Chapter 4 #3
I set the milk on the coffee table as I sit on the couch and offer Ezekiel a pb-and-j triangle. He takes a bite, a smear of jelly covering his cheeks as he giggles and points at the cartoon he’s watching. I attempt to eat with him, but the smell of food has my stomach nauseous again.
“I pay, Auntie?” Zeke asks as he climbs off the couch and goes to his backpack by the door.
I sit on the floor and help him pull his trucks and cars out of the bag. He sits on his knees and pushes the truck along the ragged carpet, making a deep hum as if his voice is the motor of the vehicle.
The front door opens, and I protectively pull Zeke into my lap.
HARLAN
I cock my brow and eye Justice as I unlace my work boots. Nodding in her direction, I ask, “What’s he doing here?”
“Haven needed a sitter. She had to work a bridal party.”
“And she trusted you to watch her kid?” I laugh because that’s a fuckin’ joke. Justice is unstable, mentally fucked in the damn head. Manic or some shit. Hell, she couldn’t even carry my kid to term; I wouldn’t trust her with a mut, let alone a kid.
She tightens her grip on the kid, almost a protective instinct she’s never once possessed.
“Why are you home?” she asks.
“It’s Saturday. Shop closes at two. The more important question is why aren’t you at work?”
“I opened the diner this morning.”
“So you only worked half a shift so you could babysit for your sister? Kitten, that kid ain’t your responsibility–”
She tucks the kid’s head against her chest and looks up at me, an almost pleading look in her eyes. “Harlan, please don’t argue with me.”
“Can you at least fix some fuckin’ food?
I’ve been working all day and a damn bologna sandwich only holds a man over so long,” I order as I stomp down the hallway.
I pull a vial out of the nightstand and tap some dust on my fist, then snort it.
I need the high to void the pain of laying on concrete the last eight hours working on trucks all day, the high only heroin can give me.
I strip out of my clothes and turn the shower to full steam, ready to wash the grease and diesel off my aching body.
Hot water cascades down my body as I rest my head on the shower wall and grip my dick, stroking slowly.
Justice has been putting distance between us since the arraignment, almost as if her fear of me has multiplied.
It’s an intoxicating obsession to feed off her fear, but this–this is more intense, like she’s hiding something and the guilt is gnawing at her restraint.
The thought causes my balls to tense as I continue to stroke my cock, and I groan as thick ropes of cum spray the shower wall.
The heroin is hitting my system strong, a high I continue to chase because it’s the only way I can feel.
The anger is swept away, the tension vanishes, and I simply feel alive for that short period of time.
It’s the only way I can be in this house with my wife without taking out my aggression on her after a long day of bustin’ my ass.
It’s the only way I can control the urge to hurt her.
Justice is my reckoning, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it. I love her more than my next breath, but like a splinter that is wedged beneath the skin, just festering with irritation, she also brings out the monster within me.
I get dressed then head into the kitchen to find two BLT sandwiches and a beer on the table. I have her trained nicely, at least. She knows the wrath she’ll meet if she disregards my demands, compliant little thing she is.
“You eatin’, kitten?” I throw over my shoulder.
“No, my stomach has been wrecked all day.”
I turn in the chair and cut her with a glare, tilting my head as I look at her. “Gettin’ sick?”
She shakes her head, and her hair falls in her face and covers her eyes.
I don’t like not being able to see her eyes.
The eyes are the window to the soul. That’s how I can see if she’s scared, if she’s mad, excited, or if she’s lying.
Her eyes tell her story, and I want to read Justice like she’s an open book.
“Pull your hair back out of your face and fuckin’ look at me when I’m talkin’ to you,” I order, and she brushes her hair out her face and pins me with a scowl.
“Watch your language please. There are little ears.” She nods to the kid who ain’t paying attention to a damn thing going on around him. Just humming as he pushes his truck across the carpet.
She’s awfully protective of the kid. I’ve seen him maybe two or three times since I came back to Kentucky, but hell, he was little.
All little kids look alike with different colored hair.
But he’s much bigger than the last time I saw him.
I carry my plate into the living room and sit on the couch so I can watch them closer.
The kid comes around the table, pushing the truck along the top of it until he’s standing next to me.
He taps on my knee and looks up at me. “Hey, hey guy. You pay with me?”
All the air whooshes out of my lungs and my fuckin’ heart beats so fast I clutch my chest; am I having a damn heart attack? Stroke? No. I’m seeing this kid for the first damn time, really seeing him. And what I see is a smaller version of myself looking right back at me.