick to judge, but I didn’t care.
My mother and Isabella were in love, and I wanted to have that connection with someone someday.
It was not that I was attracted to girls. The fact is, I just don’t trust boys at all. Can you blame me? I never grew up with a man in the house, and the only man I lived with was my father, and he was a sorry excuse for a man.
My father hated me. Every day he looked at me, he was reminded of the person my mother chose over him. I reminded him of Isabella.
He was a very egoistic man. I guess he found it insulting that his wife left him for a woman.
Idiot!
He failed to see that Isabella may have been a woman, but she was a much bigger person than he ever would be. And that had nothing to do with gender at all. She deserved all my mother’s love. She deserved all my love.
I could tell that he was getting fed up with me. It was pointless to change me. Everything he did only made me miss how things used to be in my life. I was raised with love. I was accepted for what I was. In my father’s house, I was neither accepted nor loved. I was pressured to conform, and I was loathed.
Living in my father’s huge house, having butlers and maids at my beck and call, driving a fancy car… everybody thought I had everything. But sitting here alone on the bathroom floor, as I waited for the results of two pregnancy tests I had just taken, I knew I had absolutely nothing.
I was scared. I never imagined I would have to take this test at all. My mother must have felt this way when she was pregnant with me. Or maybe not. Maybe she was overjoyed because she had Isabella. And they wanted to have a family anyway. Maybe they had plans to adopt. But by some miracle, she was already pregnant by the time she left my father.
If it were up to my mom, I wouldn’t even know about my father. But Isabella thought I had every right to know him, every right to be recognized by him, to carry his name. I was Robert Clarke’s daughter. I deserved to be known as that.
It didn’t matter either way. My father never really saw his daughter in me. He only saw the somewhat androgynous girl who was raised by his ex-wife’s lesbian lover.
I stood up from the floor and went to the sink, where the tests were waiting for me.
One line on the test region for both the tests.
That’s it.
I used up all the five kits that Nicholas bought for me, and they all said the same thing.
Negative. I wasn’t pregnant.
A surge of relief went through me. It was not because I never wanted to have a baby. I would want a family in the future. But I wanted it to be at the right time—when I’m completely free of my father’s clutches when my world is bright because he’s no longer around to cast a shadow over it.
My phone rang. I saw the name on the screen.
Your Hot Wingman.
What does he want now?
I knew I was out of line when I jumped the gun and accused him of raping me. I didn’t think. I just let my emotions take over. Nevertheless, the farther away he is from me, the safer I am. Nicholas Atkins was slowly taking down the walls I had very carefully built for years.
I was just fine before he came along. I didn’t need Nicholas to make me start questioning my own beliefs, my perception.
Men can’t be trusted!
I would not suffer the same fate that my mother had with my father. I wanted to either live alone or share a life with somebody who would cherish me the way my mom was loved by Isabella.
Nicholas called about three more times before finally getting the message that I wasn’t going to pick up.
I went out of the room to get water from the kitchen. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I noticed something weird. Usually, when I get home after my gigs at Rhythemes, the lights in the house will be on. It was probably the only thing I liked about my father’s house. It was always bright, like in hotels. Somebody is always awake at all times.
However, today, only one spotlight in the far corner of the house was on. The whole place was almost covered in darkness.
I walked to the kitchen. Again, only one light was on.
“Hello!” I called.
No answer.
Weird.
We have at least one butler and three maids in the house. And when my father is out of the country, they feel free to gather together in the kitchen, chatting while doing their chores. I looked at my clock: it was only seven in the evening.
I walked toward the back door that led to the maids’ quarters. The hallway was covered in darkness.
“Hello!” I called again.
No answer.
Did my father finally go bankrupt that he couldn’t afford to pay for the services of the maids as well as electricity?
I went back to the kitchen to where the fridge was. I took a glass from the counter and poured myself cold water.
I walked up to my room, giving the dark living room one last look.
Something was definitely not right.
When I opened the door to my room, I found that all the lights in my room were also turned off.
Okay, this is some serious shit!
I clearly remembered leaving all my lights on.
As I stepped inside, I heard the door shut, and I saw movement behind me. Before I could turn around, I felt an arm wrap around my body, and a firm hand covered my mouth, preventing me from making a sound.
“Make one bad move, darling, and you won’t live to see the next sunrise,” a hoarse voice said against my ear.