Live Out Loud

by Marie Meyer

  “I just got home from the grocery store and he was here. I’m scared, Thor.”

  “You fucking bitch!” I hear Dad’s slurred growl muffled in the background.

  Running a hand over my head, I pace the office. I am utterly fucking helpless here. Looking out the window, I see Doug under the CR-V hood, taking over where I left off. “Where are you? Are you in the car? Get the hell out of there, Ma!”

  All I hear is sobbing on the other end.

  And glass shattering.

  Fucking shit!

  “Raymond, no!” Mom shouts, still crying.

  “I’m coming, Mom.” I press end on the call and put the phone back on the charger, racing out of the office. I’ve got to get to her. “Wyatt. Doug,” I yell. “I’ve gotta go. My mom’s in trouble.” Without waiting for a response or an all clear to leave, I run to my car, digging my keys from the pocket of my coveralls. Wyatt can fire my ass for all I’m concerned. I’ve got to get to my mom.

  Driving like a bat out of hell, I speed down the highway, hoping no cops get in my way right now. Although, if one tailed me, it might not be a bad thing, I could lead him to my mom’s place. In my other pocket, I yank out my cell phone, fumbling to unlock it. Hitting Mom’s name in my contacts list, I slip the phone between my shoulder and ear, listening to it ring over and over again.

  No fucking answer.

  I tear it away from my ear and throw it onto the passenger seat, pounding out my frustration on the steering wheel. “Fuuuuuuuck!”

  Fifteen minutes later, I skid over the gravel, and pull up alongside her empty car. I’m not quite sure if I’m going to find my mother’s lifeless body in the parking lot of her apartment building. A cop car sits on the other side, blue and red lights flashing.

  My stomach drops, sending bile rising in my throat.

  Killing the engine, I step out of the car. The second my feet hit the ground, glass crunches under my boots. I survey the scene. Mom’s window is busted out and Dad’s truck is parked a few spaces down, but no sign of either of them.

  “Sir?” A deep voice calls from behind me. Whirling around, a cop approaches. “Are you a resident in this complex?”

  I shake my head. So many words pile up in my brain, but I can’t get them to come out of my mouth. What did that fucker do?

  “I’m sorry, sir, but if you’re not a resident, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “My mom.” I point to her car. “That’s her car.”

  “Your Linda Kline’s son?” the cop asks.

  I nod. “Where is she? Is she okay?”

  “Can I get your name, sir?”

  Ignoring the police officer, I bend down to peer into the broken driver’s side window of Mom’s Corolla. There’s blood and tufts of blond hair on the jagged pieces of glass still left in the frame. I round on the cop, needing some fucking answers. And if I don’t get them, I’m going to fucking lose it. “What happened?” I’m trying my damnedest to be respectful, but his lack of useful information is quickly becoming a thorn in my side.

  “I need your name and identification, sir. I cannot disclose any information until I can confirm your identity.”

  Fucking red-tape bullshit. “Thorin Kline.” Sticking a hand in my pocket, I pull out my wallet, yanking my driver’s license free. I hand it to Officer Protocol. “My mother, Linda Kline moved into this complex about nine months ago. That’s her car. I need to know if she’s all right.”

  The officer eyes my driver’s license, then me. My hair was longer in the picture, but other than that, my features haven’t changed much. With a nod, he hands back my ID. “A neighbor called when they heard shouting and glass breaking. According to the woman who phoned in the disturbance, an older man busted out Mrs. Kline’s window and attempted to drag her through it. When we arrived on the scene, the perp had already fled.”

  “Is she okay? I need to see her. Where is she?” Turning in circles my brain races over all the places she could be.

  “Your mom’s fine. She had some superficial cuts to her face and neck, and she was pretty shaken up. The paramedics took her to the hospital for observation.”

  Fuck me. This is bad. “Shit!” Shoving my license back into my wallet, I drop it in my pocket, and jog back to my car. I’ve got to get to the hospital. But, before I climb behind the wheel, I point down the row of cars. “That’s his truck. The beat-up Chevy.”

  “Wait, you know the man who did this?” Pulling his eyebrow low, an air of suspicion clouds his features.

