Protect Me: Oakville Series:Book Three (5 page)

T
HE PAST
two months have been pure hell. I never know which Ray is going to walk through the front door. Will it be the sweet, gentle Ray I fell in love with, or the cold, abusive Ray? After the first time he hurt me, he begged me to forgive him. He swore he’d never do it again. I wanted to believe him, but honestly, deep down, I knew it would happen again. And he didn’t disappoint.

Two weeks later, he came home later than normal without letting me know. As a result, his dinner was cold. When I tried to explain that if he had just called me to let me know he was going to be late, I could’ve kept it warm, he got angry. Really angry. That beating was worse than the one before. The next one came just a week later, over the type of bread I purchased from the grocery store. Now they come at least two to three times a week and no longer does he feel the need to give me a reason.

I haven’t been able to go back to Worthington House since the first beating. How could I explain the numerous bruises all over my face? As soon as they go away, he adds them right back, as if he knows they will keep me contained at home. No matter what I do, it’s never good enough for him. Every time it happens, I just want to run. Run far away where he can never hurt me again. But…how? My name is on nothing. I have no credit cards, no bank account. I have no job. Ray used to give me enough cash each week to buy groceries, but lately, he’s started going with me on Saturdays. I’m starting to feel like a prisoner in my own home. Ray controls everything. Even if I had the nerve to leave, I have no means to do so. My car suddenly broke down and Ray hasn’t found the time to take it to the mechanic.

I stand in front of the mirror, trying my damnedest to cover up all the various stages of bruising blanket my face. It’s no use. There are too many. Some black and blue. Some a dark purple. Some a yellowish-green. There’s just not enough make-up in the world to help the mess that is my face. Tonight, his parents are coming for dinner. Raymond Senior and Gianna have always been nice to me and they seem to like me. How am I going to explain away all of these bruises if they ask? Why would he want them to come over knowing they’ll see me this way? Do they have any idea what their son is capable of? If they did, would they help me? Or maybe they already know and that’s why he doesn’t care.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention when I hear him enter our bedroom. My heart beats at a frantic pace as I scramble to think if there’s something I could’ve done to set him off again. He enters the bathroom all smiles. For now, it seems he’s the Ray I married. Walking up behind me, he slides his arms around my waist and nuzzles my neck. I pray for him to be in these moods, but his touch causes my stomach to turn. I try not to let my disgust show. I try to avoid anything that will surely send him into a rage.

“You need to finish getting dressed. My parents will be here very soon. Besides, if you put on any more make-up, you’re gonna look like a fucking hooker,” he says sweetly, as if he hadn’t just insulted me. Still attempting to keep the peace, I don’t react.

“I’m all finished. I’ll go make sure everything’s set for dinner, if that’s okay?” Asking him for permission makes me want to vomit, but I’ve learned it makes him happy. This time is no different. He pats me on the ass, sending me toward the door.

“That’s a good idea. Take out the good bottle of whiskey, would ya? It’s my dad’s favorite,” he yells to me. Chills run down my spine at the thought of what things will be like when we’re alone later after he’s been drinking. There’s no way I’ll get through the night without another beating. I just pray to God he’ll be too tired to make it a long one.

For dinner, I’ve made Chicken Parmesan over spaghetti with salad and garlic bread. For dessert, homemade Tiramisu. I have a lot of time on my hands so I’ve watched a shit ton of the Food Network. I’ve gotten very good at cooking; it’s just too bad I’m usually too nervous to really enjoy anything I eat. I double-check the table to make sure it’s set perfectly and wait until I hear them pull up in the driveway before I start to lay the food out on the table. I make sure to place the whiskey between Ray and his father’s spot at the table. I’ve chilled a nice bottle of wine for Gianna and I — at least he still allows me to have a glass or two with dinner.

As soon as I finish placing everything on the table, Ray and his parents walk into the dining room. Gianna wraps me in a tight hug. When she breaks away, I see sympathy and recollection flash in her eyes. It’s as if she knows exactly what I’m going through because she’s been there. I can’t picture Raymond being anything like his son. That is…until he sees me. A proud papa smile spreads across his face when he looks at his son. It takes everything in me not to throw up right there in the middle of my dining room.

“Holly, this all looks amazing. You’re turning into quite the cook, dear,” Gianna beams, trying to take my attention away from her husband. Things make a hell of a lot more sense now. I see why he wasn’t worried about inviting them over. He learned everything he knows from his father. So, of course, neither one of them will say a word — his mother too afraid, his father too proud.

“Thank you, Mom. I want to make sure I have a happy husband,” I say, trying to sound sincere with a smile on my face. It must work because Ray has a smile on his face. “Shall we all sit before it gets cold?” I ask, looking to the men for approval. They both nod and lead us to our chairs. Raymond pours two very full glasses of whiskey for Ray and himself. Ray opens the bottle of wine and pours a glass for his mother and me. If I drink it slow enough, he’ll allow me to have a second glass. While the men begin to talk shop, I try to think of anything to say to Gianna just to make conversation.

