“What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask.
“What’s wrong?” she asks disbelievingly. “What’s wrong?” She’s yelling again.
“Shh,” I soothe, glancing at passers-by. “Would you keep it down?”
“Oh, sure.” She laughs, brushing the hair out of her eyes. “I’ll keep it down just as soon as you stop being a jackass.”
“What?” I ask, genuinely bewildered. I knew she wouldn’t like the suggestion, but this is ridiculous. I gesture to the truck. “Look, can we just go home and talk about this?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Shannon cries. “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to get in that car.”
“Truck,” I correct her, wincing when she shoots another dagger-filled look at me.
“Really?” she asks sarcastically. “Really? You think this is the perfect time to make jokes?”
“It wasn’t a joke,” I say a little defensively. A Texan man is allowed to be pedantic about his vehicle of choice.
“Whatever,” she snaps.
“Look,” I start, raking a hand over my head. I’m getting frustrated now. Why the hell does she have to be so damn stubborn? “Just get in the damn truck and let me get you indoors. I promise you can yell at me all you want later, but I’m tired.”
Shannon glances from me to the truck and back again. Finally, she looks away and lets out a loud sigh. “Fine,” she says. “Let’s go.”
I expect her to yell at me all the way home, but instead I’m met with stony silence. I glance in the rearview mirror at her at least a dozen times. She’s staring out the window, an ugly scowl marring her beautiful features.
I can’t believe I suggested we get married. Didn’t I learn my lesson the last time I tried settling down? It didn’t work out so well. But the more I think about it, the more the idea begins to appeal to me. Perhaps being married to Shannon Harper wouldn’t be as bad as all that. We clearly have a lot of sexual chemistry, and our opinionated personalities would certainly keep the relationship interesting.
Relationship? Who am I kidding? If Shannon agrees to this, it’ll be a marriage in name only; she’ll make sure of that. I’ll be nothing more than a means to an end, a way to pay off her father’s debts.
I’m surprised by the disappointment that floods through me at that realization, but I quickly brush it off. I’m doing this for Shannon, to help her. I need to remember that before I lose more than just my pants.
By the time we pull up to the house, I’m a nervous wreck. I wasn’t even this nervous when I proposed to Grace fourteen years ago, but suddenly this little spitfire of a woman’s opinion of me is the most important thing in the world. And I feel like I’m fucking everything up.
I cut the engine and hop out of the truck, walking around to open the back passenger side to help Shannon to her feet. That’s when I realize why she’s been so quiet. She’s sleeping soundly, her head resting against the back seat as small tendrils of golden hair brush her face. I take a second to move the silky strands and, without much thought, I swoop her into my arms, kicking the truck door closed behind me as I walk up to the front door. Shannon stays asleep the entire time, her head lying comfortably against my chest. I try to ignore how right this feels.
Unlocking the door, I carry her through to the spare bedroom and place her gently down on top of the covers. She shivers a little in her sleep, and I drag a heavy quilt from the wardrobe and lay it across her, tucking her in. More than anything I want to shake her awake, find out what her answer is to my proposal. But she looks so damn peaceful that I can’t bring myself to do it. I stand there watching her sleep for a few minutes.
Oh, yeah, I could definitely get used to sleeping next to a woman like Shannon.
I walk back out to the living room and lock the front door, pausing as I move past the kitchen. The sudden urge for a beer overpowers me, forcing me to clench my fists until my nails dig into the soft flesh. I can’t do it. I’ve already come so far.
Satisfied by that small victory, I enter my bedroom and strip down to my boxers, leaving the suit on the floor as I slide beneath the covers. I’m surprised by how calm I feel. Normally, I’m worried about going to bed, because that’s when the screaming starts. But tonight, knowing she’s right next door gives me an inner strength that’s both encouraging and surprising.
I don’t know how to feel about it. On the one hand, I’m happy for the distraction she provides.
On the other . . . I don’t know how I’ll survive if she leaves.
“W hat’s wrong, kitten?” Troy sneers. “Are you scared of something?” He sits at the kitchen table, one leg stretched out as he uses a sharp knife to pick the dirt from beneath his nails.
I’m cowering in a small ball in the corner of the kitchen, holding my cheek where he punched it. I’m sure there’s already a bruise forming. This morning I’d done the unthinkable. I left the house. Without Troy’s permission. It was just a brief walk down the river, but as I’d been lost in my thoughts I’d almost tripped over her foot. It’s the half-naked young woman I’d seen in the apartment a week ago. At first I thought he’d just been screwing her, but then I’d seen him hold out his hand expectantly. I still remember the terrified look in her eyes as she shook her head and held out her empty hands, trying to explain. I shudder as I recall the fist he’d put into her pretty face. She’d been unrecognizable by the time she dragged herself out of the apartment. And now she’s dead. Somehow, I know Troy’s responsible.
“You know,” he starts casually. “I wouldn’t have to do this if you’d just listen to me and do as you’re told. You know that, right?”
I’m too scared to say anything, so I just nod in agreement.
“I mean,” he says, dropping the knife on the table and standing up, pacing back and forth as though deep in thought. “I told you not to ask about her, didn’t I?” It’s a rhetorical question.
“But you didn’t listen,” he continues. “You asked anyway, even after I told you not to.”
“Troy, I didn’t mean to. But I saw you arguing, and now she’s dead, and—”
“Shut the fuck up!” Troy screams, his face flooding with fury as he stops pacing and grabs my upper arm, yanking me to my feet. I cry out, but he doesn’t pay any attention.
“God, you’re such a fucking whiner,” he says, dragging me down the hall, his fingers biting into my skin where he grabs me. “You’ve got an excuse for everything, don’t you?”
“Troy, please,” I beg, tears streaming down my face. How did the man I love turn into such a monster?
“Shut up,” he growls, turning into our bedroom and tossing me unceremoniously onto the bed. I scramble up, my eyes wide as I stare at him, terrified. He opens the top drawer of the dresser, and my stomach turns over. I know what’s coming.
“Strip and lie down on your stomach,” he demands, producing the thick, black leather belt I’ve grown to hate.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. My hands are trembling so badly as I stretch them out to him, begging for mercy.
He lifts an eyebrow to me. “Did you just say no?” he asks, almost disbelievingly. I swallow hard and shake my head.
“That’s right,” he says in a low voice as I reluctantly undress and lie on my stomach on the bed. Struggling is seen as rebellion. Rebellion must be punished.