Love Thy Neighbor (27 page)

Looking into my eyes, he smiles. “Let’s eat,
babe.”

We both dress in our jammies and for the
first time ever, Ash doesn’t wear a shirt. I like looking at him. I
see past his scars to his firm, sculpted abs and my core leaks
happy tears. It makes my heart squeeze in agony to think of what he
possibly went through, but no one should feel ashamed of their
body. Definitely not one this fine.

In a show of silent support, I move over to
him, wrap my arms around him and place a soft, wet kiss on his
chest. He dishes up the pasta he cooked and it looks as good as it
smells.

We sit and I try some of the pasta. And it’s
really good. Smiling over at him, I say, “You never said you could
cook.”

Picking up his fork, he smirks. “Never
asked, pretty girl.”

His newest phone vibrates on the counter and
I lift it without permission.

Grace calling.

I pull the phone closer to me and lower it.
It vibrates every other second through our awkward silence. Ash
looks at the phone through empty eyes. I don’t know who this woman
is, but she’s causing shit for my man and making him angry-sad.

I’ll cut a bitch!

The phone stops vibrating and I push it back
to the middle of the table. “Didn’t want you breaking another one,”
I mutter, avoiding his gaze.

He resumes eating and says quietly,
“Thanks.”

No longer hungry, I pick at my food for a
while longer before standing to take my dish to the sink.

Just ask him. Ask him who Grace is.

Asher comes to stand behind me and wraps his
arms around me. Lowering his mouth to the side of my neck, he asks,
“TV or bed?”

Ask him.

When I answer, “Bed,” I feel his smile at my
neck and I repeat my earlier admission, “I still don’t think you’re
getting lucky tonight, buddy.”

Chickenshit.

I squeak when he lifts me up and over his
shoulder. Smacking my ass so hard it tingles, he says, “I told you,
girl. I
am
lucky.”

He throws me down onto the bed and I
giggle.

Freeze. Hold the hell up.

I gasp and Ash chuckles. I whisper, “Did I-
I think that was- I can’t believe I just-”

“I think you just giggled,” he smirks,
thoroughly amused.

Shaking my head, I lie, “No, it wasn’t. I
don’t giggle. It was gas.”

Ash throws his head back and laughs hard. I
can’t help but laugh with him. He runs a hand through his hair.
“Only you would think that giggling is worse than farting.” Shaking
his head, he mutters, “Too damn cute.”

He pulls me down next to him and wraps me
tight. I peck kisses onto his chest, neck and chin. Feeling brave,
I ask quietly, “You think you’ll ever be up to telling me what
happened to you?”

Rather than answering the question, he pulls
me tighter to him and sighs. “When I was eight, my dad lost his
job. And it was a good job. He was high up in some lending company,
sort of like a bank. We always had money. Mom and Dad both came
from money, so it was expected we’d stay that way. Well, shit
happens. People lose their jobs every day, but my dad started
drinking. A lot. There’s not a memory I have that doesn’t include
him drunk as fuck or lying somewhere in his own vomit. He’d been
drinking all day. It was my birthday and I was working on my bike
in the garage. Dad comes down and…”

He stiffens and I know something’s
happening.

I raise my head to look up at him. His brows
are furrowed and his eyes vacant.

My heart races. I’m suddenly scared.

Putting my hand to his forehead, I ask
quietly, “Baby, talk to me. What’s happening here?”

“He was a bad man,” he whispers almost
childlike.

And my heart breaks.

Chapter Twenty-One
Memories

Eight years old…

“The fuck you think you’re doing, boy?” His
words sound funny. Like he’s falling asleep.

My stomach twists. I’m nervous.

He’s been drinking the brown stuff again. I
tried it once when he was sleeping outside. It’s not nice. It made
me cough a lot. My throat felt like it was burning. I didn’t like
it.

I tell him, “Fixing my chain, sir.”

He wobbles over, knocking things down on the
way. He looks funny. I try to hold my laugh but the smile breaks
free. He spits through slurred words, “You think this is funny? You
got grease everywhere. Who’s gonna clean this up?”

I nod and say, “I will, sir. As soon as I’m
done.”

