I place Rocco aside carefully, and cross the yard at breakneck speed. Concrete scrapes the flesh from my knees as I slide to a stop beside them, screaming at the stranger to leave Dylan alone. He pauses, hand pinned over my husband’s throat, and stares at me.
What I find in his eyes scares the living shit out of me—more than Dylan ever has.
I see concern.
He never says a thing, the tall, dark stranger. He simply stands, scoops Rocco off the ground, and strides out our gate as if nothing untoward has gone down.
Like my husband isn’t passed out on the back path, his blood spattered around his head, and his eye already swollen shut.
Like I haven’t witnessed a miracle.
THE CHAIN rattles where the gate has slammed shut. My gaze bounces from the gate, to Dylan, to the gate again. My heart pines for Rocco, to know he’s safe, to check on him after being throttled so violently, but my gut overrides the indecision and reminds me the real trouble is here, in front of me.
The humid air feels thick in my throat as I lean down to inspect Dylan. He lies there, out cold, oblivious to the struggle I now wage over what to do with him. The last time I lifted something heavier than a laundry basket, I was young, much younger. Somehow I don’t think I’ll have much luck at getting 195 pounds of lax man inside on my own.
He’ll have to wake up.
A manic giggle passes my lips when the ridiculousness of the situation dawns on me. Here is my asshole of a husband, out cold, at my whim, and I’m still too afraid to slap him awake. I mean, the guy is completely at my mercy, and I can’t bring myself to think of a singular payback.
I’m still worried about being the dutiful wife.
Certifiable.
His lips twitch, and I shoot back to a safe distance. Last thing I need is a wayward fist striking me if he wakes up believing he’s still in the fight. A solid minute of nothing else, and I finally group enough courage together to give him a tap on the cheek with my toe. He stirs, and I repeat the gesture, rocketing back when his eyes shoot open—black as a shark’s.
“What the fuck, Jane?”
“You’re hurt, honey.”
“Well, no kidding,” he drawls. His eyes scan the yard. “Where is your fucking dog?”
I hold my hands out, pleading with him to stop as he moves to stand. “I need to get you inside so I can tend your injuries.”
“Not until I find that fucking mongrel.”
“He’s gone,” I say, instantly regretting the fact I may have given him a clue as to where. “He, um . . . he ran away when that guy started hurting you. I think he was scared. God, baby. I was scared.”
His hand pats the side of his face, and he winces, blood dripping from the crease of his lips. “Who was that anyway, Jane? Are you fucking the guy?” He groans, and rolls to his side.
“No!” I cry in panic. Jesus, no. Don’t think that. His level of punishment for that doesn’t bear thinking about.
“Then who the fuck was he?” Dylan bellows, pushing up to a sitting position.
I freeze on my haunches, begging him with my eyes. “I don’t know who he was, baby. I love you. Only you.” My shaking hand finds his jawbone, and I run a tentative thumb along his stubble.
He shakes my hand off, and sneers at my touch. “Love me, huh? Then how about fucking fixing up this mess on my face before I have any permanent damage.”
“Sure, baby.”
I stand with him, and he hobbles toward the house before me. We reach the back door, and I damn near slam into his back when he stops, and turns to address me with his arms blocking the doorway.
“Actually, Jane, given none of this would have happened if you didn’t have that dog, and given we don’t have a dog to sleep outside anymore, how about you stay out there for the night?”
The laundry door slams in my face, and the deadlock echoes through my skull. He’s locked me out. I know he won’t change his mind, but a part of my dazed stupor forces me to hang there, looking like an idiot, like a dog waiting to be let in.
I have a key hidden out front—one Dylan doesn’t know about—but using it would only give him reason to ask me how I got in. What would I say then? Tell him I put it there over a year ago, just in case he ever did lock me out? Given that crash I just heard sounded a lot like it could be the vase from our dresser, my guess is it would be better not to give him another reason to punish me.
My chin quivers at the abysmal predicament, yet I have no more tears. Somewhere in the garden shed there’s an old bush-shirt I can use as a blanket, and luckily we have removable cushions on our outdoor furniture.
I could do camping. I could make a negative into a positive.