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I can’t believe that asshole kicked her in the back. What the fuck?
Thoughts of her whimpers make me shudder and send my mind straight back to my early teens when I had to hide in the closet with my sisters while Mom whimpered and cried between smacks and cracking knuckles. Dad would be drunk and yelling insults. Alcohol turned him into a crazed man, and Mom did her best to calm him, but it never worked.
Was that what Rachel went through?
Did she beg Theo to stop, but he just keep hurting her anyway?
My fingers curl into a fist, rage coursing through me as I try to reconcile with having to face this again. Storming into Asher’s man cave, I yank on a pair of jeans and grab the long-sleeve tee I wore most of yesterday. It still smells okay. I can get away with it.
Shit, I forgot the stuff I was getting from my room. I can’t go back up there again right now. Rachel needs a minute. Plus, seeing her in my hockey jersey is a sweet torture that I’m gonna have to psych myself up for. Holy shit, she is one smokin’ hot chica, with my jersey just covering her perfect ass, plus those long legs.
Yes, please! my dick begs.
Fresh socks and my plan for a morning workout will have to wait.
Heading for the kitchen in bare feet, I try to dodge memories from my past, but they plague me anyway.
Watching my mom suffer was a living nightmare. When Dad came back from Afghanistan, he was never the same. At first, we bent over backward to help his body heal.
“Daddy lost his friends. He’s very sad.”
“Daddy’s body needs to get better after the explosion.”
“Daddy’s brain is still healing.”
We tried to be understanding and loving, but he wouldn’t get help. He skipped out on the counseling sessions he was offered, refusing to talk through his trauma. Instead, his therapist became a bottle of Jack and our version of hell on earth.
Alcohol brought out the ugly in him. And if you didn’t get out of the way fast enough, you’d find a fist in your face. I tried to protect Mama a couple times, but seeing her kids bruised was worse than taking them herself.
I begged her to leave him, but her love somehow endured. His weeping apologies the next morning always seemed to hit their mark, and she’d stay… or she’d let him stay.
Clenching my jaw, I rest against the kitchen counter, relief and admiration pulsing through me when I think about the fact that Rachel left.
I’m assuming this is the first time Theo got violent with her.
My expression crumples as I reach for a glass and fill it with water. I always feel bad when I judge my mom for sticking with Dad for so long. She loved him… probably loves him still.
I guess I just don’t understand why. The guy lost all my faith and trust the first time he punched his wife in the face.
I snap my eyes shut, trying to stuff that awful memory back into the box I created for it.
All of my darkest ordeals are in there, locked tightly away so they can’t haunt me anymore.
“Hey, bro. You okay?” Casey’s voice makes me flinch.
I didn’t even hear him come into the kitchen.
Now he’s eyeing me with a curious frown, so I quickly iron out my expression and throw in a shrug. “Yep, all good.”
“You look like you’re trying to crush that glass with your fingers.” He snickers and shakes his head. “Bad night on the Ashman’s couch?”
Casey takes a seat, resting his tattooed arms on the counter. He’s shirtless, and his ink is kinda impressive. Not that I’d ever get a tattoo—they’re just not my thing—but they look great on Casey. It’s like part of his personality, and I can’t imagine him with plain skin like mine. He’s a walking piece of art, and all of it’s on display right now… unless he has something on his ass I don’t know about.
He’s still looking at me like he’s trying to work out my secret, so I force a smile. If Rachel is anything like my mother, she won’t want the world to know what she’s been through. I had a lot of practice in high school and can easily fake breeziness when I need to.
“It was okay.” I rub the back of my neck.
“You know the guy jerks off on that thing all the time, right?”
