Taylor laughs, hard. Bends over, holding his stomach, laughing.
“It’s not that funny, dickhead,” I throw an empty pop can at him.
He stands and pretends to wipe tears from his eyes. “That’s fucking hilarious.”
“Shut up.” I turn to leave, but stop. “Make sure you have a bottle of water or something in case I catch on fire, though.”
Taylor’s smile lights up his face this time. “You got it.”
By the time I get home, all I want to do is pass out for a few hours. It’s still early in the evening, though, so if I fall asleep now, I’ll be up all night. Healing broken bones and bruises is fucking exhausting; pretending like I’m not in constant pain just makes it worse.
Dad is in the living room watching an old football game with a beer in his hand and Momma is in the kitchen making dinner when I drag my ass inside. From the outside looking in, it looks like we’re a normal family.
How wrong they are.
“Roman!” Momma says when she sees me. “What were you up too today?”
“I had a date, then hung out with Taylor for a while,” I tell her as I walk past the kitchen on my way to the stairs.
“A date? That’s great. With who?” she asks, coming to the hallway, drying her hands on a towel.
“Mary Cohen. Her father is the new preacher at First Baptist.”
“Oh. She seems like a sweet girl.” She eyes the living room when Dad moves, then turns back to me after he settles. “How did it go?”
“It was fine, Momma. I’m tired. I’m going to take a shower and maybe lie down.”
She walks toward me and lifts her hand to my forehead to check for a fever, like she doesn’t have a black eye. It’s so motherly, it makes me sad and smile at the same time.
“Are you feeling okay?” Concern is written on her face.
“I’m fine, just tired from the game last night, I think.” I can’t tell her how busted up my ribs are. It would crush her back into the shell that she’s been in for so long.
“All right. I’ll make you a plate and set it aside for when you’re ready.” She kisses my cheek and heads back to the kitchen.
I stand there in the hallway for a minute after she disappears around the corner. I can’t remember the last time she was like this. Almost normal. She’s not cowering, trembling, or crying.
I hate my father even more. How could he do this to her? To us? He’s supposed to be an upstanding citizen, the picture of success for our little town, but he’s nothing but an abuser. He has so much money, the sheriff won’t do anything about it. The one time Taylor’s mom tried to make a report, she was told she would be arrested if she ever spoke of it again.
How is that justice?
Useless piece of shit. I should poison his drink. Help that liver along. Finally give Momma some peace.
Angry, I head upstairs and rip my clothes off before getting in the shower. I welcome the pain this time. It fuels me. It keeps my head in the game. I can’t get soft. I have to protect us, protect her, the best I can.
Chapter Thirteen
Roman
It’s been a few days since I took Mary and Jonah out. I can’t stop thinking about him. How it felt to have him pressed against me at the party.
My legs hang from the tailgate of my truck as I lift the bottle of beer to my lips. Kenton Tunnel has always interested me, there’s something about being out here that calms me. Helps me think.
Dad’s away on a fishing trip, so things at home have been quiet. My ribs and eye are healing. Momma is sleeping, so the circles under her eyes aren’t so dark. If only he didn’t come back, our lives would be a lot better.
Crunching gravel has me spinning around. I’m surprised to see Mary riding a bike, alone. A smile brightens her face when she sees me. I hop down and grimace when my ribs protest.
“Hey, rebel. What are you doing out here?”
She comes to a stop next to my truck, swings her leg over the seat, and rests the bike on the kickstand. The short denim of her shorts makes her legs look a mile long. If only they interested me.
“Hey,” she says, her hands on her hips and a smile on her lips.
“You alone?” Looking toward the road, I don’t see anyone else.
“Yep. Dad let me out with my shadow for once.” Her smile turns shy as she steps closer to me.
I’m disappointed, but smirk at her, nonetheless. She came out here looking for me, to be alone with me. Lifting her chin with my fingers, I brush my lips against hers.
Mary wraps her arms around my waist, pulling me against her. I tense at the pressure against my ribs. Her hands splay out on my back as my mouth explores hers. When I nip at her bottom lip, her fingers dig into my back, and I jerk back with a hiss, stepping out of her grasp.
“What?” she asks, stepping toward me again. “Did I hurt you?”
“It’s nothing,” I kiss her forehead and reach for her hand, walking toward the tailgate.
“Does he hit you?” Her question comes out of nowhere.
Spinning around, fear and anger coursing through me, I cock my head.
“What did you just say?” My voice is low and lethal.
She hesitates, her hands fidgeting. “Your dad, does he hit you?”
I crowd her against the side of my truck, my body shaking at the unexpected question. What is she playing at? I’m no pussy.
“I don’t know where you’re getting this idea, but you better stop.” I lean down, putting my face in hers.
“I saw him,” she whispers.
I freeze, waiting for her to continue.
“After the first game, he grabbed you and pulled you away from the lights. Did he hit you? Is he really the reason you got a black eye?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Why won’t she stop? Just leave it alone! Angry fear is making my body shake and I can’t stop it.
Before I can contemplate what she’s doing, she grips my shirt and lifts it up, exposing the bruising. She gasps, her hand covering her mouth and tears filling her eyes.
I stand as still as a statue. The only one that’s ever cared or asked about it is Taylor. I don’t know what to do. Every muscle in my body is tight enough to snap.
Mary’s hands circle the back of my neck and her forehead rests against my jaw. No one has ever shown this kind of emotion toward my abuse. For years, I’ve been angry at the people in this fucking town for turning a blind eye to it, but now that someone cares, I don’t know what to do.
I push away from the truck, forcing her to let go or fall. Running a hand through my hair, I grip the strands and pull as I take a few steps away from her and turn my back. “Fuck!”
“Roman.” Her voice is soft but full of tears.
I spin around to pin her with a look. “Don’t! Don’t you pity me!”
Mary raises her hands, palms open toward me as she comes closer. “Roman. It’s not your fault.”
“Stop!” I yell again, losing control of myself.
If she finds out about the abuse, what else will she find out?
Her steps are cautious toward me, either afraid I’ll bolt or afraid I’ll hurt her. She reaches up, her palm on my cheek, turning my face toward her.