Page 18 of Perdition
Any other time, he’d stop, shoot the shit, and probably grab a drink with them—they were all good men. But after that shitshow in Church…he wasn’t feeling much like chatting. And from the way they looked at him like they were daring him to come over, he knew they weren’t too happy with the way he’d walked out, shutting that shit down.
He’d heard enough of their opinion on the matter of his own fucking marriage. And every word of it had been etched into his brain, heart, and soul.
And it didn’t help that his day had started like shit. He woke up in his clubhouse room, in a cold, lonely bed, a bed his wife hadn’t slept in in years. That morning, he’d felt that absence more intensely, like a part of him was missing. Like a part of him had been cut away, leaving a bloody, ravaged stump. His shower was hot, but he got soap in his eyes, he’d dropped his wallet in the toilet, and he’d burned his mouth on his coffee. If that wasn’t enough, then he’d gotten a text from one of his Army brothers telling him that one of the men they’d gone to basic with had died from complications from wounds he’d sustained while on active duty. Traumatic brain injuries were fucking bullshit!
Then, that shit with Sarah. Shit that he now knew the club brothers would have twisted into something bad—even though he hadn’t done a goddamn thing wrong!
Right?
Fuck, he didn’t know.
Mounting his bike and starting it, he pulled up his memories from that encounter.
Sarah had come into his office, looking ‘bout ready to cry, and despite having no interest in dealing with a weepy female, something inside him forced him to invite her in. She’d closed the door behind her, which he hadn’t liked, so he’d gone to it, opened it so it was ajar, and then leaned against his desk, crossed his arms, and waited impatiently for Sarah to share why she’d come to him with tears in his eyes. She was a club whore, so she was under club protection, so he couldn’t just ignore her—she might have been in actual trouble. Also, she’d become someone special to him, on some level, and so seeing her hurting was uncomfortable. And how many times had she been there when he was feeling overwhelmed or frustrated, and she’d offered him a shoulder or kind word?
Turned out, though, she was just…disappointed. One of the brothers had drunkenly told her that she wasn’t wife material, and she’d taken it personally, which was ironic as fuck, considering the woman was willingly spreading her legs for whoever crooked their finger at her. She was doing was she wanted to do, no one was forcing her, but…apparently, she aspired to being a wife. He’d wanted to roll his eyes and remind her that being a club whore was voluntary, and she could give up the lifestyle any time she wanted. She was young, she still had a life ahead of her, which meant she could change her mind, live the club whore life for a while, then get herself a husband later. Sarah…well, she was one of those people who wasn’t ready to be tied down, and besides that, he couldn’t see her sticking withone man for too long. Maybe that would change one day, but from what he’d learned about her, and had perceived with his own eyes, Sarah wasn’t wife material. At least not yet. And he’d basically told her that, that she shouldn’t stick with one person, not so soon—it wasn’t part of her make up, and she wasn’t quite mature enough for commitment. He hadn’t told her that last bit, because he was already weary of their conversation. When Sarah had brought up his relationship to Em, he’d shut down immediately, unwilling to discuss his marriage with anyone, especially with how sharply he felt the sword dangling over it. He’d mentally cut Sarah off after that, which is the only thing that explained his easy agreement to take her back to the red maple.
Where he shouldn’t have taken her the first time.
Fuck.
SEVEN
Navigating the familiar streets,he turned onto Billings St. and caught sight of the house. He noted that the lights were on, but the garage door was closed, so he couldn’t tell if Em was home or not. She was meticulous about closing the garage door, because she hated the idea of people watching her when she came and went while doing laundry. Also, she hated that people would judge her because the garage, more or less, was a stockpile of things that she no longer had room for in the house. It was organized chaos, just like Emily.
That thought made him smile for the first time all fucking day.
He parked his bike in the driveway, since the second spot in the garage was where he’d parked his restored 1957 Chevy, to keep it out of the elements. When it was too cold or wet for his bike, he often used one of the community trucks—cages—the MC owned. He brought the Chevy out for special occasions, or when he wanted to just take Em or one of the kids for a ride in it.
When was the last time that happened?
Turning off the engine to his ‘81 Harley Fatboy, he dismounted and headed for the front door, once again noting the lights were on.
Except the porch light. He nearly ground to a halt in surprise; that had never happened before.
Hadn’t she gotten his text telling her he’d be home?
It was going on seven in the evening, and the sun was setting, and Em always made sure the porch light was on before dark. Something about ancient times, and lantern lights leading the weary, battle-worn warrior home.
He’d always thought it was sort of endearing but silly…until that moment. When the fixture was dark, like an ink stain blotting out the vibrant color in a Thomas Kinkaid painting.
Why did it feel like he’d been forgotten?
Climbing the single stone step to the porch, he reached forward and pressed in the key code for the door.
The red light flashed, and the sensor beeped.
Furrowing his brow, he input the numbers again, numbers he’d memorized three years ago when he’d had the system installed.
It was Em’s birthday, their anniversary, and the twin’s birthday. Twelve numbers that held all the stars of his universe.
It worked every other time he’d used it, shifting the light from red to green, and unlocking the door.
Today, though…the red light flashed again, and the sensor beeped, and the lock remained.
What the fuck?
He tried the same combination of numbers another three times. If he input the incorrect key code one more time, the system would automatically call the police, and he’d have to explain to them that this washisfucking house.