“So I suppose you want me to say happy
birthday to you, son.” His tone is sharp. I avoid his eyes and keep
working on my bike chain. I don’t like him when he’s like this. I
try to hide the bottle or pour it down the sink, but he always
knows it’s me. I don’t like when he hits me. He grabs my arm and
yanks me forward, booming, “Look at me when I’m talking to you,
boy!”

My lip quivers as I look up at him. “Yes,
sir.”

Through gritted teeth, he says, “You were
the worst mistake of my life, Asher. I prayed to God that your
mother would have a miscarriage. I knew you’d be no good. I was
right. You’re just a bad seed. You’re nothing and you never will
be. Mark my words, boy. Aim low. So low that you can reach the
crumbs that drop on the ground. That’s all you’ll be. Scum crawling
on the floor. A beggar.”

Tears pour out of my eyes. When he notices,
he becomes aggravated. “Stop that, boy.”

But I can’t, I silently sob. I know he
doesn’t like the noise. With every hiccup I see his blood boil
hotter. A minute passes and he warns, “You don’t shut that mouth of
yours, you’re gonna get it.”

It makes me cry harder and shake. I’m
scared. When he stands and pulls up his sleeves, I want to scream
for help. I know it’s no use, though. Momma wouldn’t come. I close
my eyes and wait for the hit but it doesn’t come. Calming slightly,
I open my eyes and see his empty, cold eyes staring back at me. He
mutters, “I warned you.”

Then he steps forward, takes my arm and
bends it back at the elbow. I yell out and cry. It hurts so much.
He keeps bending. My body shakes like electricity runs through it.
The pain is so strong. I feel like I’m going to fall asleep. I
scream until my voice is hoarse. I hear it. I hear the snap.
Something in my body takes over and I don’t feel a thing
anymore.

I fall to the floor on my knees before
looking up at my dad through blurry eyes. I see his smirk. “That’ll
teach ya…little fucker…waste of space…fucking useless,” he
says.

He walks out of the garage and finally, I
sleep.

***

“I think he needs to go to the hospital,
honey.” Mom sits near me on my bed and bathes my forehead with a
cool towel.

I think I might burst into fire soon. I
don’t think I should be this hot. It feels like someone left me out
in the sun to bake.

Dad stands at the door glaring at my mom. He
says, “He’s fine. Always attention seeking.”

Mom looks down at me, her eyes sad. She
whispers, “We need to take him to the hospital. His fever spiked
last night and it’s not coming down, Robbie. He’s going to die if
we don’t do something.”

Dad straightens at the door and walks away
muttering, “Good riddance.”

***

Ten years old…

The rain pounds hard on the roof. It’s
always weather like this that makes it sore.

I rub the long six-inch scar on my left arm.
It twinges but I’m used to it.

The black eye he gave me last night holds
most of my attention anyways. When I walked in on him wailing on
mom, I lost it. Jumped on his back and tore him off of her. I know
it was a stupid thing to do, but mom loves him. Really loves him.
Why? I have no idea. He’s a shitty husband and a shittier
father.

I told him if he was gonna pick on anyone,
it would be me and I’d take it without a word.

I think I struck a deal with the devil. I
don’t care what you call it. I have to watch out for my mom. I love
her. She’s good to me. Always makes sure I’m okay and not hurt too
bad. She sneaks into my room at night and tells me how lucky we are
to have each other, that most families don’t have mothers and sons
that are as close as we are. I like when she hugs me and plays with
my hair.

I know she’s trying to make the situation
sound better than what it is, but that’s what moms do, right? As
long as she keeps looking after me, everything will be okay.

***

Twelve years old…

Coach saw the bruises yesterday. I told him
I got them when I went to my cousin’s farm last week. I think I was
pretty convincing, even though I don’t have any cousins or know
anyone who owns a farm. Coach looked at me for a long while.

Please don’t call my dad.

Shit. If he calls dad, I’ll get another
round tonight, and last time I stayed out to avoid it, he beat
mom.

“Come on, Coach. Don’t get me in trouble for
chasing the pigs,” I say.

Chuckling, Coach replies, “You’re a good
kid, Asher, but you’ve got to be more careful. You’re a great
addition to the team.”

