Page 8 of Griffin (Stone Brothers #5)

EIGHT

SHAY

T ate's foot pressed down hard on the gas.

We flew recklessly through the city streets.

I gripped the edges of my seat as he took a corner so fast, I worried the tires would leave the ground.

My heart was pounding so hard, I could feel it in my ears.

I knew that if I asked him to slow down, he'd just go faster.

My fingers were cramped when we finally reached our street, and I could release the seat.

I wasn't exactly sure how holding tightly to the seat would help me if we flipped over or rammed head on into a building or, worse, another car, but it was a technique I'd developed to help me get through his harrowing rides.

His truck was still in the driveway with the hood up and his tools sitting in a pile nearby.

He parked my car behind it. "Going to need your car again tomorrow," he said.

"That's fine. I don't mind the bus." He was trying to start a fight, but I didn't care enough about anything he said anymore to argue back.

"I've got some chicken breasts to fry," I said as I got out of the car.

I checked my phone on the way to the house, certain that Colt would have texted by now telling me he was letting me go.

Tate had come into the trailer ready for a fight, but Colt didn't take the bait.

Tate backed down quickly. He'd sized up his opponents and changed his mind.

As viciously strong as my husband was, something told me he was no match for Colt and Griffin Stone.

"I don't want chicken," Tate said as he stormed past me into the house.

He let the squeaky screen door shut in my face.

I stood on the stoop for a minute and closed my eyes telling my anxiety monster to stay hidden in that closet.

I couldn't deal with it right now. Tate was in a terrible mood, and I needed my wits about me.

I took several deep breaths and entered the house.

"You're not working for those assholes," Tate said the second I stepped inside.

"We need the money for the loan on your truck.

This house is half the size of our last rental and costs three times as much.

" Right then would have been a good time to remind him that he'd had to become an owner/operator trucker because he'd blown the goodwill of three trucking companies.

His temper had caused more than one accident, and trucking companies weren't big on second chances when you had a shitty track record to begin with.

That same temper had pushed us out of the last town, a town where rental prices were a third what they were here near the coast. He'd punched a neighbor over an argument about his truck being parked on the street for too long.

"Find another job and find something else to make for dinner." Tate walked away and slammed the bedroom door so hard the doorframe splintered.

I took off my coat and checked my phone once more. Maybe Colt would wait until the morning to fire me, and maybe I could talk him out of the decision. I pulled out a pot to heat some pasta for spaghetti.

I got lost in chopping carrots and onions and didn't hear Tate come in behind me.

I startled, and the knife slipped across my thumb as his arm snaked around my waist. I froze in repulsion as he leaned down and kissed the side of my neck.

"Missed these little stars," he said as his mouth pressed against my tattoo.

His mood swings were getting much starker, and they terrified me.

I'd spoken to him about medication once, and he pushed me through the screen door. I never brought it up again.

His hand swept under my shirt, and I had to swallow the bile that rose in my throat. The swipe of the knife had been deep enough to start a flow of blood.

"I need to get a bandage before I ruin the vegetables," I said and squirmed out of his hold.

"Fucking clumsy," he said tersely. And we were back to that Tate.

I hurried to the bathroom, shut the door and locked it. I held my hand under the water and let the red flow down the drain for a few seconds before I collected myself. I pulled a bandage out from the medicine cabinet and wrapped it tightly around my thumb to stop the blood.

The doorknob turned. I gasped, then silently thanked the landlord for putting in a door with a lock.

Our last house didn't have one, and I'd taken to pulling open the vanity drawer to keep Tate from barging in.

His fist pounded the door. It rattled on its hinges.

He'd have every door in the house hanging off its hinges before we were, once again, driven out of town by neighbors and people with pitchforks.

"I'll be right out to finish dinner," I called lightly, even though my feet were frozen to the spot, and my heart was racing.

"Never mind. I'm going out to get a burger. Do my laundry. I'm leaving Monday for a job."

"Yes, thank you, God," I mouthed to myself in the mirror.

"All right." I stood in the bathroom staring at the pathetic woman in the mirror.

In my teens and early twenties, the reflection staring back at me would have been full of spunk and energy and ready to take on the world, but Tate had sucked the life out of me.

I waited for the front door to shut and for my car to start. I glanced out the small window over the toilet and waited for my car to turn the corner before leaving the bathroom.

I put away the cut vegetables and made myself a piece of peanut butter toast. I was alone, possibly for a few hours, so I allowed myself to slip back into my other life, the one where I did what I wanted like eat a piece of toast for dinner, and I could eat that same piece of toast without fear.

I sat on the back stoop and watched a few squirrels chase each other around the trunk of an oak tree.

They stopped more than once, their tiny noses twitching in the air, trying to figure out where the delicious peanut smell was coming from.

The night air was brisk, but I liked it.

It helped wash away some of the sticky wretchedness of the last hour.

When Tate stomped into the trailer, I wanted to sink into a hole in the ground.

