On me, he used a combination sidewalk-slam body drop. The pain exacerbated by my father’s towering height and our hardwood floors.
He leaned over, yanked me to my feet and slammed me into the wall. So many times, I lost count.
“Eddie, no!” my mother screamed.
I held onto consciousness as long as I could, taunting him, throwing a punch or two. Anything to keep him away from Mom.
Then, my battered body sunk to the floor and I lost the battle.
Chapter Seven
Shelby
I blink and stare at Rooster in stunned silence.
Holy moly.
My father hadn’t been a peach. His indifference stung for sure. He verbally abused my mother plenty but he never hit her that I know of. And he never laid a hand on Hayley or me.
Logan shares the story almost as if he’s talking about it happening to someone else.
“Do you have any other family?” I’m not sure what else to say, but that seems like a reasonable place to start.
He opens his mouth, but I cut him off quickly. “Blood relations,” I clarify with a firm tone. “Not the club. You mentioned an uncle and aunt?”
He nods once. “They took me in when my parents died.”
“Where are they?”
“They’re gone now too.”
“Cripes,” I breathe out. How has he endured so many losses and remained such a loving, kind man? “I’m so sorry. Were they good to you?” I ask gently.
“Always. Never had kids of their own but they didn’t hesitate to take me in when I needed them.” He squeezes his eyes shut and tips his head back. “Feels like betraying my mother to say it out loud but living with them was the best part of my childhood in many ways. It was calm and easy-going. Never had to walk on eggshells around ’em. Every day was…normal. Uncle Boone adored his wife. They opened up their home to me and treated me like a son in every way.”
My throat clogs with emotion over the loving way he describes them. “That’s good. I’m glad you had someone…” my voice trails off. He still hasn’t really explained how he ended up in their care.
“I loved them a lot,” he rasps. He drops his gaze, meeting my eyes. “Caused them a lot of trouble too.”
“How’d you end up with them?”
All along I’ve assumed it was something tragic like a car accident due to his dad’s temper. An ordinary tragedy.
But by the pain in Rooster’s eyes, it’s obvious the story’s much darker than that.
“The way I ended up with them is the most horrible part of it all.”
I steel myself for whatever’s coming next. More importantly, I want him to know he won’t scare me away. “I’m right here, Logan.”
Rooster
Logan, 13 years old…
“I don’t understand why you can’t see it. He has you so headfucked you make excuses for him all the time.”
“Logan!” Mom gasped. “Language!”
I side-eyed her. “You’re kidding, right?” Dad had said far worse to us this morning on our way out the door. This time he was pissed because she needed to drop me off at school early for football practice. Football was a waste of time and money since I’d never be talented enough to go pro, according to my father, the football expert.
“You deserve better,” I said in a gentler tone. “That’s all I’m trying to say.”
“He needs me.”
To do what? Be his punching bag?
Once he’d gotten a taste for knocking us around, Dad indulged often. Always apologizing and buying my mother gifts to make up for the damage he’d inflicted. And of course, the constant promise to “never let it happen again.” As if his violence and rage were some mythical beast he couldn’t keep under control and had nothing at all to do with him.
“It’s not your job to fix him, Mom.”
“He’s my husband, Logan. I married him for better or worse.”
“I don’t think that’s what that means,” I answered. Even at thirteen, I was sure I was right. “He inflicts the worst on you. That’s not you two facing the worst together and supporting each other through it.”
“You don’t understand.” Her voice stretched high and thin but she didn’t take her eyes off the road. “Where would you and I go? What would I do to keep a roof over our heads? I have a high school diploma and no skills.”
The fact that she mentioned those things told me she’d considered leaving my dad at some point. Eager to encourage this line of thinking, I sat forward and turned toward her. “Your art. You could sell it.”
She scoffed. “Honey, that’s not a steady enough income. Even if it was good enough to sell.”
“You’re a good cook. Maybe you could work at the diner until you save up some money.”
She paused and drummed her thumb against the steering wheel. “I’d only be able to take short day shifts waitressing.”
The part she left unsaid was so your dad won’t know.