Weather the Storm (Southern Roots Book 3)

by LK Farlow

  My phone vibrates in the cup holder of the rental car I’m driving. After getting pulled over and served a protection order against my own wife, I knew I had to get smarter. The buzzing noise continues for a few more seconds before blissful silence fills the void around me once again.

  Putting my binoculars back in place, I watch as another man puts his arms around what’s mine. I watch as she leans into him, holding on for dear life. Pathetic—women are all so damn pathetic.

  It’s like my father always said: Women and dogs are all the same. With proper training and a strong hand, they can learn to behave well enough that pedigree can be overlooked. His words served me well up until the day my cunt of a wife broke her chain and ran away.

  She hid exceptionally well at first, but I knew she’d fuck up and I’d find her; thank God she was stupid enough to use the health insurance I pay for. One measly phone call to the company and her number and address were mine.

  Begrudgingly, I’ll admit that she made it longer than I thought she would. Guess some of her trailer-trash street smarts must’ve kicked in, because God knows she’s as dumb as a box of rocks.

  I take that back.

  When we met, she was eager and bright and full of spirit. I took great joy in watching her break. I wore her down over time, dulling her shine until she fit the exact mold I required. A vessel…a trinket…a toy for me to play with and put away—and most importantly, she would give me an heir, someone to carry on the Ellington name.

  Except, she couldn’t even manage to do that. So. Fucking. Useless. All the same, she’s mine, and through my carelessness, she was able to escape.

  My phone vibrates again, and I lower my binoculars to glance at the screen, sighing irritably at the sight of Mary Katherine’s name. Jabbing the green answer button, I bring the phone to my ear.

  “What?”

  “Hi, Eddie,” she practically coos into the phone. Like I said, pathetic.

  Not in the mood for her bullshit, I reiterate my single-word greeting. “What?”

  “I wanted to let you know I missed you.”

  I drag a hand over my face and sigh. “Good for you.”

  “Oh, Eddie, don’t be like that.” Her voice is tinged with hurt, and it makes my heart race. The need to crush her sends an illicit thrill through my veins.

  “You sound desperate.”

  She sniffles, and my smile ratchets up another notch, almost taking my mind off the whore who shares my last name. “Eddie…”

  “Mary Katherine,” I mock back before softening my tone. The trick is knowing when to pull back. “Sweetheart, don’t cry. I’ll tell you what, when my business trip wraps up, I’ll come straight to you.”

  “Really?”

  I roll my eyes at how needy she sounds. I mean, my God. I let her come down and visit barely a month ago. “Really. Now, you’d better go on to sleep. You know how much you need your beauty sleep.”

  “Right…of course. I love you, Eddie.”

  “I’m sure you do,” I murmur, ending the call.

  I return to my post, binoculars pressed to the bridge of my nose just in time to see my wife and her friends leave the building.

  Stupid woman.

  She thought a piece of paper would keep her safe from me? I’ll say it again, slowly this time: pa-the-tic.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  MAGNOLIA

  It’s been a week since Grant busted out the salon window, and it’s also been a week since texts from the number with the 617 area code we initially believed to be a mistake have started coming in daily.

  Each message only ever contains one word—a different word each time, but just one, nevertheless.

  The first one came the night of the window: Mine.

  The subsequent messages have been along the same vein, things like idiot, whore, cunt, and so on. I told Simon the first time it happened, and I thought he was going to go postal. He was crazed and manic, pacing and roaring like a caged animal, but the minute he saw how badly he was scaring me, he reined it in and held me in his big, strong arms.

  I wanted to block the number, but Simon made the point that if we leave it and ignore him, maybe it will draw him out or cause him to send something self-incriminating, something that proves it’s him. I was on the fence about that plan, but my appointed victim advocate agreed with Simon. Just to be safe, we made sure the police were aware of the situation.

  We even tried Googling the number, but all we found out was that it was a cell phone—duh—and a prepaid one, no less, which explains the Boston area code.

  That brings us to today. Simon and I are on our way to get a prepaid phone for me so I have a way to communicate without having to look at the messages from Grant.

