Lily (The Regulators Biker Series Book 0) Read online

  I forced my lungs to draw breath.

  The girls in the kitchen laughed and chatted non-stop. They were exchanging stories about their kids, their jobs and their social lives. I had none of the above, so I just listened and tried to nod and smile at the appropriate intervals. After finishing my margarita, I excused myself and looked for the powder room. My makeup needed repair and I needed a moment alone to work on my composure.

  After a few minutes of deep breathing, I headed back to the party. On my return trip to the kitchen, I noticed the study door standing open. The end wall was smattered with the mounted heads of dead animals recalling happier times. Below the heads were multiple glassed-in gun cabinets. Bob was a hunter.

  Not once during the evening did Matthew check on me. Not that I wanted him to—the farther away the better. He spent the entire time drinking and joking with his friends. It was a relief, of sorts, knowing I was temporarily safe from his brutality, protected by a crowd of strangers.

  When the party wound down, Matthew was so drunk I had to drive home. Marcy had taken the car keys out of his hand and given them to me over Matthew’s loud protests. He staggered towards the car shouting obscenities for all the neighbors to hear. Bob helped him into the passenger seat and closed the door.

  “I could have driven, bitch. You did that to embarrass me.”

  “Marcy thought it would be safer if I drove.”

  “Safer? With you driving? Bullshit!”

  With that, Matthew slumped down into the passenger seat and passed out, making the drive home pleasantly silent. As I pulled into the garage, he raised his head for a moment, gave me the stare of death and bashed his head into the window as he went down for the count. I laughed to myself as I got out of the car. Matthew could spend the night in the garage—it served him right.

  CHAPTER THREE

  WHEN I awoke alone in the king-sized bed, I chuckled at the thought of Matthew waking up in the car. He would not see the humor in it. This might be a tough day.

  I smiled as I donned my ripped Levi’s and pulled my black Springsteen concert shirt over my head. These clothes were my favorites and were reserved for my private time in the garden.

  I started the coffee maker and grabbed a yogurt from the fridge. I couldn’t go into the garage to get my pruning shears and gloves, so I scooped up some gardening magazines from a shelf in the kitchen and took them out to the patio table while I waited for the coffee. The morning sun was already warming the garden and my spirits as well.

  This morning what I needed most was a plan. A plan to leave Matthew.

  Matthew stuck his head out the window, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  “Portia. Breakfast.”

  I closed my magazine and hurried into the kitchen to cook his usual. “Won’t be a minute.”

  “Why did you leave me in the car, you stupid slut? You’re getting worse every day. I’m going to have to teach you a lesson.”

  Washing my hands under running water in the sink, I didn’t hear it coming. When his fist caught my upper arm, I heard the bone crack. Screaming in pain I staggered for the downstairs bathroom. I turned the lock on the door just as he caught up to me.

  “That’s it, Matthew,” I sobbed, “I’m leaving you. I can’t live like this one more day.”

  “Try it, bitch,” Matthew snarled through the door. “Leave me and I’ll hunt you down and kill you. I’ll find you no matter where you run.”

  My hands shook as I peered into the medicine cabinet. I found some extra strength pain killers left from the time I sprained my ankle tripping on the garden hose—that’s what I told the doctor in Emergency but Matthew had actually pushed me down the stairs. I swallowed four with a gulp of water, clutching my arm and crying while I sat on the toilet lid to think.

  I remained frozen in time until I heard him stumbling up the stairs. I unlocked the bathroom door and tiptoed into the kitchen. With a trembling hand, I picked up my purse and closed my fingers over my car keys to keep them from jingling. Slipping out the side door I headed to the garage.

  It was awkward and painful getting into the car and turning the key to start it, but using my left arm, I drove to the hospital. My shoulder throbbed when I turned corners. I wanted to scream but going alone was better than the alternative.

  After X-rays were taken, the doctor on call came into my treatment cubicle. He was tall, dark and cute enough to be a Chippendale in his off hours. His name tag read, Dr. Alexander.

