Blazing through the quiet streets of Whispering Hills in my loud-as-fuck ride, I’ve never felt more alive. For the first time in years, I’ll get to go home and not be met with the Spanish Inquisition, be slapped around, or be reminded I’m a piece of shit disappointment.
I almost smile.
Instead, I crank the radio, roll down the window, and go for a drive until the moon is high in the sky.
By the time I pull up in front of the street I’ve now dubbed the Suburban Compound, the main house is lit up like the Fourth of July. But the silhouette of a man peering out the living room window with his hands on his hips is concerning.
I drag myself up the steps and show myself in, bracing for rapid-fire questions from Mark-of-Many-Wives Miller. It’s hard to take a man serious who truly believes with all his heart that marrying multiple women is a straight ticket into the pearly gates of Heaven.
“Before you say anything,” I begin. “I stayed late after work fixing up this old truck Rich gave me.”
“I called Rich.” Mark’s face is the color of a beet. I never knew the human face could turn such a garish purplish red. “He said you left the shop two hours ago. Where were you, Jensen? What do you have to say for yourself?”
None of the wives are in sight. Discipline must not be on their chore list for tonight.
“I went for a drive. Had to clear my head.”
“You call, Jensen. You don’t just take off and not tell anyone where you’re going.” The vein in his head is protruding, and he’s halfway to an aneurysm by now. He’s trying to make it sound like he gives a shit about me, but I know what this really is. It’s a control thing with him. He’s got his wives and daughters and children under his thumb, but not me. He doesn’t quite know how to wrangle me in yet. News flash—he’ll never be able to. “Your mother was worried sick.”
Right.
Must have been why her house was pitch black when I pulled up.
“Nothing good ever happens after dark,” Mark continues his lecture.
“It won’t happen again.” I want him off my case. I’m tired, I want a sandwich, and I want to go the fuck to bed. I swallow a big old batch of pride and lower my head in faux-shame.
“Damn right it won’t.”
Uh-oh. Mark said damn. He must be angry.
“All due respect, Mark, you really don’t need to worry about me. I can handle my—”
“I won’t have you coming in here, setting your own rules and disrespecting the rest of the family.” His nostrils flare, pulling in long, hard breaths like a bull about to charge. “We have a strict eight o’clock curfew in his household. The example you’re setting is completely inappropriate.”
“Be home in time for Dateline. Got it.”
His mouth parts for a second. He wants to continue lecturing and berating me, but he doesn’t. Instead he pulls in a deep breath and rubs his tired eyes. He’s giving me that look—the same one Rich gave me. They look at me like I’m some victim—an abused, defenseless little boy. I’m anything but, and I refuse to ever identify as a fucking victim.
Mark mutters something like, “goodnight.” He’s gone, disappearing into the darkness of the main house. I head straight for the kitchen, pulling a loaf of white bread from the pantry and ransacking the fridge for something so shove between a couple slices.
I grab a packet of bologna and a bottle of ketchup and slam the door. My heart nearly falls clear to my feet when a figure standing in the kitchen doorway appears without warning. My eyes focus in the dark until I recognize those virginal Coke bottle curves.
“Shit, Waverly, you scared me.”
“Sorry.” She stands there all saucer-eyed before tiptoeing toward me. “Want me to make you something?”
I’m not sure where this niceness is coming from. Last I knew, we’d left things on a sour note. Maybe she heard Mark yelling at me.
I pull out a plate and knife and go to town. “Nah. I can make my own sandwich.” I start to cut my sandwich on the diagonal and then freeze mid-slice. “Aw, shit. Am I not supposed to be in the kitchen?”
Her brows furrow.
“You know, ‘cause I’m a guy and all.”
She crosses her arms and fights a smile for a quick two seconds. She wants to smile. I know it. But she won’t allow herself.
“Be careful with Dad,” she says, her voice hushed. “It’s better to let him get it all out. Just don’t talk back. He doesn’t like that.”
“I take it you’re not mad at me anymore?” I shove a third of the sandwich into my mouth at once. Bologna and ketchup sandwiches were a staple at my old house until Juliette came along. Josiah didn’t cook much, and most evenings were fend-for-yourself.
“I wasn’t mad at you.” She’s still playing the denial card.
“Okay. If you insist.” I shove the rest of the sandwich in my face, eating like a prison inmate guarding his food, but I don’t care. I’m fucking hungry. I make myself a second sandwich and inhale it as she watches. “You want one?”
She shakes her head. I consider asking why she’s still standing there, but I don’t have the energy. I’m dirty. I’m tired. I need a shower. Waverly cleans up my mess without saying a word.
“You don’t have to do that.” I’m trying not to laugh, but the girl flits around me like a goddamned housemaid.
She wipes up the crumbs and replaces the rag. The dampness rubs against her white cotton pajama top and sells out the fact that she’s most definitely not wearing a bra. Who knew under all those thick cardigan twin sets, Waverly Miller was packing a set of perky, round tits?