Page 18

chapter eighteen

He’s been gone a lot longer than it should have taken to get his things. He’s not a packrat by any means, so it should have only taken two or three trash bags. There’s a small spark of dread coursing through me, and I rise, making my way to the window, my throbbing cock guiding me along my journey. Downstairs, there’s the sound of plates rattling as Mal unloads the dishwasher.

When I peel back the curtain, there’s no sign of life at the Matthews’ home. The curtains are drawn, which I’ve never seen shut before, and it makes me uneasy.

I pace the room for the next five minutes until I decide to send Dare a text to make sure he’s okay. A few seconds after I hit send, his phone buzzes on my nightstand. Crap.

Something is off. This doesn’t feel right.

I slip into a pair of jeans and a Polo shirt, sliding into my sandals before rushing downstairs. Popping my head in the kitchen, I spot Mal dancing around the kitchen in . . . good God, why is she doing the dishes in her panties? What if Darren saw her?

“Mal,” I call out, and she looks over her shoulder, smiling. “Dare’s been gone a while. I’m going to head across the street and make sure everything’s okay.”

She gives me a smile and nod. “I had Bible study in an hour but all three of them text and said they weren’t comfortable being taught scripture by the wife of a sodomite.” My heart sinks, because Bible study is one of Mal’s favorite things. They don’t actually study anything, it’s more an excuse to get together and chat. I’ve cost her that. This thing Darren and I have started may have just cost my wife her only friends.

“Sorry,” I say, but she just shrugs me off.

“More time for me to dive into the secular world. I’m actually looking forward to it. I think I might wear jeans in public today.”

I give her a smile and a nod. “You look beautiful in them. I think you should wear whatever makes you happy.” The admission earns me the sight of her rare blush, and it just makes me so dang happy to see her like this. I want it for her. I want her to live her big, beautiful life, living by no one’s rules but her own. I want her to be the apple of someone’s eye, because Mallory is magnificent and she deserves to have someone look at her in the way I never could.

I head into the hall and pause in the foyer, staring at a painting of Jesus on the wall—the one my momma painted during the congregation’s craft club, back when the church was still thriving—like I’m staring into my redeemer’s soul. Pouring out the words I couldn’t ever bring myself to say aloud. They’re words I cling to on my darkest days, when holding on feels harder than letting go. I’ve given this man my soul. I’ve laid it in His Holy hands, and I’ve trusted Him to keep it safe.

“I choose Darren,” I tell Jesus. “Every time, I’ll choose Darren.”

I half-expect to be struck down by a lightning bolt, because defying God is unforgivable, but I’ve said it, and I won’t take it back. I’ve given Him my entire life, and all He’s given me is fear. Terror that if I step out of line—even an inch—I’ll be cloaked in fire for eternity. Before, the thought terrorized me. It was the source of my secret shame. Now, at Darren Matthews’ side, I’ll walk willingly through the flames.

I make my way across the street, because I know my Darren needs me. I can feel it in my soul. On the porch, I ring the bell, but someone is shouting inside, and it makes my fingers twitch. Through the window beside the front door, I catch sight of a picture of Jesus they’ve got hanging on the wall. It almost looks like Jesus is smirking at me. Like he’s got some trump card up his sleeve.

“You ungrateful goddamn queer!” Brother Matthews screams from upstairs, making my blood run cold. I turn the knob, thanking the stars that we live in a town small enough that no one locks their doors. Within seconds I’m upstairs, almost tripping over Sister Matthews along the way. She’s on all fours, head and shoulders peeking out from her prayer closet. She’s got a terrified look in her eyes, but she seems paralyzed.

“I rebuke you,” another voice calls out that I don’t recognize. When I round the corner, it feels like my heart has stopped beating.

There’s a portly man with a thinning hairline holding a Bible high above his head. He’s got a bottle of anointing oil in his other hand, and he’s casually flicking it toward the floor, where my Dare is lying beneath his father.

