by Eden Connor
At least I knew why my brain seized on these details. I sure as hell didn’t care to hear the sounds coming from the laundry room, but that was a losing battle. Above the monotonous grumble of the dryer, male grunts overlaid familiar, feminine wails. The sound wafted down the hall, along with the unmistakable sound of flesh slapping flesh.
Those long ago mornings, lying in Caine’s hideous red-and-black bedroom while Dale and Mom had sex, danced in my mind.
The hot rage that had propelled me here cooled, then turned to ice, while I waited for my mother to finish fucking her lover.
Damn. Left my phone in the car.
But hers lay on the table. I picked it up. Mine was the last number dialed, but she’d missed two calls from Dale.
You should think about using a passcode if you’re gonna fuck around.
I flipped the screen to video and pressed the button.
“Oh, fuck, Eddie, I’m coming!”
“Goddamn, that pussy’s still tight.” The unseen man groaned, then cried out.
Eddie? Eddie O’Bannion? The guy who ran off to become a professional skateboarder because that was so much cooler than becoming a father?
My blood slowed and my heart seized.
Oh, you evil cunt. You’d better be spreading your legs for some other Eddie.
I propped the phone on its side, leaning it against the bowl so it could record whatever came down the hall from the laundry room. Stretching my spine as tall as I could, I squared my shoulders. Re-folding my hands together on the tabletop, I waited, cheeks burning and heart thudding in my ears.
The rumbling noise ceased. So did the grunts and moans. A small thump signaled that Mom had jumped her whoring ass off the dryer.
The man stumbled into the kitchen first, still tucking the shirt tail of his blue dress shirt into the waistband of a pair of gray plaid pants. Generous silver threads gave his brown waves a faded appearance, but he looked enough like the pictures of him I’d seen posted online to make me sure I’d guessed correctly.
“Hello, Eddie. I wish I could say it was nice meeting you, but your timing leaves a lot to be desired. See, no thanks to you, I already have a father, and no room in my life for your deadbeat ass. So, why don’t you hit the road, Jack?”
He jerked his chin up. I had Mom’s coloring and features. Nothing of this man would ever look back at me from the mirror. Any curiosity I’d ever felt about this piece of garbage crumpled like dry autumn leaves.
“Shelby!” Mom’s shocked gasp didn’t pull my eyes off the man that’d run like a scalded dog when he learned I was on the way.
I stood, jabbing a finger toward the door. “I said, get out of my father’s house. Do it now.”
“I tried and tried to call you.” Mom rushed to stand in front of Eddie O’Bannion, former world champion skateboarder turned... businessman?
I used to look at his fan site and wonder why she wouldn’t tell me if this was the guy.
And like a hammer, I knew why she never had.
She didn’t fucking know for sure who my father was. But somehow, she’d dragged this jackass here. The week before Dale and I were to go before the judge.
“I just... I wanted you to talk to your real dad before you go through this thing with Dale, honey.”
“My real dad’s in Martinsville, working his ass off in hundred-degree heat to pay for this fucking house.”
I picked up her phone and stopped the video. Where was my name in her contact list? Not under S, nothing under R. Ah, there. Daughter-Shelby-ICE. Stupid. I was pretty sure the ‘In case of emergency’ designation should come first, but whatever.
It took a few keystrokes, easily made while Mom and Eddie exchanged ‘oh, shit’ glances, to email myself the clip. Discarding the phone, I picked up the bowl.
Eddie O, as his fans had called him two decades ago, stood frozen. I reckoned he needed a bit of motivation, so I hurled the bowl at his head. “Get out!”
He ducked and ran out the door.
“Aw, look, Mommy. His signature move.” Hysterical laughter bubbled up the back of my throat, but I swallowed it and turned on Macy.
“You made me a promise the night you brought home a husband I’d never laid eyes on. Remember what it was?” I rounded the table, skidding to a stop in front of her. “I told you, looking into that hideous black and red hell hole you thought I’d be tickled to live in, that you’d better love Dale Hannah every goddamn day for the rest of your fucking life.” Grabbing her arms, I shook her. “Do. You. Not. Remember?”