And when he barked at Colt about my salary, I wanted someone to quickly fill in the dirt as I tucked down in that same hole.

There was no doubt in my mind that I'd lose this job, and that made me so angry, tears started to fall.

Deep down, I knew I had to get out of this marriage.

I'd tried before and failed to shrug off this horrid, deadly disease.

He always found me. Once, I snuck out and stayed in a motel for a week.

Tate found me. A trucker knows every highway motel, every back country road, but it was a silly rookie mistake that caused him to show up at that motel.

I'd used my debit card at a nearby gas station.

He knocked the door down and carried me out kicking and screaming.

The little old lady running the motel was too afraid to do anything.

She just stood there, chin on the ground, as she watched Tate throw me in his truck.

I ended up in the hospital with a broken clavicle and bruises.

That was when I started getting really good at making up elaborate lies to explain my injuries.

"I fell going downhill on a mountain bike," I told the very skeptical ER doctor.

A nurse came in later to ask if I wanted to change my story, but I smiled politely and asked why I'd change it if it was the truth.

A night sky took over the smudged colors of dusk, and the autumn breeze intensified. I got up and went inside. I never knew how long my reprieve would be, and I never let myself think about his return. I didn't want to disturb my "other" life with worry.

I walked into the bedroom. Tate's duffle was sitting in the middle of the room, reminding me that I had to dig through his dirty clothes and get them washed and ready for his next trip.

I carried the heavy duffle out to the service porch where a decades old washer and dryer sat.

I opened the duffle and leaned back out of the stink cloud as I pulled the dirty clothes out and pushed them into the washer.

My phone rang from somewhere in the house.

I walked in to answer it and saw Colt's name on the screen.

My heart sank. This was it. I was going to lose a great job, and I had no other prospects.

This time we wouldn't have to wait for the neighbors to run us out of town.

The landlord would get that privilege after we failed to pay the rent on time.

"Hello."

"Shay? It's me, Fin. Hope it's all right that I called. I'm at my dad's, and well—he was all right with me calling you cuz, to be honest, and just tell me if it's none of my business—are you all right?"

My throat tightened. Friends used to call and ask me the same thing, but I'd always answered with lies, so they eventually stopped asking. Having someone, a man who barely knew me, call especially to ask made tears burn my eyes.

"Uh, I'm fine, Fin. Thanks. I'm sorry Tate was so rude. His social skills are lacking."

"Yeah, I'd say so, but it's not his social skills that had Dad and me worried." He left his statement at that. He knew.

"He can be a little gruff sometimes, but I know how to handle him." It was something I told people all the time, and it was quite possibly my biggest lie of all. "Is your dad terribly mad? I'd understand completely if he doesn't want me to return to the job."

"What? No, he wants you to stay."

"I'm glad."

"About the pay?—"

"Don't worry about that. It's a good, generous salary for a starting position. Tate has no idea about salaries because he's been driving a truck forever. He lives in a different world." If only that were the case, and a world far away from mine.

"Well, I'll let you go. I don't want to interrupt your evening. I just wanted to make sure?—"

"Fin, thanks for checking on me. Oh, and how was the lasagna?"

"It was brilliant. My mom knows how to make great lasagna. She always makes it for Christmas."

"My mom used to make blueberry waffles for Christmas.

I know. It's a little untraditional, but Dad was always on the road.

He was a trucker like Tate. So, Mom and I made the food we loved like blueberry waffles.

We'd put the maple syrup on the coffee table, snuggle down under a blanket and watch 'It's a Wonderful Life' while we downed sticky waffles.

And wow, now that I've taken that long boring trip back to memory lane, I'll say goodnight. I'll see you in the morning, Fin."

"Not long or boring and—take care, and Shay—" There was a long pause.

I could hear voices in the background, his family talking and laughing about something.

"If you ever, you know, if it's ever not okay—just let me know.

I'll set things right." He paused again, and my throat was too filled with a lump to speak. "Goodnight, Shay."

"Goodnight, Fin." The words creaked out. I hung up, sank down to my bottom and hugged my knees to my chest.

* * *

I took a long hot shower, read a few lines, mostly the same ones repeatedly, on the novel I'd started weeks ago and then pulled up the covers and fell asleep.

The front door opened and shut, and like always, I closed my eyes tightly and wished that it was some intruder, a stranger breaking in to steal the television, instead of my husband.

Tate's heavy footsteps pounded the wooden floor.

He pushed open the door, not caring at all how much noise or light he let into the room.

I pulled the blanket tighter around me and closed my eyes so hard, it seemed they might get stuck that way.

Minutes later, he crawled into bed. The entire mattress shifted his direction.

He smelled of onions and sweat, and I was sure I smelled faint perfume.

Other women still saw a tall, good-looking man who knew how to turn on charm when he wanted.

What they didn't know was there was a genuine monster lurking beneath the handsome exterior, a monster who seemed to be getting less stable each day.

Somehow, I needed to find a way to escape the monster for good.