With the engine shut off and the keys already stuffed deep in his pocket, Rev sat in his Bronco.
He was in agony this morning, even after stopping at a convenience store for a large black coffee and a bottle of aspirin. His head pounded, his patience was paper thin and he had the damn shakes. He was pretty fucking sure every cell in his body was pickled and he most likely smelled like it, too.
He normally didn’t drink that much and, fuck, if he’d be drinking that much again any time soon. He’d just about kicked that bottle. By himself. Because of that, he passed out sometime in the night.
Earlier, when he finally pulled himself free of his alcohol-induced coma, he’d found himself flat on his back in the middle of the queen-sized bed, still wearing his unbuttoned jeans, with Reilly’s warm, soft body curled around his.
She was knocked out cold and snoring softly since she must have overdone it, too.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have much memory of it. Things had gotten a bit fuzzy after she’d joined him. Of course, she had to come into his room wearing that blue silky shit, trying to make it even more difficult for him to resist her.
Even worse, while she slept, the T-shirt he insisted she wear had pushed up enough he could see her long, bare legs. And, even as fucked as his head was from his hangover, he could not forget the way her hard nipples had pressed through that damn thin fabric the night before.
He’d rubbed a hand over his own nipples, causing a pleasurable pull from his barbells all the way to his toes and also made his morning wood flex in his jeans.
He continued sliding his hand down his chest, his abs, and then over his hard-on. If he was still wearing his jeans, and Reilly his shirt, he could safely assume they hadn’t had crazy drunken sex last night.
Thank fuck.
Because if he was going to break that particular rule, he, at least, wanted to remember it.
Her mouth was parted and her long, messy blonde hair covering most of her face. After sweeping a few strands away until he exposed the scar along her temple, he lightly traced a finger over it.
It didn’t take away from her looks at all but he knew it reminded her of the mistake she made by letting a violent fuckwad named Billy Warren into her life.
The motherfucker had tried to kill her twice. Rev had just missed witnessing the second attempt. He’d been on a damn test drive when the psycho ex-boyfriend showed up at Dutch’s Garage with a bat.
Thank fuck for Rook. Though they didn’t talk about it, Reilly owed her life to him. He’d been out back getting stoned, while Whip had been out in the yard looking for a used part, when the fucker tried to hit a home run using Reilly’s head as the baseball.
While Rev hadn’t been the one to make Billy Warren pay, he now wished he had been.
Rev remembered Warren’s cocky laugh even though the guys had him on the ground, on his knees and surrounded. The asshole was so fucking arrogant he hadn’t shown any fear, even though every one of Rev’s brothers wanted to kill him when he kept running his mouth.
“This is why you got to teach them a fucking lesson. Teach them obedience. It’s what they want. In the end, they thank you for it…”
Unfortunately, Billy Warren wasn’t the only man who believed that females should learn to be obedient.
He stared through the windshield at the house he grew up in. Inside was a man who followed very similar thinking. The same belief that a woman should serve her man. It surprised Rev that Warren had the misconception that Reilly would be one of those women.
Even though he had showed up to kill her, that day she hadn’t been scared of him, either. Not one fucking bit.
Her being that kind of woman was the reason he almost killed her the first time. For refusing to curl up into a ball and hand over everything she owned and worked for to the grifter.
Hell no. Reilly would not simply roll over and let him win that easily. Which was why she ended up in the hospital beat to fuck. It was also why she ended up with that scar she fussed with.
That day at the garage, Rev had been holding Reilly back from attacking Warren when she hissed, “What the hell did I ever see in you?”
“My big dick. You liked it in your mouth and in your fucking ass.”
She had actually snarled like a feral cat and began to struggle to get free by clawing at Rev’s arms hard enough to draw blood. Even as feisty as she was, he’d managed to keep hold of her. Barely.
“I hope you get fucked up the ass in prison, asshole!”
That might have been the exact moment Rev began to lust after her.
Warren then blowing her a smart-ass kiss had been the final straw that turned Reilly into an out-of-control, hissing, spitting wild woman.