  “You have a fractured humerus. How did this happen?” He asked with a frown.

  “I fell off a stool in the kitchen and hit my arm on the counter on the way down.” I hadn’t lied too much in my life up to this point, but practice made perfect.

  “Uh huh,” he mumbled. “I’m going to put the bone back in place and then immobilize your arm. Can you flex your wrist for me and try to extend your fingers.”

  I winced with the pain of it but tried to comply.

  “This is going to hurt.” He focused on the X-ray above my head and maneuvered the bone back into place.

  I held my breath. Ringing filled my ears and blackness crept near.

  “Breathe for me, Mrs. Talbot. In. Out. Come on, now, the worst is over. Now we’ll brace the fracture and give you a sling for support.”

  “Thanks,” I whispered as I exhaled.

  Doctor Alexander gave me a knowing glance as he put my arm into the sling. “I noticed on your chart that you’re no stranger to this Emergency room, Mrs. Talbot. Here’s a prescription for the pain, and here’s a number to call if you need to report anything or speak to anyone. Don’t think you’re doing yourself any favors by not doing so. Once the violence accelerates, you’re in real danger, my dear.”

  I nodded.

  “Make an appointment with your family doctor and have another X-ray in four weeks.”

  I forced a half smile and said, “I will. Thank you. I’ll be fine.”

  But would I? I had nowhere to go. I had to go home. What about Matthew?

  After the lengthy wait in emergency and a stop at the pharmacy, I arrived home around five in the afternoon. The kitchen resembled a bomb site. The counter was littered with empty liquor bottles, dirty glasses and spilled orange juice. I blew out a big breath of relief when Matthew wasn’t anywhere to be found on the main floor. I wasn’t in any shape to check the bedroom.

  I struggled for several minutes with the child proof cap on my prescription bottle, finally managing to extract two of the pills and swallow them. Pulling a blanket down from the closet shelf with my left hand, I lay on the living room sofa, closed my eyes and let the pills put me temporarily out of my misery.

  When I woke, the room was dark. It took me a moment to realize where I was. How long had I been sleeping? I listened. No sound from upstairs.

  He must have tied a good one on today.

  I retrieved a flashlight from under the sink and started skimming through my gardening magazines looking for an article I'd seen earlier this morning. At the time it had seemed unimportant. Now I needed to find it. My life depended on it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  DAWN was breaking and a faint gray shaft of light was peeking through the living room curtains when a sound from upstairs startled me. Matthew was stirring. The pain in my shoulder had kept me from sleeping soundly. I had dozed off and on throughout the night, but my broken body was crying out for solid sleep. Matthew would be livid realizing that I hadn’t come up to bed. Something I had never dared before.

  “Where the hell are you, bitch? He called from upstairs. “You can't hide from me.”

  I made my way into the kitchen without answering. I started the coffee maker, took another round of pain killers, and rummaged in the pantry for the pancake batter.

  Matthew’s mother had always made him pancakes and bacon on Sunday morning.

  And the last thing I wanted to do was break with tradition.

  I set the table with his mother’s Sunday best dishes and took the family silverware out
of the velvet lined case. Sometimes I created a lavish table setting when trying to make up to him for something unforgivable I had done. It had always cheered him in the past.

  In the center of his mother’s antique runner I placed a small vase of Lilly of the Valley picked from my backyard garden. The small bouquet filled the air in the dining room with a heavenly scent.

  “Breakfast is ready, Matthew,” I called up the stairs. The smell of bacon had no doubt reached him on the upper level, but he didn’t answer. I loaded the table with butter, syrup, blueberries and orange juice.

  It wasn’t too long before there was stumbling on the stairs. “Shit—I don’t have time to eat. I’m late for my tee time. Why didn’t you call me? You're worse than useless, Portia . . . worse than useless.” His voice trailed off as he stomped into the garage.

  “I did call you, Matthew. You must have been in the bathroom.” I said to no one in particular as he backed out the driveway. I exhaled and put my plan on hold for another day.

