Page 13 of Griffin
"Tate, please," Shay pleaded as she hurried faster to gather her things.
"It's what I pay for someone who is just starting," Dad said plainly.
Tate had a mean, slitted stare, like a fucking snake. He looked like the kind of guy who'd bite the head off a puppy.
"I'm ready. Let's go." Shay couldn't look at us as she swept past holding her purse and water bottle. "Please, I'm ready." Her entire demeanor had changed in her husband's presence. Her posture was tense, and she looked as if she might crumple into a sobbing mess at any moment.
Tate gave each of us a hard glare before turning around. He didn't even hold the door for Shay. She hurried out behind him. Dad and I walked to the small front window to watch them leave. They got into Shay's small car and left a long trail of dust as he punched the gas.
Dad and I stood silently for a moment, both of us in fucking shock about the last few minutes. Dad turned to look at me. "Is it just me, or do you also have an urge to throw your fist at something right now?"
"Not just you, Dad. Definitely, not just you. What the fuck? How could Shay be with someone like that?"
Dad shook his head. "Brings back some bad memories," he muttered to himself. I knew that mom had gone through some stuff before she met Dad. He'd saved her life and nearly died in the process, but neither of them ever wanted to give out any details, and that was probably good for Jules and me. Some things were better left untold.
Dad went back to his desk to clean up for the night. His jaw was clenched tightly, and my teeth were packed pretty close together too. "Dad? When—you know—when you and Mom met—did you get this feeling that you were going to do anything, even kill someone, just to keep her safe cuz that's how I'm feeling right now about Shay. I know she's not mine, and she's married to that asshole, but if he hurts her?—"
Dad just nodded. "Like I said—that whole scene brought back some bad memories. But you're right, Fin. She's not yours. Still, Stones don't look the other way when something isn't right, and something was definitely not right there. I just hope she can keep her job. Seemed like he was looking for a reason for her to quit. I'm about ready to get out of here and dive into that plate of lasagna. How about you?"
I nodded, but lasagna was the last thing on my mind.
EIGHT
SHAY
Tate's foot pressed down hard on the gas. We flew recklessly through the city streets. I gripped the edges of my seat as he took a corner so fast, I worried the tires would leave the ground. My heart was pounding so hard, I could feel it in my ears. I knew that if I asked him to slow down, he'd just go faster.
My fingers were cramped when we finally reached our street, and I could release the seat. I wasn't exactly sure how holding tightly to the seat would help me if we flipped over or rammed head on into a building or, worse, another car, but it was a technique I'd developed to help me get through his harrowing rides. His truck was still in the driveway with the hood up and his tools sitting in a pile nearby. He parked my car behind it. "Going to need your car again tomorrow," he said.
"That's fine. I don't mind the bus." He was trying to start a fight, but I didn't care enough about anything he said anymore to argue back. "I've got some chicken breasts to fry," I said as I got out of the car. I checked my phone on the way to the house, certain that Colt would have texted by now telling me he was letting me go. Tate had come into the trailer ready for a fight, but Colt didn't take the bait. Tate backed down quickly. He'd sized up his opponents and changed his mind. As viciously strong as my husband was, something told me he was no match for Colt and Griffin Stone.
"I don't want chicken," Tate said as he stormed past me into the house. He let the squeaky screen door shut in my face. I stood on the stoop for a minute and closed my eyes telling my anxiety monster to stay hidden in that closet. I couldn't deal with it right now. Tate was in a terrible mood, and I needed my wits about me. I took several deep breaths and entered the house.
"You're not working for those assholes," Tate said the second I stepped inside.
"We need the money for the loan on your truck. This house is half the size of our last rental and costs three times as much." Right then would have been a good time to remind him that he'd had to become an owner/operator trucker because he'd blown the goodwill of three trucking companies. His temper had caused more than one accident, and trucking companies weren't big on second chances when you had a shitty track record to begin with. That same temper had pushed us out of the last town, a town where rental prices were a third what they were here near the coast. He'd punched a neighbor over an argument about his truck being parked on the street for too long.
"Find another job and find something else to make for dinner." Tate walked away and slammed the bedroom door so hard the doorframe splintered.
I took off my coat and checked my phone once more. Maybe Colt would wait until the morning to fire me, and maybe I could talk him out of the decision. I pulled out a pot to heat some pasta for spaghetti.
I got lost in chopping carrots and onions and didn't hear Tate come in behind me. I startled, and the knife slipped across my thumb as his arm snaked around my waist. I froze in repulsion as he leaned down and kissed the side of my neck. "Missed these little stars," he said as his mouth pressed against my tattoo. His mood swings were getting much starker, and they terrified me. I'd spoken to him about medication once, and he pushed me through the screen door. I never brought it up again.
His hand swept under my shirt, and I had to swallow the bile that rose in my throat. The swipe of the knife had been deep enough to start a flow of blood.
"I need to get a bandage before I ruin the vegetables," I said and squirmed out of his hold.
"Fucking clumsy," he said tersely. And we were back to that Tate.
I hurried to the bathroom, shut the door and locked it. I held my hand under the water and let the red flow down the drain for a few seconds before I collected myself. I pulled a bandage out from the medicine cabinet and wrapped it tightly around my thumb to stop the blood.
The doorknob turned. I gasped, then silently thanked the landlord for putting in a door with a lock. Our last house didn't have one, and I'd taken to pulling open the vanity drawer to keep Tate from barging in. His fist pounded the door. It rattled on its hinges. He'd have every door in the house hanging off its hinges before we were, once again, driven out of town by neighbors and people with pitchforks.
"I'll be right out to finish dinner," I called lightly, even though my feet were frozen to the spot, and my heart was racing.
"Never mind. I'm going out to get a burger. Do my laundry. I'm leaving Monday for a job."
"Yes, thank you, God," I mouthed to myself in the mirror. "All right." I stood in the bathroom staring at the pathetic woman in the mirror. In my teens and early twenties, the reflection staring back at me would have been full of spunk and energy and ready to take on the world, but Tate had sucked the life out of me.
