“I’m sorry, Kenneth. I didn’t have time—”
“—What did you just say?”
My breath starts to come out faster, and I hold back a pathetic whimper when I replay the choice of my words in my head. “That’s not what I meant, Kenneth. I was loading the groceries and then Dad called. I—”
“—You just said you didn’t have time for me.”
I turn onto my road and sweat beads across my forehead the more driveways I pass.
There are ten before mine comes to view.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
“I’m sorry, Kenneth. You know I love you. I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.” I pull the rusted truck into the driveway, and I stuff the money under the seats, so he doesn’t see it. I won’t be able to get it to Dad until tomorrow.
No one would know I live in a beautiful two-story home with the truck I drive, but it’s the work truck. It’s meant to look rough around the edges. There’s a sign stabbed in our lawn that says, “All Are Welcome Here” and the flower beds look perfect and polished.
Such a façade with what goes on behind closed doors.
Kenneth could make all the money in the word, and I’d still be just as miserable.
“I’m here,” I say, my voice small and unrecognizable. I gather the two grocery bags sitting in the passenger seat and open the truck door. I do not hang up. I learned a long time ago that Kenneth always has the last word.
Always.
With small steps, I head to the front door. The red flowers sway in the wind and the wind chimes ding. An eerie cloud hangs over me when Kenneth opens the front door, and he is smiling.
I know that smile.
It’s the kind that promises anything other than happiness.
“Hey baby,” he greets me and bends down to kiss my cheek. Kenneth takes the bags, faking being a gentleman just in case the neighbors are watching.
I try to prepare myself, but no matter what I do, I’m never ready.
Abuse is funny like that, isn’t it?
You expect it to come so you shouldn’t be surprised, but then when it happens, you find you’re never ready.
I’ve learned it’s the hit I prepare for, but the pain slams into me like it’s the first time; that will always be unexpected.
Kenneth grips my wrist and tugs me inside, then slams the door, locking it so no one can come in. He slings me onto the floor and throws one grocery bag across the room. “What the fuck did I say about making time for me?” he roars at the top of his lungs until his face is red.
I begin to crawl away, and his foot connects with my stomach. I gasp and hit the floor again, my chin connecting with the hardwood which causes my teeth to clink together.
He drops the other bag and digs into it. “You can’t fucking listen, can you? How hard is it to obey your husband? You know not to talk to anyone but me. Your father should have called me.” He opens the egg carton and tosses one in the air. “You’ve always had issues with listening.” He throws the first egg, and it hits me in the back.
I’m crying by the time he hits me with all of them and he tosses the empty container on me. So humiliating. If Wesley could see me now…
Kenneth kicks me again and the force flips me over. He straddles me and his knees hit the floor where the egg is, the khaki ruined. Blood pools in my mouth after he backhands me. He tugs the scarf free and wraps his hand around my neck, squeezes, and lifts my head off the ground. The smell of whiskey lingers on his breath and the strong scent tickles my nose.
“You’re going to clean this mess up like the good little bitch that you are, aren’t you?”
I nod and he bends down and kisses my tears away.
“Good girl.”
That’s me.
I’m the good girl.
The good, ruined girl.
Something doesn’t sit right with me about Charlie. I can’t put my finger on it because I don’t have all the facts. My instincts tell me something is wrong, so I do the only thing I know to do, I have Tutu do a basic background check and give me her address.
Now, I’m sitting on my bike across the street and parked a few houses down so I can have a view of her home. There are a few lights on inside, but I can’t see or hear anything, so I unpack a cigarette and flick the lighter.
The bright orange ember lights up the dark night in front of me for a second before I pull it away and blow smoke into the air. I grab my phone and turn on the screen to use the light as I look over the file Tutu gave me.
Charlie Ann Fletcher.
The words ‘Fucking beautiful’ need to be next to her name instead of her date of birth.
Twenty-four years old which only tells me she isn’t too young for the likes of me since I’m thirty-two. Married since she was nineteen, which is a little young in my opinion. Graduated high school with high honors, which isn’t surprising. Cupcake is a smart cookie. I knew that from the moment I met her. She got into the best colleges but didn’t go.
Red flag.
Her Dad’s company had been doing pretty well up until she got married.
Another red flag.
I already don’t like her husband.
No kids.
Good. The only kids she’s going to be having are mine. One day. I need to make sure she isn’t happy. If she is, I’ll walk away. I’m not the kind of man to ruin a family, but something is eating at me about her and her life.
It’s so clean. Too clean.
She’s never had a speeding ticket, never ran a red light, never been arrested, and her husband is just as clean.
No one is that clean.
Everyone has something they hide, and I want to know what it is.
I take another inhale of my cigarette and blow it out as I flip to her husband’s file.
Kenneth Hastings.
“Fucking frat-tastic, aren’t you?” I grumble at his picture clipped to the folder. His hair is perfectly parted to the side and his smile is as bright as the sun.
His veneers are way too white.
He graduated from Harvard at the top of his class. Since Mommy and Daddy have money, he has no student loans. He works at a firm on the Las Vegas strip that I’ll have to visit one day.
No brothers. No sisters. An only child.
How did Charlie and Kenneth meet? Kenneth is a few years older than Charlie by four years and they went to different schools.
A woman like Charlie doesn’t strike me as someone who wants to be with a man like Kenneth. Perfect. Nice and neat. The longer I stare at his picture, the more uneasy I become. My face pinches when I flip to her file and see her picture.
I place his photo and hers side by side.
She’s not smiling. She is but she isn’t showing teeth. It’s like someone said, “Come on, give me a smile” and she’s saying “Fuck you, I don’t want to”. Her beautiful plump lips are closed, and I can’t see her straight teeth like I can his. She seems tired, lifeless, and her hair is limp like it hadn’t been washed in a few days.
His looks clean and styled.
Something is going on. She isn’t happy. She doesn’t even have his last name. I’m not a fucking cop, but my gut hasn’t been wrong yet. Kenneth Hastings rubs me the wrong way.
People who do that end up getting their heads used as batting practice.