Knowing if he let her go, she’d run over and kick Warren’s ass had actually made his dick begin to chub up. At least until Warren threatened, “I’ll just find you again when I get out, baby. I look forward to getting a piece of that tight ass again. And next time you might remember the lesson I taught you about sharing what’s yours with your man.” Warren was lucky Rev’s job was to hold onto Reilly, otherwise, he would’ve kicked in that bastard’s teeth.
As it was, they made sure there was no “next time” and definitely a “never again.” The Amish unknowingly tilled Warren’s ashes into one of the fields on the farm. Hell, he and his brothers probably ate some of the produce fertilized with his ashes.
Circle of fucking life.
The man inside the house Rev was now parked in front of had also given him life. And, really, Rev should be the one to take his. But John Schmidt would get his karma soon enough. Rev just needed patience and to let nature take its course. Waiting for the cancer to do its job would keep Rev out of prison but, in the end, the result would be the same.
He needed to remember that, no matter how much his old man baited him. No matter how much Rev wanted to strangle the fuck out of the man who created him. No matter how much Rev wanted to smother him with a fucking pillow.
He pulled in a long breath through his nostrils and blindly reached for his coffee and, as he took a long pull of caffeine, he kept his eyes glued on the house. Nothing moved inside, nothing moved outside.
He fuzzily remembered Reilly mentioning last night about how the house and the people inside reminded her of a B-rated horror flick. Also, that she and Rev had reminded her of a young couple in one of those movies, going into the house and never escaping alive.
He was pretty sure she was drunk by that point. But drunk or not, she wasn’t far off.
Staring at the house now, stuck in the driver’s seat, dread was swallowing him whole. He wasn’t sure if he could deal with going back inside, seeing his disapproving mother and his dying father. But he couldn’t assess his father’s health and how long he might have left without doing so.
Plus, he wanted to give the dying man a memory to take to his grave. Rev’s face watching karma do its job.
This morning, only one vehicle was parked in the driveway, so he doubted that Pastor Thomas or Matthew was around. At least, not yet.
Out of all of them, Rev could probably stomach dealing with Matthew. Though, he couldn’t stomach how submissive his uncle’s wife seemed to be. Submissive women were a big turn-off for Rev. He couldn’t imagine fucking a woman who didn’t have any fire inside her.
Like Reilly did.
Or hell, any of the Fury women. Once Red had broken free of her trance-like state and her true personality had been exposed, she wasn’t nearly as quiet as they all originally thought. It only took a bit for the cracks in her shell to begin to seal themselves up and for her to become close to whole again.
In truth, she had to be a strong woman to deal with Sig and his easily-ignited temper.
He could only imagine that fucking Matthew’s wife was like fucking a half-deflated blow-up doll. Without lube.
No, a good fuck involved fast and furious skin-slapping, sweat dripping, hair pulling, biting, scratching and plenty of loud vocal encouragement. If a woman didn’t make him struggle to keep from popping a nut within a minute or two, then he had no interest in fucking her a second time.
He needed to stop thinking those kind of thoughts while sitting in front of his parents’ house. Now was not the right time to get a damn boner. He couldn’t put off going inside much longer and he’d prefer to do that erection free.
Especially since the last time his mother saw him with one was when Michael was in Sarah’s bed all those years ago. A natural response from him turned into a very unnatural, unforgiving response from her. One he’d never forget.
That was also the day he began plotting his escape.
“Fuck it,” he muttered and climbed out of the truck. He needed to suck it up and get this over with, then head back to the motel to check on Reilly.
He strode to the front door and, when he tried the knob, found it locked. Cupping his hands around the sides of his face, he pressed it to one of the narrow windows alongside the door. Like earlier, he neither saw or heard movement inside.
His parents used to be early risers. He couldn’t imagine they weren’t up yet since it was now late morning. Maybe his mother was in the kitchen at the back of the house doing her “wifely duties.”
He could knock, but…
Fuck it.
He jogged down the porch steps and rounded the house to the backyard.
And immediately froze in his tracks.
Nothing had changed. Not a damn thing.
It was just how he remembered it in the days before he rushed out the back door for the last time and into the night.
