Page 3 of Stables

“Who the hell is that?” Matt lets go and backs away. “Libby? Get the hell out of my house!” he yells towards her voice.

“Matt? Screw you!” Her head appears first in the doorway, then her hand raises with a small pistol bared. “You get out! You know you aren’t welcome here any more!”

She may be tiny like me, but she’s tough as nails.

“Jesus, Libby. I was just making sure Char was okay.” His palms go up and he steps sideways.

They do an elaborate dance of avoidance until Matt is leaving and Libby is chasing him out outside.

A gunshot makes Paisley scream again.

My stomach twists. Did she just shoot him?

I wouldn’t be mad.

With a groan, I turn over enough to watch the door.

Who’s going to come to find me?

Libby. Thank God.

With her big blue eyes, broad floppy hat, and her light pink sundress, she looks more like a doll than the fierce friend who chased off my asshole ex.

“Char! Are you okay? Oh, geez. Look at your face, hun. No, don’t look at it.” She rushes in stroking my hair away from my eyes.

I don’t want to move. Everything hurts. My chest aches with each breath, my face is swelling so quickly it’s getting hard to see, and my leg feels like it’s being stabbed through my knee cap.

Just another Tuesday dealing with Matt.

Fuck.

“I’m taking you to the hospital.” She drops her revolver into her purse and slings it over her shoulder. “Can you walk?”

“Paisley. Check on her, please?” I can still hear my daughter sobbing from the next room.

I hate that she’s witnessed this.

What am I supposed to do? I tried to do everything right, but he just keeps coming back.

And hurting me.

So far, he’s ignored her. How do I protect her?

Helplessness festers in me.

He’s so much bigger than me. Do I get a dog? I have a gun, but it didn't do any good in my nightstand.

Libby comes back carrying my red-faced daughter. Her chubby fingers are knotted in Libby’s blond hair, which she yanks on as she tries to reach for me.

“Mommy!” It’s a high pitched whine that only stops when Libby sits with her on the bed.

Damn, every piece of me twinges and aches when I try to move.

I’ll just lay here while my baby comes to me. Because I’m useless.

Broken.

Weak.

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