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I moved into the furnished apartment across the hall from him the following day.
However, Easton's right about me leaving. If Justin got a tip that I was here, there's no way he’d make it easy for me to escape him again. He's been in law enforcement since before we were married fifteen years ago. He climbed the ranks quickly and gained a lot of friends who wouldn't blink twice about doing him a favor.
He's also intimidating as hell, so anyone who gets in his way always finds themselves in trouble.
Needing to relax, I decide to take a bath since Easton won’t be off work for a few more hours. I feel awful for leaving him to finish the shift alone, but I know he can call Aubree to come in early if it gets too busy.
As I stand naked in front of the mirror, I look at all the places I’ve had bruises. They're healed on the outside, but the emotional scars will last forever. Justin once treasured my body, but when I couldn’t give him what he wanted—a family—I became a human punching bag.
Having kids was one of my dreams too.
Because of him, I hate how I look. I have stretch marks, breasts that are no longer perky, and an ass that's always been on the bigger side. Justin made me feel guilty for not being perfect and didn't cherish me like a husband should. I was no longer worthy in his eyes, but he wouldn’t let me leave. The emotional abuse made me believe it’s what I deserved.
I cover myself, unable to bear the sight of my body any longer. Once I'm dressed, I brush my hair and wash my face. Easton's seen me undone plenty of times, and he still looks at me with stars in his eyes.
If he only knew the trauma he'd have to unravel to get close. It's why I don't open up to anyone. Justin made sure I no longer had friends by controlling my every move.
“Tatum, it's Easton. Open up,” his deep baritone echoes, and I shiver. He sounds more manly than I've ever heard him.
Quickly, I check the peephole, then unlock the door. He flashes his charming smile that I've always adored and holds up a bag. “Chinese food delivery.”
Grinning, I step to the side and let him in. Then I realize he's holding George's cage in his other hand.
“He wanted to tag along. Hope you don't mind.”
I chuckle, locking us inside. “As long as he promises to behave.”
As Easton unloads the food, I grab two plates, forks, and cups. “I don't have much for drinks. Diet Coke or juice? Oh and chocolate milk.”
“Oh, I love chocolate milk. Can you put ice in mine, please?”
Slowly, I turn to face him. “That's criminal.”
He sighs with an eye roll as if he's heard it before. “Save your judgments. That's how I like it.”
I snicker softly as I put a few cubes in both, then pour the milk on top. “I guess I should try it before I knock it.”
“That's right.” He clanks his glass with mine, then we both take a sip.
“Delicious, right?” he asks.
“I mean, it tastes the same. But eventually, the ice will melt and water it down.”
“That's why you don't take your sweet time drinking it. It’s nice and cold, the absolute best way to have it.”
“You're way too easy to please, I swear. Like the female's version of a basic bitch. Except instead of coffee and Ugg boots, you only need chocolate milk over ice and a surfboard.”
“Damn, you know me too well,” he teases. “Oh, and sweet and sour chicken. Then I'm one happy boy.”
I cough out a laugh. “Geez, you are basic.”
We carry everything to the living room since my table is too small for the both of us and leave George on the counter. Once we sit on the couch, I turn on the TV for some background noise.
“Thank you for dinner, by the way,” I say, piling some of the noodles onto my plate. “I'll pay you back next payday.”
“No, ma'am. This was my treat. I offered, remember?” He grabs a box of chicken and dumps half of it over rice.
I pinch my lips together, pushing back the urge to insist because I won't win anyway. “Well, thank you. I can't remember the last time I ate Chinese.”
“I have it at least once a week, so feel free to put in your order anytime.”
“Bachelor food, why am I not surprised?” I smirk around a forkful.
He shrugs, popping a piece of chicken in his mouth. “I mean, I can cook a little and microwave a hot dog, but nothing beats takeout.”
“Did you just say you microwave hot dogs?”
He stares at me, unblinking. “Yes.”
“Gonna need to find you a cookbook.”
“What's wrong with that?”
I shake my head. “Besides the fact that you're eating mystery meat, they tend to explode, burn or become rubbery from being overcooked. It's better to boil them.”