Just how he remembered it all those times his father dragged him out into the backyard to punish him for whatever wrongdoing Michael did that day. Whatever rule he broke. Whatever transgression he committed.
In an attempt to “cleanse” Michael of his sins.
Bed sheets hanging from the clothesline fluttered in the morning spring breeze. But it wasn’t hearing the snap of the damp cotton in that gentle wind that made his heart pound in his throat.
It was the white wood posts buried into the ground with the cotton rope tightly stretched between them.
The eyebolt was still there. Toward the top of one of the posts. It was now rusty from either time or lack of use. Or both.
He turned slowly and spotted the witch-hazel shrub. Of course, it was now overgrown since no one had to cut any of the branches any longer. Or at least, not as often.
With his chest tight and his jaw set, his vision narrowed to the point of only a pin prick as he stared at that fucking bush. His memories started to rush in and take him back.
To a place he didn’t want to go. To a time he didn’t want to revisit.
This was why he shouldn’t have come home. To avoid reliving all that he left behind. He should’ve known coming back would be like picking off the scab of his childhood and making it bleed all over again.
He had so many memories of this backyard. Not one of them good. Not of him playing catch or having fun by running through sprinklers. Not of playing hide-and-seek or being pushed high into the sky on a swing.
None of that.
Instead, they consisted of that damn bush, of that wood post and of the knife his father would hand to him. Every time he was handed that sharp blade, he would stare at it and consider using it on his father, or on himself, instead.
He never did.
Because he was weak.
Those were the rare instances where, to lessen the damage, he did what he was told. In truth, he had no choice. If he didn’t follow his father’s orders, things would only be a lot worse. The punishment, his anger, his degrading words.
The only good that came out of it was if his father was busy with Michael that meant he wasn’t focusing on Sarah. At least, for a little while.
“The longer you wait, the more I will add to the number. You must learn to be obedient, Michael. When I give you an order, I expect you to do what you’re told without hesitation. You have always been an obstinate child, no matter how many times I’ve tried to rid you of that behavior.”
Words like that would snap him out of his head and he’d force his feet to move toward the shrub his father called the “switch bush.”
Part of Michael’s punishment was he’d be forced to cut his own switch and strip the leaves from the stick in preparation. From past experience, he knew the thinner branches cut deeper. They hurt less in the beginning but more later on because they split the skin. The thicker ones hurt more in the beginning and less later on. They usually didn’t split the skin but left welts and bruises behind.
He had to decide which of the two he wanted to deal with.
When Michael was done, he would be forced to say, “Thank you, Father,” with his gaze tipped to the ground as he handed over his carefully chosen switch.
Rev hadn’t realized his feet had moved him closer to the shrub and he now stood in front of it. He ran his fingers lightly over the yellow, orange and red spidery blooms.
Yeah, the shrub was much fuller and healthier now that it wasn’t constantly being stripped.
The colorful plant wasn’t the only thing in the backyard that had been stripped.
Once Michael handed over the instrument of his punishment to his punisher, he was forced to strip down to his boxer shorts. No matter what the weather.
That night—the night his father came home from work after his mother found him in Sarah’s bed—it had gotten dark early and the temps had dropped to barely above freezing.
When his arms were bound over his head and attached to that eyebolt, when he was only wearing his loose cotton boxers, he began to shiver. He had to be careful he didn’t accidentally bite his tongue from his teeth clattering violently together or from clenching them every time his father raised his arm and dropped it again, causing a searing burn along his skin from the long, thin switch.
Once it started, Michael always lost count. There was no point in counting anyway. It was over when it was over and not a second before.
He never made excuses, as that only added to the number.
He never begged to be spared, as that only added to the number.
He never cried or whimpered, as that only added to the number.
It was best to simply think of something else. Anything but what was happening.
When it was over, when he was released and given permission to move, he had to thank his father again. Even if the words were forced through tightly clenched teeth and a whole lot of hatred.
Even though his breath was hard to catch due to the pain.
As always, his father asked, “Have you learned your lesson?”
As always, Michael answered, “Yes.”
And, as always, that was a lie.
“Your mother has drawn your bath.”