Before I could go on, she broke my hold. Her hand flashed out. Searing pain rippled across my cheek. A thick, sickly taste flooded my mouth. In my entire life, she’d never struck me in the face.
“You only want Caine because you can’t have Dale!” Her screech bounced off the stainless-clad appliances. “I can’t think of another reason why he’d try and steal you from me. It’s sick!”
Oh, so the only reason anyone could possibly love me is if they’re fucking me? “That’s pathetic.”
My cheek stung with fire. Outrage roiled in my chest, but time seemed to warp, expanding in that weird, elastic way it’d done just after the ‘Cuda flipped. It felt like I took an hour to think about doing something that had always been unthinkable, but Mom was still in the same spot, with the same outraged expression on her face, when I ticked through the miserable life we’d shared before she met Dale, and the cowardly way she tried to sully the relationship Dale and I had. For what reason? Jealousy? I decided I had no reason to spare her.
Balling my fist, I drove it into her gut. Grabbing her belly, she whipped forward, meeting my raised knee with a stomach-wrenching squelch. Blood spurted across the knee of my jeans. She collapsed to her knees, then fell to the floor. Resisting the urge to drive my foot into her ribs, I turned on my heel. The unbearable pressure inside me leaked out with each step toward the door. The escaping air took every drop of body heat with it.
“Don’t come to court for my adoption. Forget about stopping me and Caine from being together. You just cashed in all your leverage for a quickie on top of the dryer. You open your big mouth and I’ll show Dale the video I made of you and Eddie coming down the hall with your clothes half off. You aren’t a good liar. Lucky for you, you’re you’re still a good lay. Whining doesn’t inspire people to love you, you know.” I fought the urge to spit.
I made it down two steps before I remembered my shoes.
Mom rolled to her back. Unmoved by the sight of her blood on the tiles, I shoved my feet into my half boots. Crossing to her side, I knelt, reveling in her flinch when I slapped her hand away from her nose. Grasping the cartilage, I waggled the straight blade. She screamed.
I wiped my bloody fingers on the rear of my jeans and stared into her eyes, trying to figure out who the hell we’d become—and why she’d pushed us to this point.
“It’s not broken. Pinch it till it stops bleeding. Then take your cheatin’ ass upstairs, shower that wretched asshole’s cum off yourself, and pack a damn bag. You just became the perfect NASCAR wife. You’d better be in Martinsville by dark, or you will by God wish you’d gone. It would suck to drag-ass back to the trailer park from here, wouldn’t it?”
She coughed and rolled to her side. Pushing upright, she propped on one hand and cupped her nose with the other. Blood dripped through her fingers instantly. I stared at the growing spatter on the tiles.
“NASCAR’s just a rolling trailer park.” Blood clotted her words, making her voice into a caricature of her normal tone. “Might want to think about that before you jump in with both feet. You know that little sayin’ they got? Gas or ass? The joke is, once Caine’s sure he has you, he’ll take the gasoline every fucking time.”
When I stalked down the steps and stepped into the blazing, late April sunshine, Eddie jumped away from my car. I bit my tongue, realizing he couldn’t go anywhere, since my Audi had his ass blocked. I strode past without a second look and flung myself behind the wheel.
I stopped at the first gas station. Swiping my debit card, I jabbed in my PIN number, then flung the card into the passenger seat. I lifted the nozzle with icy hands and spun the chrome gas cap until it tumbled free. Inhaling deep, I jammed the nozzle into the opening, watching the cap swing back and forth on its tether.
Squeeze it gentle, Shelby. Don’t push air into the tank by bein’ in no damn hurry. Tank’s gonna take the same amount of time to fill either way, but one way, you get gas and air. The other, you only get what you’re payin’ for. I actually glanced around for Dale, but the voice was inside my head. Less wear and tear on the fuel system, not dealin’ with them damn bubbles. Lookin’ out for the small things gets you more horsepower, honey.
When the nozzle clicked off, I hung the hose on the side of the pump with sightless eyes and replaced the cap.
That terrible feeling bubbled to life again, like the stupid volcano made for some long-ago science fair.