  Simon cruises through the Target parking lot until he finds a nice, shady spot to park in. “C’mon, pretty girl, let’s get you a phone.” He hops down from the truck and races around to my side to help me down.

  I don’t care what anyone says, chivalry will always be sexy.

  “You wanna stop and get a pretzel to share?” he asks, like he read my mind.

  I tilt my head up to him and bat my lashes. “Yes, p-please. Cinnamon sugar?”

  “Works for me.”

  We detour to the café, and Simon orders our pretzel and a large Icee for us to share. While he fixes our Icee—half blue raspberry, half cherry—I secure us a little two-seater table. Simon plops down across from me right as the cashier walks our pretzel over.

  I watch as Simon breaks off a piece and tosses it in his mouth. Smirking, he licks the sweet cinnamon butter from his fingers. “Sweet, like you.” He groans quietly, and I swear, I almost die.

  After we finish off the pretzel, Simon grabs us a buggy while I snag one of the cup holders and a buggy wipe. With a clean handle and our Icee perched on the side of the cart, we work our way back to electronics, stopping in the dollar spot, the office supply section—for Simon—and the makeup section—for me, of course.

  By the time we roll back to electronics, our buggy is half full, most of it impulse purchases. We scan the stock of prepaid phones and settle on a cheap little Samsung. It doesn’t have all the bells and whistles, but it has enough.

  I start to head toward checkout, but Simon drops a hand to my shoulder. “Mind if we look at one more thing?”

  “Of c-course not.”

  “Great.” Pushing the buggy, he heads over to the home section, stopping dead center in the main aisle. He grips the cart handle so hard his knuckles turn white from the pressure…releases…grips again.

  Gingerly, I lay my right hand on his arm. “Simon, are you o-okay?”

  Instead of telling me he’s okay, he says, “Don’t freak out, okay?” Right, because when in the history of the universe have those words ever kept someone cool, calm, and collected?

  Regardless, I steel my nerves. While I hope he’s not about to dump me, I know I’ll survive it if he does—after all, I’ve been to hell and back.

  “You’ve been staying with me for a while now,” he starts.

  Oh God. He’s about to ask me to move out. “I…I c-can start l-looking for—”

  He presses his index finger to my lips, silencing my nervous babble. “Why don’t you let me finish, pretty girl?” Not trusting myself to speak, I nod. “As I was sayin’, you’ve been staying with me for a while, and we never really made any firm plans about our living arrangements, but I’d like to.

  “Having you in my space has transformed it from a house to a home, but I don’t want you in the guest room anymore—hell, you already sleep in my bed most nights, but I want you in my bed every night. I want your toothbrush on my vanity. I want your makeup cluttering my counter. I want your smell-good shit in my shower, and I want your clothes in my closet.”

  My eyes glaze over and I trip over my words. “Y-y-you d-do?” I feel dizzy. How is it that this man—this perfect, yummy, gorgeous, down-to-earth man who could have anyone—wants me?

  “Very much so. You know why I ca
ll you Goldilocks?” he asks, skimming his thumb across my cheekbone. I shake my head back and forth. “At first it was your hair, all sunshine and golden goodness, but now, it’s because you’re just right for me.”

  “O-okay, then. I l-love you, S-Simon.”

  “Love you too. Now, since you’ve agreed to call my home yours, I want you to pick out a few things for it. That way I see you in every room.”

  My heart melts. “R-really?”

  “Really.”

  Simon trails behind me as I wander up and down the aisles, adding a few throw pillows, a couple of picture frames, and a quilt for the bed into our buggy.

  We make our way to check out and bicker good-naturedly about who’s going to pay, finally agreeing to split it fifty-fifty. Out in the parking lot, Simon unlatches the gate to the bed of his truck, and we load our bags into the mesh net suspended from each side. I take the buggy to the cart return and head back, expecting to find him in the truck, getting it cooled down, except he’s not. I mean, the truck is running, but Simon is standing outside the passenger side door, waiting to open it for me and help me in. Such a gentleman.