  After clearing up everything from the breakfast that never happened, I sat down with a coffee and tried to keep my emotions in check so that I could think. Crying was not going to solve my problem, although that’s all I wanted to do the last few weeks. I jumped when the phone rang.

  “Did Matthew go golfing?” Marcy was whispering.

  “Yes, he left a while ago. What’s up?”

  “We need to talk. Can I pop by tomorrow morning for an hour?”

  “Sure, I could use the company,” I said. “You can come over now, if it’s urgent.”

  “Can’t get away right now,” she whispered and hung up.

  My hands were shaking as I put the roast in the oven for dinner. I didn’t know if Matthew was coming in time for the evening meal, but if the food wasn’t ready it would be my funeral.

  Possibly literally.

  Around six he blasted through the door and gave me a peck on the cheek. “What’s for dinner, baby?” He slurred.

  “Roast beef,” I said, “how was golf?”

  “Won fifty bucks from Bob—that prick couldn’t sink a putt if his life depended on it.” He snickered.

  “Good for you,” I tried to sound pleased.

  I served dinner and cleaned up afterward. Matthew made himself a drink and adjourned to the living room to watch CNN. When he was soundly sleeping on the sofa, I tiptoed up to bed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MARCY arrived at ten. Though the morning temperature had skyrocketed into the eighties, she was sweating it out in jeans and a long sleeved turtleneck. As I ushered her in, she handed me the casserole she had brought and pulled up the collar of her sweater, hiding a patch of bluish purple on her neck. Portions of her face were covered with a thick coating of liquid makeup, but I pretended not to notice.

  “I made you some comfort food for later,” she said as she sat down at the dining room table. I thanked her, carried the casserole into the kitchen and fixed a tray with fresh coffee and warm muffins.

  “Oh, that smells heavenly. I didn’t have time for breakfast,” she said.

  We munched on our muffins and chatted about the weather, the sale at The Bay, Marcy’s new living room drapes and everything but what she came to discuss. I didn’t know how to get her to open up to me, so I took a leap and threw it out there.

  “I’m trying to figure out how to make a new life for myself without Matthew. He blames me every day for ruining his life.” I sucked in a breath, “I want to leave him.”

  Marcy inhaled sharply and her hands shook as she placed her coffee cup on the tray. “I was sure Matthew was abusing you, Portia. I’ve seen your bruises and the way that he treats you—now you have a broken arm.” She pointed at my sling. “I recognized the signs and guessed you couldn’t talk about it anymore than I could. I’m all out of options and I’m thinking about going to a support group.” Her voice cracked and she whimpered, “I am such a mess, could you possibly go with me?”

  “A support group. Not something I was considering, but of course, I’ll go with you,” I said, “I had my suspicions about Bob. Has his drinking increased?”

  “He’s been angry about something the past few months and there is nothing I can do to placate him. He says it’s business, but he’s never been this undone over work issues. More is going on with him, but he never confides in me. I’m in the dark.”

  “Maybe we’ll find a way out at the group meeting,” I said. “When is it?”

  “They meet at seven every Tuesday at the YMCA.”

  “Won’t Bob wonder where you are?”

  “No. Bob has a poker game every Tuesday. I’ll be back before he comes home. What will you tell Matthew?”

  “Umm . . . I’ll say I’m taking another cooking class. He makes me go to those every now and then when he thinks my cooking isn’t up to par with his Mother’s.”

  Marcy smiled, “Thanks so much. This means a lot to me. I should go.”

  “Have a quick tour of my garden first. The spring flowers are just starting to bloom.”

  After a short walk through the yard, Marcy smiled, and I noticed the tension release from her shoulders.

  “What a beautiful bed of lily of the valley. It fills that whole back corner, and the fragrance is so delicate. I could stand here and inhale that scent all day,” she said.

  “My favorite. It spreads like wildfire. I can give you a few roots if you like.”

  “Oh, I would love some. I have a perfect shady spot for it.”