Dad beat me that night anyways. He was
drinking again. He drinks all the time. He yells a lot, and when
he’s not yelling, he’s sleeping. He smells bad. I don’t think he’s
had a shower in months. I try to hold my breath when he’s near me
because the smell makes me want to throw up.

He got me good. Broke my nose. I’m getting
used to keeping painkillers in my school bag. I always take a few
before I come home, just in case. I’m nervous about going home
tonight. Last night was the first night he told me to fight back. I
think he was shocked when I did. Got him in the jaw a few times and
pushed him back into the bookcase.

As soon as he was down, I ran to my room. I
locked the door and jumped out of the window. I’d rather be out in
the rain than home with him.

Tomorrow I’ll quit baseball.

***

Thirteen years old…

“How many fucking times have I told you to
keep that shit down?”

I grit my teeth and shut my eyes tight. My
chest heaves and tears run out of the sides of my eyes. It hurts
more when you look at it. I hear my skin sizzle as he presses the
metal into my skin. This is his new favorite thing to do. Heating
anything metal and burning me with it. Tonight’s choice is a
fork.

As soon as the prongs touch me, I want to
scream loud and hard, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.
Besides, if I scream, he works harder. My body shakes. Shaking is
good. It means I’m not gonna pass out. I have to be careful when
the shaking stops. He knows it too. He waits and watches for
it.

His knee digs into me, holding me down to
the ground, and he touches me over and over with the heated prongs.
Never touching my arms, only my chest. He learnt a lesson from
breaking my arm. If people could see the scars, they’d ask
questions. He doesn’t want people to ask questions, so he avoids
the areas people can see. Every now and again he’ll punch me in the
face, but people believe anything my parents spout. A few of the
better excuses are ‘He’s a very active boy. Loves his sports’ and
‘Boys will be boys’, is an old favorite of my dad’s.

Blood roars in my ears.

The pain is almost unbearable. I don’t give
in though.

The thing about burns is that the healing is
just as painful as getting them in the first place. I think that’s
why he likes doing it so much. Doubling my pain.

Clenching my mouth shut, I have no choice
but to breathe in through my nose and the stink is so bad. I feel
the vomit climb my throat, but I swallow it down again.

If I vomit, he’ll make me eat it like last
time.

Mom sits in the corner of the room. She’s
empty. There’s nothing left of the sweet woman I loved. He makes
her watch, but she goes someplace he doesn’t know about. She
disappears inside her head and hums. I close my eyes and listen to
her. She hums one of the songs she used to sing to me when I was a
baby. This is her only form of comfort these days. He would punish
her for coming to see me at night, so she stopped. I’d like to say
I understand, but I don’t. Now I hate her as much as I hate
him.

I’m the child. She should be protecting me.
Not the other way round.

She’s weak. And I hate her.

***

Sixteen years old…

I don’t give a fuck about anyone or
anything. Let ‘em talk. I’m gonna leave here one day and things
will be better then. I kick the wired fence and push off to walk
away.

“Hey dipshit, your shirt’s ripped and you
stink.”

I look over to the jock and snigger,
“Jealous I’m gonna steal your girl, Chris?”

Chris’ face reddens. He’s not the best
looking guy, but he’s a jock, meaning he’s got some god-like status
in this fucking shithole of a school. He comes toward me, grips my
already-ripped shirt and sneers, “You’re gonna pay for that,
fucker.”

He has no idea how many times I’ve heard
that exact thing at home. It doesn’t scare me anymore.

I lean forward and whisper, “You have no
idea who you’re fucking with. I’ll shoot you three times in the
head and
still
make it look like an accident.”

For a few seconds he looks like he’s going
to let me go, but he and I both know that would make him look weak
in front of the others. He cocks his arm back and I sigh, “Make it
quick, shithead.”

Just then I feel someone by my side. Chris’
eyes widen and he steps back from me. A hand on my shoulder makes
me turn and I see this guy. I know this guy. Well, I don’t know him
but he’s one of
those
guys. The popular guys.

What the fuck is he doing?

Just as I’m about to tell him to fuck off,
he says, “You need a hand?”

And he isn’t talking shit. I’ve had enough
experiences with bad people to know this guy is actually asking if
I need help kicking this jock’s ass. Still unsure of him, I narrow
my eyes and shake my head.