Page 7 of Saving Grace

The parking lot is busy, and I grab one of the last spots. Locking Blue, I head toward the store. People pass me with a nod and smile in that guarded way they do when they don’t want to talk to you. In the small town of Raymond, gossip travels fast. Questionable gossip, much faster.

The looks of pity started around a year ago. It was the first big fight Joel and I had. The first time I ended up on the wrong end of his temper. Judging by the sympathetic stolen glances that followed in the days after, what goes on behind closed doors is nobody’s secret.

The sliding doors give way as I enter the cool shop. The wash of the air-conditioning is like heaven on my skin. This heat has the most even-tempered folk on edge. I stand in the doorway and bask in its bliss for a moment. I head straight to the toilet paper. No need for another fight. Wandering, I find a sign—whole chickens, half off. I close in and place one in the cart, then head for the fruit and vegetable section.

I miss my mama’s Sunday roasts. Her food was delicious, but her company was the greatest comfort. Hindsight is funny like that... You never see what you’re giving up until it’s in your review mirror. What I wouldn’t give to put our makeshift house in my rearview mirror for the last time.

I reach the checkout with a handful of items in my cart. The realization that I forgot to count the cost as I went hits me. The checkout girl grabs the items, scanning them as she goes.

“Oh and, Marlboro Reds, please.”

She twists and grabs the pack, scanning it with the rest.

“That’ll be twenty-two fifty.” Her face is pushed up with another pitying smile.

Shit.

Heat crawls up my neck as the space caves in around me. I’m short.

“Oh, I forgot. You can use a second coupon today,” she says quietly as she taps on the screen in front of her. “So, that comes back to nineteen ten.”

I huff a strangled breath and hand over the twenty. “Thank you.”

She gives me a sad smile.

Hey, at least I didn’t have to steal it this time. I’ll take humiliation over theft any day of the week. I leave the store like it’s burst into flames and make my way home.

When everything is squared away, I start on supper. Roast chicken and a few veggies with a twist, herbs and lemon marinade. Extra butter under the skin for delicious crispiness. I rub the raw chicken like a trained masseuse, taking the quiet time for myself before the guys get home.

The front door slams. Two slurring voices bounce down the hallway and into the kitchen.

Oh great.

With the oven preheated, I pop the chicken in with the tray of vegetables and wash up.

“Hey, there she is!” Joel holds his hands in the air. A cocky smile lights up his face, as if he’s happy to see me.

Timmy rounds the table and dumps himself into a chair, not bothering to look at me. “Grace.”

“Timmy.” The guy gives me the creeps. Too calm, like he’s set to explode any second. Dark eyes that just follow every move I make. I suppress a shudder.

Beer breath and clammy hands invade my space. “Something smells half-edible in here.” Joel’s all over me, his lips hunting mine. The alcohol on his breath hits my face. I wince, trying to break free. A sloppy kiss lands on the side of my lips before he swats my ass, hard.

“See”—he turns to Timmy—“always so fucking frigid.”

Timmy laughs, sucking back another mouthful of his beer. “We can fix that.” Malice lines his hooded eyes. From the alcohol or something else, I’m not sure.

Joel walks into my space, and I back up against the oven.

Bracing my shoulders back, I hold my chin up. “I’m going to go have a shower. Supper will be ready in an hour or so.” I hold each word like a weapon, hellbent on not letting either of them sense my fear. The second they do, I’m prey.

“Wash up so we can get dirty after supper.” Joel runs a hand through his hair. The tattoos on his bicep move over the muscle. His arms aren’t overly bulky, but if they’re set on hurting something, I won’t stand a chance. I rush to the bedroom and shut the door. Leaning on it, I flick the lock. Chest plummeting, I shake my head.

He wouldn’t . . .

Something in the kitchen crashes. Glass smashes.

Fuck.

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