MICAH
Peyton sits parkedon the street as I turn and she disappears from view. Why hasn’t she left yet? Did I freak her out? I half expected her to bolt the second she got behind the wheel. But her headlights hadn’t even come on before I turned the corner.
I jolt when my phone rings through the truck’s audio. Shelly’s name flashes on the screen and I tap the answer button on the steering wheel. Had I forgotten something?
“Hey, Shell.”
“Don’t hurt her.”
Jesus. Hadn’t been gone ten minutes and am already on her shit list. Suppose that’s how it is between siblings. Always keeping each other in check. Or trying to, at least.
“I won’t.”
“I’m serious, Micah.” Micah, not big brother. Serious is an understatement. “I saw you.”
She saw me?
“What does that mean, Shelly? You saw me.”
A huff of irritation rustles through the phone line and I picture her rolling her eyes. She doesn’t say anything as my knuckles stretch and pale against the steering wheel. My thumb hovers over the disconnect button, but I pull it back. Shelly may annoy me at times, but she would have to commit genocide for me to ignore her.
“Outside.” She blows out a breath as I sort through my thoughts, but come up with nothing of substance.
“Be more specific. We were all outside tonight.”
“Why is this so difficult?”
The question is meant to be rhetorical, but I answer anyway. “Because you won’t spit out what you want to say.”
“Argh,” she groans. “Fine. You want me to just come out with it?”
“Would make this call a little less one sided.”
“Outside. At her car. I saw you… holding her.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and thank the traffic gods for a red light. Irritation spreads like the molten searing of a branding iron. Scalding at the epicenter, but distributing the sting in an effort to temper the pain.
“Were you spying on me?” I bark into the truck cab.
“No,” she counters with a fevered pitch. “Not intentionally. I was a couple minutes behind you. When I stepped out the door and saw your truck, I was confused. So, I looked for you—from the porch—and saw you at Peyton’s car.”
Can’t remember the last time I felt stabby toward Shelly. Compared to friends who had siblings, Shelly and I had a great relationship. Sure, we didn’t always see eye to eye, but no one does. When she admitted to seeing us, I assumed she followed us outside all ninja-like. Seeing us by accident… I can’t be mad at her.
“Sorry I snapped at you.”
“You’re forgiven, big brother. Still doesn’t change things. Don’t hurt her.”
Bless my sister and her need to look out for others. Any other time, I would deem the trait admirable. Mom and
Dad did their damnedest to raise us as respectable and responsible. “Lead by example.” Those three words spoken by Mom or Dad at least once a week during our childhood. With the exception to high school and my whore habits post-Rochelle, I have done my best to uphold said qualities. To be an example.
But we all get tested from time to time.
“I love how protective you are, Shell. And I have no intention of hurting Peyton.”
On the other end of the line, a beep echoes, followed by a soft thump and electronic dings. After a beat, she speaks up and sounds farther from the phone speaker.
“You may not intentionally. But your life has been a hot mess for a short while. Don’t let that bleed into her life.”
Hot mess doesn’t remotely describe the path my life has taken since Rochelle fucked me over. Literally.
The day I walked in on Rochelle and the young stallion she mounted, in the bed we shared no less, I lost my shit. I have never been physically violent toward women, but furniture and picture frames and inanimate objects were fair game. I’d flung them across the room. My fists so tight, blood spilled from the crescents in my palms. Holes littered the hallway drywall—a smarter alternative than jail after beating the guy’s ass.
The worst part of it all… she wasn’t sorry. Rochelle had zero regrets bringing another man—who looked barely old enough to be a man—to the bed we shared and fucking him. Not a single ounce of remorse. How had I become so blasé about who she was and her predatory ways?
Because I was a fool.
We hadn’t been living together full time—thank fuck. But once I kicked her to the curb, threw all her shit outside, along with the mattress, I made a pact with myself. To never let a woman so close to my heart again. To never let a woman take the reins and steer me down an unknown path.
Not bedding the same woman night after night helped solidify my pact. But these last few weeks, Peyton has me second-guessing said agreement.
“Swear I won’t hurt her. Not intentionally.”
“Good to hear.” The relief in her voice filled the truck cabin. “Will I see you at Mom and Dad’s party?”
Ah, yes. The parents’ thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. Our parents don’t always insist on our appearance, but if we missed this occasion, we wouldn’t hear the end of it.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Cool.” A car horn honks in the background. “Well, I’m on my way home. Talk to you later.”
“’Kay. Love you, Shell.”