Brother Matthews is kneeling over his son, and he’s got his hands around my sweet boy’s throat. Every muscle in my body comes alive, and there’s no thought behind my movements. I’m acting on instinct and raw, unfiltered rage. There’s a baseball bat beside Dare’s desk. His dad tried to make him play the sport as a kid. He didn’t want to play sports though. All Dare wanted to do was come to church with me. To sit by my side. To look up at me with his adoring eyes, pouring more and more love into me with each blink. I didn’t see it then, but my God, I see it now, and it’s absolutely blinding. He loved me. He’s loved me all along.

I lift the bat over my head, close my eyes, and say a quick prayer. “Guide my hand, Lord,” I whisper. Wherever it lands is where it lands. Brother Matthews’ fate is in God’s hands now. The bat connects, and bones crack, but there’s no scream. There are no pained cries. Slowly, I open my eyes, horrified at what I find. The back of his skull is caved in, and there’s blood pouring from the wound. Bits of flesh speckle the end of the bat, and there’s a small clump of his hair clinging on for dear life.

Darren isn’t moving. He’s just lying on his bedroom floor, eyes closed, throat bruised. My hands shake at my side as I look up to my left. The portly man with anointing oil is staring at Brother Matthews with big, frightened eyes.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, turning to stare at me.

“What did you do to my boy,” I growl, slamming the bat against the wall beside me, leaving a gaping hole in the sheetrock. “What did you do?”

He takes a step back but stumbles, falling down to the floor. The man is looking up at me like he thinks I’m about to end his life. If Darren is dead, I’ll do just that.

“He c-c-called and asked me to h-help with an exorcism,” the man says, pointing at Brother Matthews. “I was just doing the Lord’s work, s-son.”

Just doing the Lord’s work. How many times have I said that to myself? How much hurt have I inflicted, like the hurt he’s causing me. “His father was choking him!”

“I know,” the man quickly agrees, sweating profusely, his entire face covered. “I didn’t like it either, but he wouldn’t listen. Once I get an exorcism going, there’s no stopping. Not when demons are loose in the room.”

Done with his pathetic excuses, I kneel beside my boy and place my hand over his heart. The beat is soft, but it’s there. I lean until I’m right against his face, and I listen to his breathing. Shallow, but again, it’s there.

“You hurt him,” I say flatly. “All he wanted to do is leave, and you tried to hurt him anyway.” Tears drip down my cheeks, but I don’t know if they’re from sadness or rage. When I look up from my sweet Darren’s sleeping face, the man is halfway to the door, crawling on his hands and knees. I launch up from Darren’s side and march toward him, but he’s quicker, standing and running from the room, then down the hall.

“Daddy,” Darren’s sweet, broken voice calls out from behind.

Thank God. Oh, thank God. I don’t give a damn about the other man anymore, because Darren is awake, and he needs me. As I turn to go back to my boy, Sister Matthews lets out a feral cry, and the other man’s scream echoes down the hall and into Darren’s bedroom.

They can kill each other for all I care.

I kneel beside him and take his hand. He looks like he’s hurting, and he’s got his hand to his throat, feeling where his father’s hands had been choking him.

“They were waiting for me,” he says, wincing like it hurts to talk. “As soon as I came in. Dad dragged me up here and they just started screaming.” There are tears spilling from his eyes, and I brush them away with my thumb. “Then my dad put his hands around my neck.”

“You’re safe. Daddy’s here, and he’s never going to leave you again.” I press our lips together, gently cupping his cheek.

Footsteps thud up the stairs, and when I look up, Mal is standing in the doorway. Her long hair is flowing well past her butt, and I smile when I notice she’s wearing jeans. She looks like a woman of the world, not just a submissive evangelical wife—not that she was ever really submissive to begin with, and thank goodness for that. I wouldn’t want a meek partner, too frightened to step out of line to let their voices be heard. I admire Mal for her strength. I always have. She’s got a warrior’s heart, and right now, staring down at Darren, she looks like she’s ready to wage war on his behalf.

