Reaper's Property (Reapers MC, #1)(15)

So I decided to go by myself.

And yes, I realize now how incredibly stupid that was.

Trust me.



Pulling up to my old house was surreal.

Everything looked the same, but somehow smaller and dirtier. Same ratty lawn, same faded and peeling paint, same battered Mustang up on blocks in the driveway. All in all, it made me feel pretty good about my decision to leave.

Our trailer might be crap, but at least it was in the middle of an orchard. My dad had worked for the owner, John Benson, and part of his compensation included use of the old trailer. When he’d left, John had taken pity on us and let us stay for very low rent, seeing as he didn’t really need it for anything else anyway. I think at some point he and my mom had a thing, but I didn’t know the details and I didn’t want to know them. We did our own repairs, kept a low profile and things worked out okay.

I parked my car in the street, pleased to note Misty’s car wasn’t there and I couldn’t see any lights. None of the neighbors were outside so I didn’t have to make awkward small talk with anyone. It wasn’t that kind of neighborhood anyway—you know, where people look out for each other or have a neighborhood watch.

I had a moment of worry when the door wouldn’t open. I thought maybe he’d changed the locks, but then it popped loose. Everything looked the same inside, but messier. Apparently Misty wasn’t much of a house cleaner. I giggled, figuring that had to drive Gary crazy.

Jackass.

I found my papers easily enough, everything except the car title. I kept a shoebox of keepsakes and photos in the closet in our spare bedroom. It hadn’t been disturbed, so I carried it out to the car and put it in the hatchback, then gave in to temptation and went back inside. I figured while I was there I might as well see if any of my clothes were around, or if Misty had thrown them out.

Surprisingly, she hadn’t. I found them neatly bagged and labeled on the back porch. Convenient. It took four trips to get it all in the car, and then I went in one last time. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for… Maybe some kind of closure? He still had our wedding picture up on the wall, right next to the one from our senior prom. I studied myself in them, wishing I could go back in time and give myself some friendly advice, something along the lines of run away and never, ever look back!

For some reason I couldn’t explain, I pulled the wedding picture off the wall, snapped off the back of the frame and took it out. It wasn’t anything special, just a five-by-seven snapshot. We didn’t have a real photographer at the wedding.

Still, it was a good picture.

Gary looked young and handsome, and I looked fresh and pretty and full of excitement for the future. I don’t know how long I stood there, lost in my thoughts, but I didn’t notice when Gary walked into the house, reeking of beer and smoke, until he threw his keys down on the coffee table.

I spun around, jaw dropping. My hands trembled so much I dropped the picture.

“Um, hi, Gary?” I managed to whisper.

“That’s the day you f*cked me over,” he said, tilting his chin toward our wedding picture. His face was bright red and I saw the vein in his forehead start to pulse. He was angry. Really angry. “I could have been anything, but you needed a wedding ring and now I’m stuck in this cow town with nothing. Great f*cking plan, Marie. Hope you’re proud of yourself.”

I watched him warily as he stalked toward me, trying not to give in to panic. The last time I’d seen him was when he backhanded me across our kitchen. I wasn’t prepared for the terror and sense of helplessness that hit me at the memory, paralyzing my body. I forced myself to think. Could I make it past him and through the front door? He laughed.

“You here to f*ck me over again, cunt?”

The words were slurred. Gary was drunk. Seriously drunk. Maybe even blackout drunk.

I needed to get out of here. Now.

I made a break for it but he lunged at me, tackling me to the floor with the same strength and speed that made him our high school quarterback. My head slammed into the hardwood I’d been so excited to discover last year when we’d pulled out the carpet, pain exploding through me. Gary sat up, straddling me and grabbing the front of my shirt, pulling me up.

Then he started punching me.



Details are fuzzy after that.

I spent a long time on the floor, moaning. Misty walked through the door at some point and started screaming. Gary lay passed out on the couch, oblivious as she helped me get up and walked me into the kitchen. She wanted to call the cops but I begged her not to—I couldn’t handle the humiliation of facing them, all the questions and pitying looks.

I also didn’t want to like Misty.

I’d felt devastated and betrayed when I learned she was sleeping with my husband—the fight we’d had about her led to him hitting me in the first place. But her touch was soft and gentle, the horror in her eyes genuine. She forced me to take some Tylenol when I refused to go to the emergency room. Then she went and threw everything of hers into three suitcases, crying big, silent tears the entire time. The Tylenol kicked in pretty fast, and while I couldn’t help her haul out her things, I held the door for her. We locked it behind us and I watched as she loaded her car. Then she took my arm, walking me over to mine.

“Are you sure you won’t let me call the cops?” she asked. “He needs to pay for this. I knew he drank and his temper is kind of crazy, but I had no idea…”