Page 2 of Wicked Devotion
Great.
A trip to the mechanic is exactly what our sinkhole of a budget needs right now. Brady has been on edge lately, so I guess I’ll buy a portable fan instead of starting yet another discussion about how my car is a money pit. “My” car, which is a hand-me-down from one of Brady’s coworkers, a gift I had to unwillingly accept after my husband got tired of driving me around.
Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling me leaving work early was a mistake. It’s the last week before summer break, and until an hour ago, I thought I would join my class on their trip to the museum. Once all my kids had boarded the bus, Principal Doyle pulled me aside to tell me enough parents volunteered to watch the kids.
If she had told me sooner, I could have fit in one or two tutoring hours. Admittedly, I’m questioning if the hassle is even worth it. No matter how much extra money I make, our bank account stays in the red, and our financial situation isn’t the only thing going south.
Since we moved here, over a year ago, it’s like I’m trying to fill a leaking bucket. I see the gaping hole, hear the water constantly running out. Nevertheless, there is this part of me that is convinced I could replenish the bucket if I just try a little harder.
While I wait for the driver in front of me to find their gas pedal after missing an entire green phase, I glance over at the bouquet of peonies on my passenger seat.
It’s a good Friday,I tell myself.
I even got my non-negotiable Friday-flowers with a twenty percent discount. Not even fifty percent off would keep Brady from calling me wasteful for spending money on something that’s already dead, though.
As I turn onto our street, my brows furrow in confusion upon seeing Brady’s car in the driveway. He’s supposed to be at work, and if there is one thing my husband doesn’t do, it’scoming home early. I’ve grown used to the sound of the microwave when I’m already in bed.
Our driveway only fits one car, so I park mine further down the road and grab my bag and my flowers, struggling to lock the car with full hands. The power locks stopped working months ago.
With quick steps, I make my way over to our house, eyeing Brady’s car and running through the possible reasons he could be home. He seemed fine last night. Stressed, but that’s nothing new, so I guess he just called in sick to have a bit of time for himself.
I sling my bag over my shoulder so that I can empty our mailbox, and my gaze falls onto Mr. Randolph’s house across from ours. While he was an exceptionally sweet neighbor, I’m still glad he moved into a retirement home a few weeks ago. Countless times, I had to lead him back home in the middle of the night because he was wandering around outside, not knowing where he was.
A black SUV sits deep in the overgrown garden behind Mr. Randolph’s house. Probably his kids or grandkids who are here to put the house up for sale, because I can’t imagine someone moving here if they had other options.
With a hiss, I pull my hand back when I accidentally touch the burning hot door knob while trying to fit my key into the lock. Inside the house it is dark and quiet, and the temperature doesn’t make me feel like I’m walking on the surface of the sun. I let out a sigh as I close the door behind me. Silently, as not to wake Brady who really seems to have stayed home.
After putting my bag down, I want to turn around—but someone stops me.
A calloused hand covers my mouth, reeking of day old smoke and something metallic. I’m pushed toward the living room, and upon seeing Brady, the rest of my belongings slip out of my hands.
He’s still in the shorts he wears to sleep, tension belts keeping him tied to a chair. His upper body is slumped forward, blood dripping from his nose and mouth onto the carpet. Two men I’ve never seen before turn in my direction and my first instinct is to run. Not that I could, because the most miniscule movement is enough for the man holding me to tighten his grip.
“Brady, Brady…,” one of them muses, coming closer. “How did a gutter rat like you land such a beauty?”
He brushes a loose strand of hair out of my face with the muzzle of his gun, laughing dryly when I flinch. The hand over my mouth vanishes, but it’s replaced by a blood-smeared one grabbing my cheeks. The man turns my face, like he’s examining an item before buying it, nodding in approval once he’s satisfied.
“Deal’s on the table again. Boss has a thing for girls who look all prim and innocent.”
In search of safety, or at least an explanation, I look over at my husband. Mygreathusband who’s deliberately turning his head the other way. The gray-haired man in front of me tells the one holding me to move, and a second later, I’m dragged to the back of the room.
“Break is over.” Their presumed leader saunters back to Brady, twisting the gun in his hand before he tucks it away in the back of his pants.
His fist collides with Brady’s face, making him spit out a glob of blood. Not the first one, judging by the state of his face and the surrounding floor.
“J, c’mon, there must be another way to handle this,” Brady groans, and I’m raising my eyebrows at the realization that they know each other. “Let me go and you have your payment in the next ten minutes.”
Letmego.
It doesn’t come as a surprise, and still, his words burn like alcohol on a fresh cut.
Maybe it’s the panic, I reason with myself, knowing damn well that this man would never put me first.
At least not anymore.
I wince, my body registering the gunshots before my brain can even catch on. Glass shatters and a second bang amplifies the ringing in my ears. Air is forcefully pushed out of my lungs as the man who had been holding me collapses and his heavy body lands on top of mine.
All hell breaks loose in the living room, a cacophony of screams completing this traumatizing moment while warm liquid trickles down the back of my shirt. Rivulets of the stranger’s blood form a puddle on the cheap flooring beneath me, and I focus on the way it grows with every drip.
