Arrogant Bastard(16)

“I’ll have to look into transportation, but I think I can make that work.”

His brows furrow. “Got an old diesel Dodge in the back. Doesn’t run. Been meaning to fix it up myself and sell it. If you can get it running, it’s yours. You can work off the parts, if you need to. Just keep a running tab with Lib. Keys are in it.”

I’m not sure what I did to deserve such a karmic pay off, but I wholeheartedly accept.

I spend the next two hours running parts back and forth. The guys are friendly enough, but I’m not here to make friends. By seven, Rich says I can mess around with the Dodge for a bit, which is good because I have no other way to get home, and I’m not about to phone in any favors from Waverly.

I pop the hood and tinker around a bit, running back and forth from the shop floor and grabbing various tools and parts. Mostly new spark plugs and a battery get it running, but it sounds like a dying cow. It’s going to need a timing belt soon and a few other odds and ends, but it should get me back and forth for the next few days.

“Congratulations,” Rich says come eight o’clock. He hands me the title to the Dodge with his signature on it and shakes my hand. I get the feeling he’s taking pity on me. I don’t like the pity, but I’m not in a position to turn down the free truck.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now get on home, boy. I know Mark likes his kids home by a decent hour.”

I restrain myself from telling him I’m not one of Mark’s kids. I’m Kath’s son, biologically speaking, and I’m only passing through for a few months. Instead I bite my tongue, offer a nod, and climb up in my silver and blue truck.

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.