  I dug up three plants, wrapped them in damp paper towels in the kitchen and zipped them into a plastic bag.

  “Thanks so much, Portia. You made me feel a lot better.”

  I walked her to the front door, “I’ll pick you up at six thirty tomorrow night. Thanks again for the casserole.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  MY hands shook as I set the table for Matthew’s dinner. The shepherd’s pie was sitting ready in the warm oven. I finished the salad and left it on the table covered in plastic wrap with a note telling him where I was. I opened the fridge to grab the salad dressing when the phone rang.

  “Checking to make sure we’re still on for tonight,” Marcy said in a whisper.

  “I’m almost ready. Why are you whispering?”

  “Bob is upstairs changing his clothes for poker night.”

  “I’m leaving shortly.” I dashed upstairs to change, took my pain meds, sucked in several deep breaths, grabbed my purse and keys and drove to the west end of the city to pick her up.

  It was ten of seven when I pulled into the Winterstein’s driveway and saw no sign of Bob’s vehicle. Marcy was dressed in black slacks and a frilly yellow shirt, but she was hesitant at the door.

  “What if Bob finds out I went to this meeting?”

  “He won’t find out unless you tell him, girl. We certainly don’t have to go unless you’re absolutely sure you want to. You can change your mind right now.”

  “I do want to go,” she said as she got into the Jeep. “Support is what I desperately need. My own family is so far away in North Bay.”

  THE meeting was held in a small, poorly lit, musty smelling room at the west end YMCA. There was seating set up for about thirty people, but half the seats were empty. Marcy was nervous and objected to sitting close to the front. We sat in the back row on folding chairs to observe. I was surprised to see how normal everyone looked. I guess I was expecting to see bruises, black eyes and bandages everywhere in the crowd. I almost felt out of place with my arm in a sling.

  “I don’t want to say anything,” whispered Marcy, “I just want to listen.”

  “Fine with me—I don’t want to say anything either.”

  A tall, older woman, perhaps in her late fifties, strode to the front of the room and introduced herself. She was dressed casually in a black skirt, beige sweater and low heeled shoes. She reminded me of the librarian at my high school.

  “My name is Mae Julianne and I thank you all for coming,” she said softly. “I know for some of you, coming
here for the first time tonight is a huge step to take, and I know you’re frightened.”

  After a short recap of her life as an abused wife, she focused on how she turned her life around and now tried to empower other women do the same.

  “Do we have a volunteer for our first speaker?”

  “I’ll start.” A tiny girl with short, jet black hair stood up and slowly made her way to the front of the room. She was wearing torn jeans and a hoody over a white short-sleeved T-shirt. Standing at the front, she slid off her sweater and exposed the black and blue blotches on her scrawny arms. The left side of her face was bruised and her left eye swollen shut. I gasped, and Marcy took my hand.

  “My name is Darlene, and I’m abused. I’ve lived with my boyfriend, Doug, for seven years and we have four kids. After he lost his job at GM, we managed on unemployment and my Walmart paycheck while he looked for another job without any luck. Now he’s stopped looking for work. He says nobody is going to hire him, so why bother. He spends his days lying on the couch, at the race track, drinking in a bar or doing drugs. He gambles away what welfare money we have and drinks the rest.”

  She paused and took a deep breath before she continued. “This week he beat heavy on our oldest son, Nathan—gave him a broken arm and a bloody nose. Told him he deserved it. When I told him, I was taking the kids and leaving, he grabbed hold of my neck and choked me. Said he would finish the job if I mentioned leaving him again.” She lifted her chin to show the bruises on her neck.

  The room was silent.

  Mae helped Darlene back to her seat. Marcy looked at me, her blue eyes full of tears. “Let’s go, Portia, I can’t take any more of this.”

  I fumbled in my purse for tissues and we both wiped our eyes on the way out of the room.

  “Do you want to stop for a drink or something to eat?”

  “No thanks, I think I’ll just go home. I feel so bad for those people,” her voice cracked. “I should get into the house and change before Bob gets back.”