  “Raymond Kline, my dad.” I slam the door shut and start the engine, not bothering to give the cop any other information. His name is enough. Find the bastard before I do. I won’t show him any mercy.

  *

  The bleached, fluorescent lights of the emergency room sting my eyes. Squinting against the brightness, I run over to the nurses’ desk, heart in my throat. “Was a woman brought in? Cuts and scrapes, maybe in shock?”

  “I need her name, sweetie,” the nurse says, lifting her warm, dark eyes off the computer screen to look at me. She has a comforting smile, too. She gets an A-plus for bedside manner, but I’m so keyed up right now, nothing can calm me down. I just want to find my mom.

  “Linda Kline. She was brought in about ten or fifteen minutes ago.”

  The nurse taps on her keyboard while I beat out an impatient rhythm on the counter. “A Linda Kline was brought in at 9:05.” She stares up at me, delivering the information.

  “Can I see her?” My patience is wearing thin. I don’t want to go off on this nice lady, but if I don’t get back there, I will.

  “I can only allow family in the exam rooms.” Still smiling sweetly, she blinks.

  I want to plant my fist through the fucking wall, but it’s hard to be angry with this woman. She’s just so nice. I rein in my anger. It’s not her I’m pissed at. I’ll have enough time to hunt down the fucking animal that did this to my mom, later. I have to make sure she’s all right, first. “I’m her son, Thorin Kline.”

  “Wonderful. She’s in exam room four. Go down the hall, make the first right, her room will be the fourth on the right.”

  I smack the counter, and for the first time in the last forty-five minutes, a smile blooms across my face. Fucking answers, finally. “Thanks.”

  Running down the hall, my boots clomp on the polished tile. I skid to a halt in front of her room, hesitant to go in. A fireball of anger and fear roils in my stomach. Knocking, I push open the door.

  Inside, Mom is lying on the small bed, her eyes closed. “Mom?” I whisper. The last thing I want to do is frighten her.

  Her eyes flutter open. It’s now that I get a good look at the aftermath of hurricane Raymond. Her cheeks are covered with scrapes, extending down her jaw, and onto her neck. Patches of dried blood run along her hairline, and a faint purple shadow is visible over her left eye.

  Pulling the chair over to her bed, I sit, fitting my hand beneath hers. “I’m here, Ma.”

  Guilt, hatred, fury, outrage, weakness, sorrow, all of them slash at my insides like the claws of a raptor, ripping me to shreds. I was too fucking late. He got to her. I couldn’t protect her.

  “Thor,” she croaks, her voice heavy. “I’m sorry, baby.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry about,” I growl, hating that she thinks this is her fault. She always does this, takes all the blame. Covers for him. “What happened?” No one’s been able to give me a straight answer.

  “I got home from the store and was unloading the groceries. He came up behind me. I dropped everything—the groceries, my purse, keys. I got away and ran back to my car. Locked myself inside. Luckily, I had my cell phone shoved in my back pocket. That’s when I called you. When you didn’t answer your cell, I called the shop.”

  “I’m here now. Sorry I didn’t get there sooner.” I brush my hand over her matted blond hair, careful to avoid the cuts at her hairline. “You gotta call the cops in situations like that, Ma. When you can’t get ahold of me, or I’m t
oo far away.”

  “I know. I just panicked. When he busted out my window, I didn’t know what to do. He punched me, grabbed handfuls of my hair…” She pauses for a second, breathing heavily. “Then he tried to pull me through the broken window. That’s when the cops got there.” She touches the cuts on her jaw, eyes glisten with unshed tears. “The jagged pieces in the frame cut me pretty bad. Doc says I’m going to need stiches for some of them.”

  “They’ll get you put back together.” It’s all I can say. “Just rest. I’m gonna go talk to the doctor. I’ll be right back.” I pat her hand and bend down, placing a kiss on her forehead.

  My hand poised on the door handle, Mom says, “Thor, my purse. I dropped it at my door. If he gets it…” her voice trails off at the thought of Dad getting his hands on the contents of her purse. Her life. Money, credit cards, license, keys. Everything.

  “Don’t worry, Ma. I’ll find it.” And so help me God, if he has her things, I will end him. Even if it means spending the rest of my life in prison for manslaughter, I will get her purse back. That piece of shit doesn’t deserve to draw another fucking breath.

