Page 55 of Keep You Close

Of getting away.

Of starting over.

Just me and Samson.

But I couldn’t seem to force myself to take steps toward that fantasy.

Not until one fateful night.

When Joss finally did something completely unforgivable.

I’d been preparing dinner, but had to stop to see why the washing machine tucked in our bedroom closet was knocking.

I was gone for all of two minutes.

But in that time, it seemed that Samson had smelled the meat on the counter, and had jumped up to steal it.

Pissed, Joss had charged off the couch that was starting to have a permanent ass print from him always parking there, had grabbed him by the collar, and lifted him up off of the floor by it.

He still had him strung up, dangling, choking, when I came back out.

He could hurt me. Tear me down. Beat me.

But he couldn’t put his hands on Samson.

I flew at him, slamming my hands into his chest, shocked by my strength when he flew backward, the counter cracking across his back.

I saw the rage chase the pain out of his eyes.

It didn’t matter, though, so long as Samson was free, scampering off to whimper under the dining room table.

That beating was almost as bad as the one that had me blacking out. But the thing was, Joss had gotten better about beating me, knowing just how far to push it without causing permanent damage, without it getting bad enough for me to need to go to the hospital.

He’d stormed out afterward, muttering about getting something decent to eat.

I stayed there on the floor, crying in pain, until Samson came over to start licking my face.

My eyes slid open, I looked at him, and I knew it down to my bones.

It was time to go.

Not knowing how long I had, I rushed around the apartment, shoving some clothes, bath products, and a blanket into one of Joss’s backpacks and a big purse.

Then I grabbed as many of Samson’s toys and treats and a big plastic bag of his food as I could, hooked on his leash, and walked out of that apartment.

I had no real plan, not in an emergency situation. But I’d cleared out my bank account, then walked to a used car lot, and bought the only car I could afford. One with wonky air and heat, nearly bald tires, and almost two-hundred-thousand miles on it. From the looks of things, hard miles.

It didn’t matter.

It was a way out of town.

It was somewhere safe to sleep.

“How long did you live in your car?” Atlas asked, eyes sad.

“Eleven weeks.”

“You didn’t go to your mom?”

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