Page 7 of Petty's Crime

“I can’t come and pick you up.”

“Why not?” she snaps. The hardening of her tone makes my jaw tighten.

“Because I’m too fuckin’ far away,” I spit back, then swallow hard, trying to cool my temper.

She digests that for a moment, then asks, “You are still in North Carolina, aren’t you?”

“Nah.” When I served, I was based at Fort Bragg. I left that in my rearview years ago. “I got out. I’m in Vegas now.” And a member of the Satan’s Devils MC.

“Vegas?” A swift mood change, as now I hear the smile in her tone. “That sounds exciting. But, honey, that means you won’t be able to collect me. I’ll need some money if I’m going to join you there.”

My eyes flick around my room, assessing the life I’ve built for myself. The life that Britney might well be about to destroy if I let her into it. But what choice have I got? While I’d cut off my right arm to have the strength to tell her to get lost and that she’s getting nothing from me, I just can’t do it. She’s still my wife, however much I don’t want her to be.

Still, I try to dissuade her. “You sure that’s what you want to do? You’ll know no one here—”

“After seven years, I have no friends here either,” she’s quick to respond. “So Vegas sounds good. A fresh start. I’ll have to sweet talk them here and get them to change my parole officer, but I’ll be joining my husband, so there’s not much they can object to.”

Isn’t there? I don’t think an ex-felon’s parole is best served if she’s living with an outlaw MC. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her that my circumstances have changed, and that the law would probably regard me as a criminal, maybe an easy out for me. But I lose my chance when she interrupts my thoughts.

“Honey, I can’t talk any longer. I’ve got to go. Just send me the money and I’ll let you know when my flight is due to land. Love you, Clark.”

Then she’s gone. I end the call, feeling sweat bead on my brow, totally unable to process that in twenty-four hours, I’ll be back withmy wife.I feel the sentence she was given is ending as mine is about to start. But how can I turn my back on her when she still wears my ring?

Love you, Clark.Her parting words echo in my mind.

I loved her once. I loved her even when she went inside, unable to process she’d been taken away. I would have stood by her, but she broke off contact. That had given me time and space to escape the thrall she’d held me in, and eventually come to realise that fate, or her felony, had done me a good turn. I sure as fuck don’t love her today, nor can I see myself doing so again.

As for her declaration, I’m not sure if there was ever any truth in it, and that she does so still holds no ring of truth. It was her who, by omission, had signalled our relationship was in the past.

Why the fuck didn’t I pursue the papers not being signed?The answer’s easy. Because I assumed she’d never want to come back.

Realising I’m still holding the phone, I place it down and put my head into my hands. The truth hits me. I doubt she wants to return to me now, but probably needs a place to land, somewhere to serve out her parole and get her life back on course.

That must be it. We were only ever together for eight months, and that kind of whirlwind romance doesn’t withstand an absence of years. She’s saying words that she probably thinks I need to hear without any emotion behind them.

That makes more sense, and, thanks to her, I’m used to being used. Maybe it won’t be too terrible to help get her feet back onto solid ground and then get that well-deserved divorce.

This doesn’t have to be a life sentence.

I stand, breathing a little easier, feeling I’ve got myself back into some semblance of control.

Though it’s not sufficient to stop my fist rising, seemingly of its own volition, and putting a hole in the drywall. As I watch the particles of loosened plaster flutter down, I realise my state of calm was only fleeting.

Fuck, fuck and fuck again.

Why Britney?

And why, now?

CHAPTERTHREE

Petty

The pain in my fist brings me to my senses as it dawns on me, even if I accept that fate without putting up a fight about it, Britney can’t just waltz into my life. One look around my bedroom which doesn’t even have the luxury of a private bathroom, reminds me it’s really not the place to bring my wife. And cooped up in close proximity would drive us both mad. After seven years, she’s little more than a stranger. And far more important, her new address would not be considered appropriate by her parole officer.

It might seem weird, but I’m not looking forward to the intimacy or sex on tap. When I’d first met her, Britney got my engine revving, there’s no denying that, but that was in the past, years back. Would I even still find her attractive? And what about me? I’m hardly the clean-cut soldier she married. My hair’s grown out and I’ve allowed scruff to grow on my face. I have tattoos. I wear a cut and my most prized possession is my motorbike.

She’s not going to think I’ve made much of my life.No, the riches I have would not appeal to her. She’d think nothing of the family and brotherhood which mean the world to me.

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