Bright banners in the convenience store windows beckoned. I leaned into the car to snag my purse and slammed the door. Shivering in the extreme air conditioning inside, I grabbed a pack of powdered sugar doughnuts, then laid them down in a random spot when I spied the Krispy Kreme box by the cash register. I scanned the soft drink aisle, choosing an RC Cola, then doubled back to seize a Moon Pie.
At the register, I dropped my items onto the counter, adding a pack of Juicy Fruit. “I’m going to get two plain glazed doughnuts, okay?”
The shaggy-haired guy behind the register raised his eyes from my breasts.
“Yeah. Sure. Hey, are you okay?”
I grabbed a waxed paper bag off the small shelf below the Krispy Kreme box. Opening the bag with a flick of my wrist, I chose two plump pastries and folded the top down on the bag with care, sliding a nail along the fold.
“Of course.”
“Well, you got fresh blood all over your pants.”
Oh. I gave him a blinding smile. “It’s not my blood.” For fuck’s sake, why’d he look so weird?
“Uh, that’s seven sixty-two. Cash or credit?”
I opened my wallet, staring, dumbfounded, at the empty money slot.
“Um, credit.” I spun my plastic across the counter and raked everything into my purse, except the gum. I slid the cheerful yellow pack into my back pocket.
The clerk handed the card back. I blinked. This wasn’t my debit card.
I’d used Dale’s credit card maybe twice since high school. Now, his account would show a charge by me, on a Monday, in Concord.
He’ll think it was Mom’s. Bet she stops here all the time. I signed her name, shoved the card into my wallet, and gave the guy another bright smile.
“Have a nice day,” he purred with a leer.
“It’s way too late for that.”
In the car, I peeled a stick of gum, folding it into a small square before I popped it into my mouth. While I hooked up my restraint, I tried to make the gum pop, the way Dale did, to no avail.
How the hell does he do that?
It might be something I could ask Siri to look up, but why bother? I knew someone who could teach me.
I wound through town, eventually passing the grocery store when I’d had the momentous encounter with Gerald Sherrill. A shade tree cast dancing shadows on the windshield of his wife’s burgundy Mazda, parked off to the side of the store. The price of pork loins had skyrocketed in the last four years.
When I finally reached Highway 49, the road that led to the house, I had to wait through three cycles of the stop light as a long line of traffic crept forward. I eased up time after time, looking to my left. Behind a twelve-foot fence, topped with razor wire, red brick buildings and gray asphalt shingles peeked above the sloping lawn of Jackson Detention Center. The focal point of the yard, a huge octagonal gazebo built of stone, was filled with young boys dressed in light blue shirts and dark blue pants. The structure had always seemed out of place for a prison.
At the light, I spun the wheel to the left and gunned the gas on green, laying rubber on the asphalt. My stunt earned me a round of hoots from a bunch of high school boys who nearly fell out of their camo-painted pickup when they passed me.
“Shelbyy! I love youu!” I glanced into the rear view, shaking my head at the young guy who hung over the tailgate, blowing kisses.
Miranda Lambert was right. Everyone dies famous in a small town. The song was another favorite of Caine’s. The thought gave me the curious sensation of being home.
I passed the weedy spot where the Jeep had pulled over to give me a ride to South Carolina. Making a right beside the gas station, I stomped the gas, shooting past the side road leading to the high school. Approaching the entrance to Arlee Circle, a wide swath of black pitch caused me to brake in a hurry.
“Well, I’ll be damned. They’re finally paving the road. Won’t need to wash the cars as often.”
I eased through the loose blobs of asphalt, wincing when the tires spun them into the undercarriage. The only way I knew to get that crap off a car was with gasoline, and I had no idea how that would react to the thin plastic skin over my paint.
But, I can call Caine. He’ll know the answer.
Still trying to make the gum pop to no avail, I picked up speed to take the two curves, then geared down to make the left onto Mount Zion Church Road. I laid rubber again, for the sheer fun of it, then rocketed down the country lane, topping the hill at the church with a stomach-dropping leap.
The Mount Zion Baptist Church sign read, Some things must be believed to be seen.