“Mom, maybe one day we can get together and do a little shopping and have lunch,” I suggest. I hear a fork fall against a plate and look up to see Gianna’s mouth wide open and her face full of fear. Confused, I glance over to Ray and his father, who are both fuming. What the hell did I say?

“Looks like you haven’t taught her enough yet, son. She needs to learn her place is at home and not out running the roads spending money that isn’t hers,” Raymond sneers.
He can’t be serious.
“Do I need to show you how it’s done or do you think you can handle it?” He wouldn’t dare let his father touch me. Ray finishes the rest of the whiskey in his glass before answering.

“I’m perfectly capable of handling my own wife,” Ray states as he grips my arm tight and yanks me to my feet.
Oh, God! He’s going to do this now! In front of his parents.
I look to Gianna, hoping she’ll do something to stop this, but her eyes are trained on her lap like a good little girl. Ray pulls me to the living room, still in view of his father.

“You are gonna pay for embarrassing me in front of my father,” he hisses just before he slams his fist into the side of my head. I fall back, landing on the glass coffee table and shattering it into a million pieces. A small whimper escapes my lips as pain shoots through my back, the tiny shards of glass causing warm blood to run down my skin. When I open my eyes, Ray is above me. He grabs my head, lifting it just to crash against the hardwood floor. My ears begin to ring and my sight blurs. He continues slamming my head into the floor, over and over, until my body goes limp and darkness finally takes over.

I wake up to the sound of beeping. When I try to open my eyes, pain shoots through my head. Only one eye will open. As soon as my eye adjusts to the dim light, I realize I’m in the hospital. My pulse quickens, as does the beeping. Who brought me here? In that moment, the door opens and Ray walks in, followed by a doctor.

“Holly, I’m so happy you’re awake. I’ve been so worried,” Ray says as he squeezes my hand a little too tightly.

“What happened?” I whisper. God, I hope that wasn’t the wrong thing to say, but how else will I know what Ray has told them? When the doctor glances down at his chart, Ray gives me a reassuring smile, letting me know I’ve done the right thing.

“You were taking your walk after dinner, like you always do, but you were gone longer than usual. I started to get worried and went to look for you. I found you unconscious on the sidewalk,” Ray responds.

“I remember leaving to go on my walk, but nothing after that,” I say, hoping this whole story is somewhat believable. If it’s not, I’ll be the one Ray blames. Thankfully, the doctor doesn’t seem to disbelieve what he’s being told.

“The police said your phone was missing, so it was most likely a mugging, Mrs. Marconi. You’ve sustained severe head trauma so not remembering isn’t uncommon. I’ll give you both some privacy. I’ll be back later to see how you’re doing,” the doctor says before walking out. As soon as the door closes, I feel nauseous. Being alone with Ray frightens me. Not that being with other people did me any good either. What the hell did I get myself into?

“I’m sorry I let myself get so out of control. I didn’t mean to hurt you as badly as I did. I love you so much. You know that, don’t you?” Ray pleads. Not ‘I’m sorry I hurt you at all’, which is what he should be saying. He truly thinks what he does is okay and I will never be able to convince him otherwise. I just need to face the fact that this is my life and I have to deal with it.

“I know, Ray. I love you, too,” I tell him, trying to sound as sincere as possible. Ray doesn’t leave my side for the three days I’m in the hospital. The people around us see a loving and doting husband who’s worried about his wife. But they have it all wrong. He’s guarding his prisoner. Making sure I don’t tell anyone what goes on behind closed doors. Or, even worse, make my escape. I have a sinking feeling that my only escape from his torture will be the day he loses all control, the day I skip the hospital bed and head straight to the pine box. That will be the only way he lets me go.

“D
AMN IT
!” I shout as I throw my phone down. It’s been two months since I left and I’ve been leaving my mom messages for weeks. I just want to hear her voice. To hear she’s okay. I never should have left without her. What kind of son leaves his mother alone with a monster?

The night I left, I started running. I didn’t know where I was going, or how I was getting there, I just ran. And before I knew it, I was in Reggie’s driveway, fifteen blocks away from my house. Reggie and I have been best friends since third grade and I’ve basically lived at his house all these years. His family is great — the total opposite of mine. They never ask me questions about my home life, even though I’m sure they have some idea of what goes on. All the bruises and broken bones over the years are pretty much a dead giveaway; there are only so many excuses a kid can use to explain them away.

When I showed up on Reggie’s doorstep and explained what had happened, his parents told me I was welcome to stay as long as I wanted, to consider this my home from now on. I have to admit, it really is nice to go to bed at night without worrying about what might happen as soon as you close your eyes. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m not living every second in constant fear. I finally feel safe and even a little happy. I wish my mom knew how it felt to be safe and happy.