  “And Thor”—she stares at me, one eye swollen shut—“promise me you won’t go looking for him. I don’t want you hurt or in trouble.”

  I hold my breath. Goddammit. She knew exactly what I had planned. Track the son of a bitch down and mess him the fuck up.

  “Promise me, Thor.” Her shout is strangled.

  “Yeah,” I growl, throwing open the door, anger burning up my insides.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Thor

  Harper: Just landed. It’s nice to be home.

  Thor: Come over. I need to see you.

  Harper: On my way!

  I lay my phone on the table beside my bed and plant my feet on the floor. Standing, I stretch, the sore muscles in my back scream in protest, and the knuckles on my hands have seen better days, but other than that, I’m no worse for the wear. Can’t say much for the speed bag I beat the shit out of this morning. Had to work out my aggression somehow. The cops recovered Mom’s purse with everything accounted for, but they still haven’t found Dad. They put a warrant out for his arrest and had his truck impounded. He can’t hide for long, especially since he has no ride. A small bit of karma coming to bite him in the ass, but not nearly enough in my opinion.

  But, most of all, I’m just glad Mom’s all right. A night in the hospital for observations and she’s back home, safe. After spending the better part of my day over at her place, installing a security system, the both of us will sleep easier, knowing he won’t be able to get to her without the whole fucking neighborhood hearing. And all the residents of hell; that system will wake the dead.

  Slipping on some jogging pants, I pick up the other clothes strewn across the floor. Don’t want Harper to think I’m a total slob, but in my defense, I’ve had a lot of shit to deal with in the last twenty-four hours.

  Damn, it’s gonna feel nice pulling her in my arms. I can almost smell the flowery shampoo she uses. I wish I knew more about flowers, so I could figure out which one it smells like.

  Tossing my dirty laundry in my closet, I slide the door closed. Out of sight, out of mind. I make quick work of stripping the bed, depositing my dirty sheets in the hamper in the bathroom. Pulling out clean sheets from the linen closet, I slip them over the mattress while visions of Harper spread out on top pop into my head. The only thing better is when my imagination has me climbing on top of her. Going to give her a proper “welcome home,” then I’ll take her out to Taco Bell, as promised.

  With my bed made, and no other domestic jobs that need attention, I pull Signing for Dummies off my nightstand and flip to a dog-eared page. As a surprise for her, I want to sign a whole phrase. Needless to say, I didn’t get much studying in last night, so I’ve got to cram now.

  “I missed you.” I practice it, touching my index finger to my chin and then point at my reflection in the mirror across the room. It’s an easy enough sign. I can remember this.

  “Glad you’re home.” I move my open palm up and down in front of my chest, point to my reflection again, and then sign “home” pinching my fingertips together, touching my cheek and moving my hand toward my ear.

  I repeat the two phrases over and over again, perfecting my fluidity. I love the way her face lights up when she watches me sign. I crave that light more than fucking cigarettes.

  Running through the phrases, I tack a third one on at the end, a little dirty talk. Watching that playful light in her eyes morph into something sexy will be well worth the time I spent scouring YouTube and Vine videos on dirty sign language.

  When I think I’ve got the hand movements down, I toss the book aside and grab my phone off the nightstand. Typing out a quick message, I hit send. Checking in. You okay?

  I wait for a response, hoping she has her phone nearby. Downstairs, there’s a knock at my door.

  Harper’s here.

  Like a giddy preteen boy with his first girlfriend, my heartbeat ratchets up a notch and a goofy smile spreads across my face. I feel like I’m eleven and a girl just said hello to me. I’m a bumbling idiot.

  Still no message from Mom.

  Dropping the phone on the bed, I head downstairs, fucking glad that I’ve got the place to myself tonight.

  There’s another knock, more forceful this time. Banging. Maybe it isn’t Harper. The cops? Did they find him?

  Picking up the pace, I get to the front door and tear it open. Harper’s standing on my porch, her arm raised in a fist, ready to pound again.

  Her wild, red curls stick out in every direction, the perfect accompaniment to the mischief dancing in her eyes. Despite the jacket and scarf she has on, my eyes roam over her body, remembering how every curve fits against me. I fucking missed the shit out of her.

