Prologue #2
And now, I loved it even more. I loved the way it bounced off my Dad’s head at the exact moment he bent over to punch my Mom again as she lay curled up on the floor at his feet.
I loved the way the impact of the wood against his skull sent vibrations up my arms.
I loved the way time seemed to stand still for a split second before he dropped to the ground with a strangled moan.
He landed beside Mom in a crumpled heap, as she struggled to roll away from his body.
He was perfectly still. Eyes closed. A small puddle of blood forming on the faded linoleum floor underneath his head.
I dropped the bat and rushed over to help Mom as she tried to get to her feet.
Her face was bloody, already swelling from the blows she’d taken.
She gasped and grabbed her side, wincing as she took several shaky, shallow breaths.
A guy at school had cracked a rib last year playing football during gym class.
He kind of breathed like that afterward, too.
“Get the…phone, honey. We need…to…call…for help.” I nodded as I helped Mom to the couch, then ran to the kitchen to grab the cordless phone off the charger.
I hesitated for a second, eyeing my dad’s body on the living room floor. He wasn’t moving, and I couldn’t tell if he was breathing.
If I’d killed him, I’d be arrested. I didn’t want to go to jail, and I definitely didn’t want to leave my mom alone in this world.
I took a deep breath and dialed a number I knew by heart. My best friends’ house. After two rings, it connected.
“Do you have any fuckin’ idea what time it is? This better be good.” The voice was deep and raspy with sleep. It was also familiar. Safe.
“Mr. Morgan? This is Jason…I,” my voice gave out, and I swallowed hard. He started speaking before I could continue.
“Jase? What’s wrong, kid.” His voice was instantly alert, the concern obvious even through the phone line.
“I need help. Dad was hurting Mom…and I…I think I killed him. I don’t know what to do.”
Mr. Morgan cursed fiercely under his breath, and I could hear him moving, likely getting out of bed.
“Are you OK?”
“Yeah,” I answered shakily.
“How badly is your mom hurt? Does she need an ambulance?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think so. She’s right here, I can ask.”
“Put me on speaker, so I can talk to you both.”
I pressed the button to activate the speaker phone, then moved closer to Mom so she could talk to him too. He asked her a few questions about her injuries, and she assured him she didn’t need an ambulance, but admitted she might need to go to the hospital.
“OK, I’m leaving my house now. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Do not call the cops, do you understand? No cops. We’ll deal with it when I get there.”
We’d hardly hung up the phone before his truck pulled up in front of the trailer.
Cole and Caleb lived less than a mile away, so I’d known it wouldn’t take him long.
I hurried to the door and opened it in time for their dad to come storming up the steps.
He stopped in the doorway, barely sparing a glance at my dad’s body, before cupping my face and tipping it up so he could see.
I hadn’t bothered looking in a mirror, but I knew my lip was busted, and I probably had a bruise or two on my cheek and forehead.
His eyes narrowed, and his face hardened as he got a good look at me and cursed again.
He crossed over to the couch and crouched down in front of Mom, his jaw tightening as he clocked her injuries, then noticed the older, yellowing bruises on her jaw and arms. He turned his head and shot a death glare at Dad’s body on the floor.
“He’s not dead, kid. I can see him breathing from here. What the hell happened?”
I told him everything, and he moved up to sit next to Mom on the couch, carefully wrapping his arm around her as she cried.
By the time I finished, I was barely holding back tears of my own.
He stood up, then asked to see my back where Dad had whipped me.
I nodded, then gingerly tugged off the T-shirt I’d worn to bed.
He didn’t ask to see any lower, and I sure didn’t want to take my pants off in front of him.
He gently grasped my shoulders, angling my body to get a better look at the marks I was sure the belt had left.
He inhaled sharply then released me and crossed the room, before shooting out his leg and kicking Dad in the side and then stomping on his back, cursing him to hell and back with each kick. Dad, roused to consciousness by the pain, let out a low moan before he passed out again.
Mr. Morgan walked back over to the two of us, before saying, “I called my folks on the way here, and they’re coming over to take the two of you to the hospital.”
“I have some other people coming to help me with that piece of shit,” he gestured at Dad with his thumb. “He’s never gonna hurt either of you again, I promise you.”
Mom nodded before lowering her head and letting out a soft cry, her shoulders shaking with the effort of holding in the pain.
Mr. Morgan carefully pulled me into a hug, whispering, “I’d have put a stop to it if I’d fuckin’ known what was happening. You did good tonight, Jase. You protected your mom, and you called me for help. I’m proud of you, son.”
My chest swelled with pride at his words, and for the first time in a very long time, I believed that we would be OK.
Within minutes, the small trailer was filled with people, most of whom I recognized from hanging out at my friends’ house.
Their Pop, Mr. Morgan’s dad, gave my dad a few kicks of his own, while their Grandma Frankie pulled me into a gentle hug and assured me that she would drive Mom and me to the hospital, and would make sure we were taken care of.
Several of the men from their motorcycle club were here, too.
Pop was the president, and Mr. Morgan was the vice-president.
Pop’s best friend, a man they called Viking, took one look at me and Mom, and cussed more than just about anybody I’d ever heard in my life.
When he was done, he stomped across the room and hauled my dad up to his knees, with the help of some young guy I’d never seen.
Viking called him “Prospect”, and I knew enough to know he was one of the guys hoping to be accepted into the club.
After punching my dad right in the face, Viking and the prospect dragged him – now semi-conscious and moaning nonstop – outside and tossed him in the back of a van.
Mr. Morgan ordered another man with a “prospect” patch to clean up the blood on the floor and sweep up the pieces from the broken lamp.
After helping Mom and me to Grandma Frankie’s car, the men left.
I found out a few days later that Mr. Morgan and his club brothers had given my dad a beatdown back at their clubhouse and warned him to get out of town and stay gone.
We never saw him again.