Page 72 of Holding On To Good

To survive the constant insults and fear and hopelessness. To survive the times her husband put his hands on her.

The song ended, and in that brief moment before the next one began, Reed heard it, the grunting and groaning from the other side of the wall. The creaking of the bed. The slapping of bodies.

Puke rose in his throat but he swallowed it down.

If she could survive it being done to her, Reed could sure as hell survive knowing about it without throwing up. Without breaking down the door and tearing Pete off her. Without throwing him across the room and punching and kicking him over and over until he was sobbing, like Pete had done to her so many, many times before.

Over and over until he was a bloody, motionless mess on the floor.

Like he’d done to Reed so many, many times before.

Squeezing his eyes shut harder, he tapped the back of his head against the thin wall, his breathing coming faster, the cords of his neck muscles so tight, they ached. He tapped his head back again. And again.

And he wondered if this—the frustration and helplessness building inside of him, the anger and hatred—was why his mother stopped him from standing up for her. From protecting her.

If she wasn’t just afraid of her husband.

But of her son, too.

Of what he was capable of.

Titus nudged his arm and settled his big head on Reed’s thigh. Reed looked down. His hands were fisted and he forced his fingers to open. To relax. He blew out a heavy breath and stroked his dog’s silky head.

Kept the movement slow and purposeful and gentle. Despite the feelings rushing through him. Kept it smooth and controlled. Because of those feelings.

A moment later, his phone buzzed with a text. Titus twitched but didn’t lift his head.

Reed glanced at the screen, expecting it to be his work schedule for the bar, but the number was unknown. He opened it.

Unknown Number: What’s your mailing address?

Reed frowned.

Reed: Who is this?

Unknown number: Verity.

He sat forward so quickly he dislodged Titus from his leg. “Sorry, buddy,” he murmured, patting his dog’s head. But he couldn’t stop staring at his phone, at that name.

Verity.

He hadn’t thought of her last night. Not at the bar when he’d done the mind-numbing jobs of washing dishes and mopping the floor. Not when he drove home surrounded by the dark, the jacket he’d given her to wear on the seat next to him. Not when he’d fallen into bed.

He’d slept soundly. She hadn’t slipped into his dreams—a fact he took as a personal victory. There was no reason to think of her. To dream about her.

No reason to want to see her again. To hear her voice as she schooled him about what was right and what was wrong in the world according to Verity Jennings.

No reason to see if he could make her smile again, even if it was at his expense.

She wasn’t for him. That hadn’t changed in the past twenty-four hours.

Nothing had changed. And it never would.

Obviously, his subconscious agreed.

Too bad his conscious mind was being a major prick.

Because the moment he’d woken up this morning, there she was, front and center in his thoughts. His eyes had flown open, but he could still see her, as close and as real as she’d been last night when she’d tried wiping the mud from his face. He could still feel the warmth of her skin as the back of her hand brushed against his cheek.

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