  Lowering her hand, she circles her fist over her chest. “Sorry.” Sucking her bottom lip into her mouth, I want nothing more than to kiss that sheepish grin off her face.

  Grabbing the end of her scarf, I give it a swift yank, drawing her to me. My arms are around her waist, hands sliding toward her ass, as my lips find hers.

  I don’t hold back. I bend my head and kiss her deeply. It’s been too fucking long. I need her. With everything that’s happened with my mom, I need to get lost in her. Have her take away my pain, remind me what’s good in life.

  Harper returns my fervor with the same urgency, running her hands over my shoulders and down my shirtless back.

  Kneading her ass, I pull her against my erection, letting her know how much I missed her. Feeling her tongue lapping against mine, I’m not even sure I’m going to make it upstairs to the bed. I want to bury myself inside of her right here, against the fucking door.

  I take a step backward and let go of her waist to kick the door shut. I walk us forward until her back crashes into the door, and I slam into her. She gives a soundless gasp, and sucks my tongue into her mouth. I lengthen my body, pressing all of my hard edges against her soft peaks and valleys.

  Tearing at the scarf around her neck, I unknot it and yank it off. Kissing the corner of her mouth, I work my way over her jaw, and to the hollow at the base of her ear, getting in a good nip of her lobe while I’m at it.

  She smells fantastic. Flowers everywhere. Her scent blooms around me. I’m going to find out what kind of flower this is and buy bouquets by the dozens.

  “Fuck, Harper,” I moan, pulling her shirt down so I can taste the dip between her collarbones. She lifts her chest, her tits brushing against my chin. I didn’t think it was possible to get any harder, but I just did. My hips move against her, dick aching, ready to fuck. “I forgot how good you feel,” I say, my hands roaming beneath her shirt.

  I run my hands up her ribcage, moving north, filling my palms with her heavy tits. Through the lacy fabric of her bra, I rub circles over her nipples with my thumb, sealing my mouth over hers. Drawing her nipples into hard pebbles, her breath picks up, and I’ve got her panting, wantin
g more.

  She fits her hands into the waistband of my jogging pants and keeps going, slipping them beyond the boundary of my boxer briefs. While our tongues dance, her hands smooth over my backside, journeying to the front. Dear God, yes. “That’s it, baby, keep going.”

  The second her fingers graze the sides of my dick, my balls tighten and pull up, begging for more attention. She’s got me so keyed up. My speed bag workout this morning may have helped release a lot of my pent-up rage, but this fucking promises to set my world back on its axis. Make things right again.

  She wraps one hand around my dick and cups my balls with the other. I’m fucking dead. I wrench my hands from her shirt, slamming them against the door, pressing my forehead to hers, my eyes slide closed, absorbing every sensation.

  She pumps me. And I want to come right here and now.

  But, I put a heavy hand on my crotch, silently telling her to stop. As much as I want to take her against this door, I refuse to fuck Harper like I would have any of the faceless girls in my past. I want inside her head and heart, first. To find out how her weekend was, how things with her parents went, what’s her favorite place in New Hampshire, how many peanut butter cups she indulged in, and steal a kiss or two when she least expects it, because those are the best fucking kind. The sweetest.

  Harper, still gripping me, doesn’t move. Her eyes, like green lasers, try to get a read on the situation, scan my face for an answer as to why I stopped her. Lowering my left arm, I grip her right elbow and give it a gentle, upward tug. Please let go, Red. Two more seconds of you holding my cock and all my resolve will be shot to fucking hell. My dick throbs in her hand, loathing my brain with a passion.

  “Not like this.” I shake my head, and pull up on her arm again.

  She lets go, taking her hand out of my pants. I’m in for a serious case of blue balls. Fuck.

  “What’s wrong?” She signs, worry clouding her features. “You okay?”

  “Perfect. Now that you’re back.”

  She scrutinizes me, her eyes becoming slits. Taking her hand, I lead her to the couch, determined to give this gentlemanly thing a fucking chance. The raging hard-on in my pants has other notions, involving her pinned beneath me on said couch. Honestly, how serious of a conversation can we have if my dick is pitching a tent between us?