The bath.
“It’ll help finish the cleansing.”
He wanted to argue that she had forced him to bathe early that morning, to scrub his skin clean with the harsh brush. But this bath was different.
Salt was added to the cold water.
The only good part about those baths was when he was done soaking in it, he could hardly feel the pain anymore since he was so numb.
At least for a little while…
Rev struggled to pull in his next breath, to shake that memory and the rest of them.
By reliving them, he was handing control over his life back to his father. Michael had stolen that control the night he ran away. He took it and ran as fast and as far as he could.
He never regretted leaving and the struggles to survive that followed. He only regretted leaving Sarah behind.
In truth, he deserved to be tied to that post again and whipped with a switch until nothing but bloody strips of flesh remained of his back.
Because he failed her.
He ran because he was too weak to stay.
But now, he was no longer weak.
His father was.
Rev forced himself to climb the two steps to the small back porch. He forced his fingers to wrap around the metal knob. He forced himself to turn it.
Both surprise and unease filled him as the door opened without resistance.
Did his mother believe that if she locked the front door he wouldn’t go around to the back?
Was she foolish enough to think he would simply go away? Leave them in peace?
He didn’t give a fuck about their peace, only his own. Only Saylor’s.
And they wouldn’t achieve theirs until he knew with certainty his father was gone. Then that peace would finally be within reach. Wouldn’t it?
Didn’t he finally deserve his own with everything he went through when he was Michael? Didn’t Saylor deserve hers after everything she went through when she was Sarah?
The kitchen was empty. Quiet except for the ticking of the clock above the sink.
The counters were perfectly clean. Not a dirty dish in the sink. The dish towel hung perfectly straight in its place.
At first glance, you’d think the kitchen was never used. That the table was never sat at. When he knew for a fact Michael had sat at it more times than he could remember.
They couldn’t eat until his father came home from work. Starting at the scheduled dinner time, which was six, he and Sarah would have to sit quietly at the table, waiting.
Waiting to hear the front door open, waiting to hear his footsteps coming down the narrow hallway.
Waiting for their father to kiss their mother on the cheek before settling into his spot at the head of the table.
And with all that waiting, especially when his father was late, his stomach would growl and twist in pain as he stared at the cooling food on his plate.
Sometimes he was so hungry he couldn’t resist taking a bite before his father blessed the food and thanked God for providing it. When Michael would reach out, his father would slap his hand away from his plate and send him to bed without dinner.
If that was his only punishment for that infraction, he didn’t care. He went willingly to his room. Because buried deep within his closet he had hidden a shoebox full of snacks that he’d stolen from the store in town.
Every time he was sent there on his bike with a few dollars to pick up an item for his mother, he’d pocket something. A candy bar, a granola bar, a pack of cheese crackers, anything that would fill his stomach. If he could, he’d take two. One for him, one for Sarah.
Rev moved through the kitchen and, instead of going directly to the sitting room, he moved up the back steps. The narrow stairway was designed for the hired help when the house was originally built in the mid-1800s.
The Schmidts never had hired help since they couldn’t afford it. Even if they could, his father didn’t want strangers in his house. The only people allowed in their home were family and the members of their religious order. People with the same beliefs.
It was easier that way. Safer.
No questions asked. No comments made.
The steps creaked slightly as he moved up them slowly, carefully. The narrow walls closing in on him the higher he climbed. To prevent himself from a full-blown panic attack, he focused on the door at the top of the steps and, once he got there without stumbling, he opened it and stepped out at the end of the upstairs hallway.
He sucked in air and hesitated for only a second while his vision restored. Then, instinctively, he headed to the first room on the left. The door was closed but not locked.
When he opened it, the disturbed dust and the stale air filled his nostrils. He struggled not to sneeze.
The curtains were drawn but he didn’t need light to see what he expected.
Sarah’s bedroom remained unchanged. It was exactly as he remembered. Almost as if they expected her to come home at any time and step directly back into her youth, prior to that first time she was sent to the detention center.
He stared at the single bed. The bed he had curled up on with his sister too many nights to count, holding her and trying to soothe her when all she could do was cry.