“Because asking for proof denotes a lack of faith rather than intelligence, right?” I spun the wheel into a hard right turn, not wasting time to gear down. The rear end fishtailed on the layer of loose gravel, to my absolute delight.
I corrected easily, giving the ‘Cuda a mental high five for all the practice she’d given me. I rolled to a stop beside the Viper, wondering why Caroline had parked in the hot sun rather than under the shade of the tree. I hooked my purse over my shoulder, humming, and unlatched the safety harness. I swung my legs out, giving the green canopy overhead a doubtful look. Did the tree drip sap or something?
“Get off me, you bastard!”
Dropping my purse, I bolted for the house.
Chapter Nineteen
The front door was closed, but when I wrenched the knob, the panel swung open. Caroline’s red boots kicked frantically against the hips of a pair of black trousers.
“Jonny?”
No, the ass wasn’t nearly nice enough to be Jonny’s. The man raised his head. A spotted pink scalp peeked through thin strands of brown hair.
I tripped over a discarded white shirt. Throwing out a hand, the only thing to steady myself on was the man’s bare shoulder. He jerked away, rolling toward the back of the sofa. His rigid penis stuck out from white boxers dotted with faded blue diamond shapes. I jerked my gaze up to meet eyes so dark, it took a heartbeat to make them out as blue.
“Jill?”
“Wrong answer, asshole.” I snatched a vase off the end table. Lifting it high, I brought it down on his head. The cheap ceramic container shattered. A line of bright red appeared on the side of my palm. I grabbed the shoulder strap of his wifebeater T-shirt.
“Get off her, I said!” I gave another heave.
He landed in the floor, but his arm still stretched over her.
His freckled arm, which ended with a fistful of Caroline’s hair.
I drove my toe into his elbow. “Let go of her! Caroline, get up! Go call nine-one-one.”
“Just make him go,” she whispered. “Just make him go home.”
I searched the room for something else to hit her rapist with, but the glass lamp would shatter all over Caroline. The next heaviest object was a framed five-by-seven photo. The stranger groaned and drew his knees under him, struggling to rise.
I backed away, giving Caroline a tip of my head. Why didn’t she get off the damn couch and go call the cops?
The man rolled onto his ass, reaching
for the back of his head. His dick still protruded from the opening in his boxers, soft and unthreatening now, and yet, still menacing. Wincing, he swapped arms, lifting his eyes to my face. Blood trickled down the side of his neck. I tracked the rivulet until it soaked into the thin white shirt, unable to tear my eyes off the spreading stain.
“Jill, you came back. I thought about you every day, sweetheart. Remember how I brought you orange juice in bed and stroked your hair while you drank it, just the day before you ran away? Didn’t you enjoy our mornings together?”
Jill.
Then he must be... Shalvis? The preacher? Caine’s... grandfather? My stomach rolled. I swallowed the sour taste that flooded my mouth.
“Didn’t you like it when I brought you awake with a sweet touch, Jill? Why’d you have to run away with that juvenile delinquent?”
My stomach twisted. There was something slimy about a grown man taking juice into the bedroom of his slumbering teenage stepdaughter, touching her when she was unaware. Something dripped onto my shoe—just a gentle patter, like rain—but I wasn’t willing to take my eyes off this guy.
Oh, God, how I despise a hypocrite.
I slapped my stinging hand to my thigh. “No, I’m Shelby Hannah. Pretty sure I’m the daughter of that juvenile delinquent Jill left home with. Get the fuck out of this house, preacher man, before I show you what all he taught me about self-defense.” I eyed Caroline, wondering if I dared leave to call the police from the car. My eye fell on the sturdy wooden chairs around the kitchen table. Just three steps.
“Hannah.” He spat the word like a curse, grabbing his shirt. “That fucking bastard killed my baby.”
“The way I heard it, she killed herself because you couldn’t practice what you preach, you sanctimonious bastard. How could you send her away when she needed you most?”
Caroline curled into a ball. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs. Gotta risk going for the chair.
I moved sideways through the small archway, never taking my eyes off the preacher. Confidence surged through me when I found I could lift the chair easily, but the heft of maple wood assured me of a solid hit.