“Miles?” she says, her voice soft but strong, the way it’s always been. “What the hell just happened in here?” She takes a look at Darren’s face, and it’s like I can see her heart breaking as it happens. She kneels on the other side of him, combing her fingers through his hair affectionately. He’s got a friendly smile aimed right at her. It makes my heart proud to see them this way. For so long they’ve bitten each other’s heads off for the most trivial things. Now, they almost seem fond of each other. “Are you in pain?”

Darren nods. “A little. He was squeezing really tight.”

I still have to tell him about his dad. I know Darren hates the man, but I doubt he wants him dead. Knowing I’ve taken a life will probably bring me to my knees when I’m able to fully process what just happened, but I can’t let that darkness claim me when Darren’s eyes are on me, bathing in my light.

“I need to tell you something, and you might not want to see me again when I do.”

Wincing when he swallows, he says, “Okay.”

“I did what I had to do to save you,” I whisper. “Dare—baby—I didn’t have a choice.”

He still looks a little dumbfounded, but he turns his head, spotting his father’s bashed-in skull, and I guess reality hits him. His mouth gapes, and he just stares at the dead body, breathing slowly.

“He’s dead?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice urgent with a bit of whine accenting the words. “Please don’t hate me. I did what I had to do to save you. I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

He puts his hand over my mouth and shakes his head. “Thank you.”

I slam my eyes shut and pull away as shame floods through my veins. “Don’t thank me for this. I killed a man. I took his life, and I—”

His hand covers my mouth again, and when I open my eyes, he’s giving the most serious expression I’ve ever seen. “You saved me. He would have killed me, Miles. He wouldn’t have stopped, no matter what you did. So, yeah, I’m going to thank you.”

I wipe my cheeks with my palms. “We need to call the police. They’ll need to take the . . . they’ll need to take the body.”

“He’s dead?” a voice whispers from the hallway, and when I turn around Sister Matthews is peeking in the room, clinging to the doorframe. My heart slams in my chest, because she heard everything. She’s seen me at my worst. How am I ever supposed to look her in the eyes again?

Sister Matthews makes her way forward slowly, her eyes never leaving her husband’s body. Darren tries to sit up, but he’s having trouble, so I place my hand behind his back and help him. When Sister Matthews reaches her husband, she pulls back her leg and kicks him in the side. She kicks him four more times before stumbling back. Luckily, Mal’s able to catch her before she falls.

“I hope it hurt,” she screams in a voice I’ve never heard before. It’s even more powerful than her battle cry a few moments ago in the hall. “I hope it hurt.” She kicks him again, harder this time, and there’s a cracking sound when her foot connects with his ribcage. She continues to kick the body, putting her whole weight into it, not stopping until Mal steps in.

“JoyAnna,” Mal says, standing beside her. “He’s gone. It’s over.” Her assuring smile must speak to Sister Matthews, because she stops kicking her dead husband, giving Mal her undivided attention.

“He’s gone?” She blinks as if dazed.

“He’s gone. You’re free,” Mal reassures her.

“I was fourteen when my parents gave me to him.” She blinks, looking dazed. “I don’t even know what freedom is.” Sister Matthews stares down at the broken and bloodied body with a look of contempt so strong, you could cut it with a chainsaw. “What about him ?”

Mentally, I prepare myself for the call I’ll need to make, but I don’t know how to explain what just happened in this house. I know technically I was within my rights to kill the man, but I worry about a lengthy trial. Of the shame it would bring my family’s name, not that there’s much to be proud of to begin with.

I unlock my phone, but I’m only able to press the number nine before Darren’s hand wraps around my wrist and shakes his head.

“No. No police.”

“Dare, we have to—”

He shakes his head again. “Call Meadows.”