He always had left before morning.
All except that one time when he made the mistake of falling asleep. When what he was doing wasn’t seen as something good, but something bad instead.
A worn spot on the wood floor by Sarah’s bed caught his attention. She knelt in that exact spot to say her prayers before bed. After doing it night after night and year after year, it had worn away the paint on the wood.
The bed was crisply made. No items left out. Sterile and neat. Nothing to indicate it was a little girl’s room. No dolls. No toys. No hair bows or barrettes. No pinks. No purples. No bright colors at all. All muted whites. The color of purity.
He stepped back out and closed the door behind him, then walked the few steps farther to his room. Again, the door was closed.
He held his breath as he slowly opened it with his heart trying to escape his chest.
The air in his old room wasn’t dusty or stale. This room was currently used. It was not waiting for him to return home.
Nothing was the same except for the spot in the middle of the room where he, too, had knelt every night. Where he, too, had settled his elbows on his mattress and pressed his palms together. Where he bowed his head, closed his eyes and mouthed the words that were expected.
Words that were hollow.
Unlike his sister’s old room, his did not remain frozen in time. Proof that they never expected or even wanted him to return. Most likely relieved he left.
His mother had turned his old bedroom into a sewing room. A sewing machine was now stationed in front of the only window. The room was also full of neatly organized bolts of fabric and all the other shit needed to sew clothes, quilts and what-fucking-ever else she made from scratch.
Unlike his friends from school, his bedroom never had a television or even a radio. He wasn’t allowed to listen to music or watch a sitcom. Comic books were forbidden. So were cell phones and the internet.
Nothing secular was allowed in this house. They did their best to prevent their children from becoming wayward.
Though, they tried so hard that it caused them to fail.
He stepped farther into the room and opened the closet to see if his hidden goodies were still there. The closet no longer held the clothes Michael left behind but more miscellaneous sewing supplies.
Every evidence of Michael’s existence was now gone.
His shoebox of snacks had been discovered and probably thrown away. Or maybe Sarah had found them and hidden them for herself. If she had, Saylor never mentioned anything to him.
If they would’ve been found, his father would have seen that as another offense and would’ve taken Michael out to the backyard, made him choose his own switch and then tied him to the post where anyone walking or driving by could witness his punishment. If they were paying attention.
He wondered how many people saw it happening and decided to look the other way. Decided it was none of their business. Decided it wasn’t worth the hassle of becoming involved.
Reilly only survived Warren almost beating her to death because of her neighbors getting involved. If they hadn’t…
Rev sucked in a slow breath, beating back the anger beginning to bubble up from his gut.
It wasn’t only from what happened to Reilly, it was from his memory of how differently their father punished his son and his daughter.
His father never took Sarah outside. It would happen in her bedroom. With the door closed.
Sometimes he would use a belt, sometimes his hand, but never a switch. He didn’t want to risk breaking Sarah’s skin like he sometimes did with Michael’s. Most likely he was afraid of scarring her and those scars eventually reducing the chance of Sarah finding the right husband.
A girl who had to be whipped often wasn’t an obedient one. And if she wasn’t obedient, she wouldn’t make a good wife.
It was the way.
Michael could hear everything in the next room because the walls were thin. He could hear the strikes of the leather or his father’s palm. He could hear Sarah crying.
But then those cries would become muffled when a large hand covered her mouth and a different kind of punishment commenced.
Michael would cover his ears and let his fury drown out the sound. He would think of other things and try not to imagine what was happening in his sister’s room.
He would also flay himself with an imaginary switch for not being brave enough to break down Sarah’s door and stop the man’s punishment.
His mother would be down in the kitchen humming. Sometimes even singing a hymn. She never stopped her husband, the father of her fucking children, from those types of lessons.
She never comforted Sarah afterward, either.
That was why Michael did.
Until he ran away and no one was left to comfort Sarah at all.
Rev squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers curled into fists and he left the room of his youth to head back downstairs.
Back then, his father had been larger than life. Now? Now he was just a shell of a bitter, abusive man.
Waiting for his end.
An end that better happen soon.