  He drops a kiss to my forehead. “Wanna go home and break in that quilt?” he asks. So, not a total gentleman.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  SIMON

  That asshole still texts her phone every day. I’m talking without fail, on the dot, every day for the last two weeks. Dude is unhinged, but luckily, my girl isn’t too worried about him.

  Nah, she’s surrounded by too much friendship and love to let his crazy weigh her down, not to mention we’re only a few days out from the last day of school, which means our June trip to Lookout Mountain is on the horizon.

  Every day, Magnolia gets a little bolder, a little braver. She openly jokes with the girls, and her stutter is falling by the wayside too. I mean, it still pops up from time to time—especially when talking to strangers—but for the most part, it’s smooth sailing.

  Don’t let all that happiness fool you, though—we’re still cautious. I’ve gotten extra locks for all the doors at the house, an alarm system, and cameras. Magnolia and Seraphine still carpool to and from work, and the girls make sure she’s never at the salon alone. Drake and Cash do their part too, making sure to drive by and check on the salon at least once a day. Knowing Magnolia has all these people who love her and are looking out for her settles my soul—and hers too, I’d imagine.

  §

  Seated behind my desk, I address my first class of the day. “All right, world historians, I’m gonna be real with y’all: we have a whopping two days of school left, and I don’t want to work any more than y’all do. So, here’s the deal…those of you needing extra credit can help clean the classroom to receive it, and those of you passing with flying colors…yeah, y’all can clean too.” A resounding groan ripples through the classroom, causing my lips to tip up into a smile. “C’mon now, knock it off. I could be springing a last-minute quiz on y’all, but out of the kindness and goodness of my heart, I’m not. Nope. All I’m askin’ is for y’all to clean up the mess you helped make.”

  Like clockwork, Desi’s hand shoots into the air. Acknowledging her, I say, “Miss Reyes…”

  “Seriamente, Mr. M?”

  “Seriously, Desi.”

  “How is it fair for us to have to clean everything? Are your other classes helping? They made as much of the mess as we did!”

  I fight back my grin and nod my head at her, as if she’s just caused me to have an epiphany. “My goodness, you’re right. That’s not very fair, is it?” Desi nods, looking proud. “Which is why I’ve split the classroom into sections so each class has work to do. It’s like I’m a genius, right?”

  I smirk. Desi sulks.

  “With that said, y’all are gonna work on the bookshelves and taking down the bulletin boards.”

  “Tan ridiculo,” Desi mutters under her breath. So ridiculous.

  All the same, she gets to work with the rest of the class.

  §

  Finally, the last day of school is upon us. I’m up before my alarm, watching my girl sleep. I stretch lazily, the feeling of Magnolia wrapped around me begging me to stay put. A quick glance at the clock on my nightstand tells me I still have a good half hour before I need to be up—plenty of time for some early-morning lovemaking.

  I drag my hand up from where it’s resting on her hip, running it over the dip in her slim waist and over the side swell of her breast. She stirs in my arms, moving her body closer to mine. “Wake up, Goldilocks,” I say huskily into her ear. She moans softly, the sound traveling straight below my belt—you know, if I were wearing one.

  I press my lips to her neck, just below her ear, in an open-mouthed kiss before trailing a path down to her collarbone, which I nibble lightly. “Oh God, Simon.” Magnolia arches into me as she blinks her eyes open, letting me know she’s fully awake and wanting this as bad as me.

  But, still, I need the words. “I want you, pretty girl.”

  “Yes,” she hisses. “I want you too.” And that’s all it takes. I relieve her of the nightie she’s wearing, tossing it to the floor, my boxer briefs quickly joining.

  “My God, I love you,” I murmur, showing her how much with my hands and mouth before bringing us both home.

  Once we’re cleaned up and dressed, Magnolia walks me to the door, kissing me thoroughly. “Have a good day, Simon.”

  “I will. It’s a half day today, so I’ll come grab lunch with you, if you can swing it?”

