“Don’t look at him. He’s lying there like that because he took from you, and I will never tolerate that. No one will ever harm a single hair on your head, or anyone you love, ever again.”
“I don’t have many of those … people that I love. But … do you think he does?” Her pretty face knots in confusion as she comes to terms with the fact that this man will likely die simply because he hurt her.
This is a “right from wrong” she’s never had to contemplate. I tilt her chin up to me. “Don’t do that. Look at me. He isn’t worth an ounce of regret. He made his choices in life … the wrong ones. This is his fate.”
I remind myself as I watch her struggle with this new reality that my brain works differently than hers—that she won’t find it easy to separate emotion from business when it comes to ending a human life, even one that took from her so viciously.
For me, this isonlybusiness. I don’t worry about this man’s family, or anyone who might care when he doesn’t come home tonight.
I only worry about two things. My club, and now …her.
I wait with bated breath as her fingers slide over mine, removing my hands from her face. She straightens her shoulders and smooths her thick copper hair but doesn’t speak as she tucks the bottom of her shirt back into her cutoff jean shorts. As if putting herself back together on the outside will hold her emotions together on the inside too.
I let her push past me and move to stand over her attacker’s unconscious body. Her chest rises and falls evenly. She doesn’t look afraid now. She looks bold and in control. She looks powerful. Her long hair blows loose and wild in the late evening’s summer breeze as she focuses.
I wait for questions that never come, for a more prominent fear or shock that never rises. Instead, she shocksmeby simply embracing the calamity.
“I’m stronger than you think, Sean,” she whispers before dropping to her knees. Her small fist comes up and slams down onto his face as she cries out, and I watch in sheer fascination as she picks up a heavy, jagged rock from her garden, and her fist rises again.
CHAPTER ONE
Layla
Days Earlier …
“It’s so nice to see you dear. It’s been a long time. You’re looking … different.”
I nod and force a smile onto my face as I place menus down in front of the elders from my parents’ church, Judy Pryor and her husband Roy. I ready my mini tablet to take their order and resist the urge to tell her to take her judgmental eyes elsewhere and go fuck herself.
“It has been a long time,” I respond, ignoring her comment about my looks as she eyes the floral and vine tattoos that run down the length of my bare arm. “You’re doing well?” I ask politely. My voice is sickly sweet, and from another life.
“I am. Always so busy with the church, you remember how that is?”
“Of course,” I answer quickly. What she really means is:You know, when you used to come to church?Her eyes continue their judgment as I rattle off the specials. When I’m done, she looks up at me with mock care.
“Are you okay, Layla? You haven’t been around since … well, you know …” Her voice trails off as she takes in my much longer, now more auburn hair. It used to be a very dull shade of brown in my younger years—a lifetime ago, when I checked all of her boxes.
She didn’t know me then any more than she does now, but she didn’t need to. I wasthere. I could’ve been murdering squirrels in my spare time, but if I was in that building on Sunday, I was “a little dear” and “a real sweetheart.”
“I’m perfectly well, thank you for your concern.” I fight the sarcasm in my tone. Giving her nothing but saying everything all at once.Fuck right off, Judy.
I take their order and click “submit” on the tablet to send it to the kitchen.
“It’s good to see you both,” I say politely. Before I can turn away Judy reaches out and touches my arm, invading my personal space.
“I have to ask, do you have a new church family? A fellowship group to pray over you?”
I remind myself that I desperately need the tip from their bill and gently pull my arm away. “It’s been a long while since I’ve had time for a fellowship family,” I answer. It’s true, and it’s also the understatement of the year. Not that she could know, but being in school, in a fast-track program for massage therapy, takes up most of my free time. Not to mention I work thirty hours a week just to keep myself fed and housed. Plus, I’m still grieving the death of my best friend in the whole world, so making the church a priority isn’t really on my radar right now.
“Well, if you ever feel called to come back to the church, we’re all here for you. And we’re all praying.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Pryor,” I say through my fake smile. “That’s very kind of you. Your drinks will be out soon.”
I turn and blow out a breath. Simmering anger courses throughme. Not one of them was actually “there for me” when my mother was stolen from me. None of them knows she died on the very night that she was finally going to set herself free. No one but me knew she was leaving, because on the outside, my parents’ marriage was a thing to be admired. But on the inside my father was controlling, misogynistic and abusive. Sometimes, when he drank too much, he would hit my mother, and then spend the next week apologizing and gaslighting her into believing she’d deserved it. All the while he was having affairs and gambling their life savings away. But all that mattered was that they were there front and center every Sunday morning, so they were a real blessing to the community.
They portrayed that false image better than anyone could have imagined. But none of that matters, because they’re gone now—and one thing my mother’s death has taught me is that a public image is complete bullshit.
I can’t go back, but I can promise myself I will never end up like my mother, in a loveless marriage taking shit from a man in the name of his church.
