Amusement ghosts in his eyes. “Well, that’s good, because I wasn’t planning on changing it.”
His head jerks down. “What is that?” Conan bolts off, and Reaper steps toward him. “Conan!” his deep voice booms.
Confused, I notice the wet patch on Reaper’s jeans. It takes everything in me not to laugh while Reaper curses. “Maybe your relationship with Conan is a work in progress?” I’m struggling to keep the laughter out of my voice.
He shakes his head. “Now I’ve got to go have a shower, get changedagain,and get ready for church.”
I glance at his wet jeans again and burst out in a fit of laughter.
His face softens. “I’m glad you find it amusing.”
I clear my throat. “Sorry, but it is pretty funny... For dinner, I was thinking of cooking a baked meal. Do the men eat vegetables?”
“The men will eat anything,” he says as his hand goes to his stomach and a smile stretches across his face. “But it will thrill them to have a home-cooked dinner.”
* * *
After spendingover an hour in the pantry, I smile at the food as I locate the ingredients, which are neatly organized on the shelves. I gaze at the bin beside me, which is overflowing with out-of-date food, and pull the drawstring together. The bag doesn’t budge when I pull it out of the bin. I grunt and pull the bag higher, trying to wiggle it out.
A deep chuckle snaps my attention to Reaper, who’s watching me. “Would you like help?” he offers.
Offended, I scowl at him. At home, I never asked for help. I did everything myself.
“I can handle the trash.”
He shakes his head, then looks around at the pantry. “I don’t think I’ve ever saw it this—”
“Clean, practical.” I look at the bin again and scrunch up my nose. “You’re lucky you and the other men didn’t get food poisoning or end up dead. Some of that food was out of date by two years!”
His swoon-worthy smile disarms me. “We’re lucky you’re here, then.”
On the spot, I dissolve and smile stupidly back at him.
He steps toward the bin. His biceps bulge as he easily takes the full trash bag out of the bin, and I sigh as he walks away.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to see a private number calling. Hardly anyone knows this number, but my curiosity gets the better of me, so I answer it.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Ava. It’s Kirsty. I’m an attorney who represents the War Brothers MC. I thought I’d call and introduce myself.”
“I appreciate it. Thank you, but I don’t have money to pay you.”
“I’m on a retainer with the MC, so unless Reaper asks you for payment, there’s no bill on my side. I have been told some of your story, but I would like to discuss it in more detail in case you decide to proceed with a protective order or file for divorce. I wanted to confirm that your sister will be available if needed to corroborate your story and confirm that she saw your bruises.”
Remembering that night and how upset Elena was, I cringe. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“I could not find further police reports of abuse. Was this an isolated incident, or has it happened before, and is it the first time you have reported it?”
“It was the first time he was physical, but he has punched the wall and broken furniture around the house,” I reply weakly, knowing that if I left earlier, it may not have gotten that bad.
“Was there any other abuse, like emotional, financial, sexual?”
My breath hitches, making me cough. “All of them.” I’m uncomfortable talking about this with a stranger.
“Did you tell anyone during that time? Friends, family, a counselor—or go to the hospital or doctors.”
“My mom, but I can’t imagine she would support me.” I lean against the shelving. Besides my sister, it would be my word against Beau’s. “The protective order would be a waste of time, wouldn’t it?”