  She beams at me. “That sounds amazing.” She kisses me once more before locking up after me.

  Jesus Christ, I love that woman.

  §

  MAGNOLIA

  The salon is pretty empty today, my appointments are few and far between. Myla Rose is out due to Brody being sick, and Azalea won’t be in until later. She and Drake went to some concert last night, and I have a feeling she’s slightly hungover. Thank God Seraphine’s here to keep me company.

  “Only two more haircuts and you’re done,” Seraphine singsongs as my third appointment of the day walks out the door.

  “Too bad I have t-two hours in between them,” I lament.

  “That’s true, but you have your man joining you for lunch, and we both know that’ll kill time.”

  Her words cause me to smile. With Simon being a teacher, he rarely gets to meet me for lunch, so to say I’m looking forward to our little date is an understatement.

  “Maybe I’ll call in an order at Dream Beans for some chicken salad sandwiches? I can grab them before he gets here.”

  “You know he loves their chicken salad.” Seraphine murmurs her agreement.

  Excited, I dial up the coffee shop and place my order. The barista tells me it will be ready in fifteen minutes, which is perfect, because Simon will be here in twenty.

  Seraphine and I kill time playing around on the internet, watching cat videos. When it’s time for me to run across the street, my cousin asks, “Do you want me to go with you?”

  I know she’s asking because of the possibility of Grant still being around. No one really wants me to be alone, but it’s just across the street. “Nah. Just watch from the window. I’ll be fine.”

  Seraphine hesitates. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely positive.”

  I can feel Seraphine’s eyes boring holes into my back as I skate across the street. I walk up to the beautiful industrial wood order counter. “Hey, hey,” the barista greets me. “Your order is almost ready.”

  “G-great. Can I add two iced coffees to it?” I ask, sucking my bottom lip between my teeth.

  “Sure thing. I’ll give you a holler when it’s ready.”

  I move off to the side so other patrons can order. The sound of my phone trilling in my purse distracts me. I slide it from the exterior pocket and see a text from Simon letting me know he’s running five minutes late. I shoot him a text back telling him that’s fine.

  “Magnolia!” the barista calls out. Thank
ing her, I collect my to-go bag and drink carrier. I exit the coffee shop and look both ways before crossing Main Street, which is unusually empty for this time of day.

  Something feels off, but before I can put my finger on it, there’s a hard blow to the back of my head and everything goes black.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  SIMON

  Even being a half day, the last day of school is shockingly exhausting. The kids are riled up and ready for break, and getting them to listen is about like herding cats. So, needless to say, I’m ready to see my girl and spend a bit of time lost in her.

  I pull my truck to a stop in front of Dream Beans and hop out. I check for traffic, and my eyes are immediately drawn to a takeout bag lying in the middle of the damn street, its contents scattered about. “I swear, some people just don’t care,” I mutter as I bend to pick up the mess.

  I stalk into the salon, agitated that some assclown left their trash in the middle of the road. As the door closes behind me, I catch the tail end of Seraphine’s phone call. “Yes, ma’am, I have you down for the sixth of June with Azalea. Yes, we do take credit cards. All right, thank you.” I snicker at her exasperated tone.

  She hangs up the phone and turns her icy glare on me. “You hush up, Simon McAllister.”

  Ignoring her reprimand, I toss the garbage I’m holding into the can under the desk and ask, “Where’s Magnolia?”

  “Oh, she…” Her words trail off and she glances down at the time on the computer screen before looking out the window.

  “Seraphine, where is Magnolia?”

  “She ran to Dream Beans to pick up lunch for y’all. She…she, um…hasn’t made it back.”

  Dread slithers down my spine. “How long ago?” I grit out.

  “Um, like ten or so minutes ago? I think…”

  “Alone? She went alone?”

  “She said she would be fine. I was keeping an on eye her through the window, but then the world’s most difficult client called.”

  I don’t wait for her to say anything else. I haul ass out of the salon, plowing across the street and into Dream Beans. Bypassing the two people waiting to order, I ask the girl behind the counter if she’s seen Magnolia.