Pink Shades of Words: Walk 2016 (13 page)

**TRIGGER WARNING...this novel contains non-explicit scenes of abuse. There is strong language throughout. Relinquished is intended for mature readers**

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About K.A. Hunter

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C
urrently, this author writes contemporary romance novels under her name, Kimi Flores and grittier romantic suspense stories under her pen name, K.A. Hunter.

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Connect with K.A. Hunter

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ou can finder her on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Pinterest. To keep up with the latest information on both K.A. Hunter and Kimi Flores novels, please sign up for her newsletter at:

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I
t was a year ago when my husband finally let me look for work.  Even though I hadn’t worked in over ten years, the Workforce Center helped me get a job at the local pharmacy, Harriman’s Drug Store.

After I’d started looking, my husband changed his mind, but I was already committed, and even though I’d cowered to him way too many times in the past, I’d made up my mind to move forward.  My daughter was older now and had lived with her dad for years, so I no longer had to defend her against my husband’s sometimes violent temper.  And something inside me had changed.  I was still somewhat submissive and willing to do whatever it took to keep him from exploding, but I had grown tired of being isolated from the rest of the world.  It was hard enough having seen my parents only three times in fifteen years since we’d moved across the state, but I was no longer able to function without friends and activities.  There was only so much housecleaning, cooking, and yardwork a woman could do—especially without the internet for entertainment.  I didn’t care that I would have to walk to work, and I didn’t care that I would have to be creative in terms of keeping up the house and meals.  I
needed
this.

When I got the call from Mr. Thorne, Harriman’s manager, I was actually surprised.  In spite of the fact that I’d done a mock interview with my career counselor at the Workforce Center, I knew I hadn’t been that good, and my interview with Mr. Thorne wasn’t great either.  I’d been
honest
but not good.

What would you say is your biggest weakness?

Umm...I don’t always stand up for myself.

Oh, geez, he had no idea.  I clammed up right then and there, knowing I shouldn’t say another word, because it wouldn’t help my case at all.  What I’d just admitted was bad enough.  I just smiled—feeling quite nervous—and then, unable to stop myself, I added to it. 
I’m working on that.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only interview question I blew.  I blocked out how I’d responded to
What do you hope to be doing in five years?
  I just remembered it was an equally dumb answer.

By some miracle, though, Mr. Thorne offered me the job.  He must have interviewed some real losers and desperately needed a cashier, because he called the next day and told me that, pending a drug test, I was being offered the job.  If I wanted it and my results came back clean, the job was mine.

Oh, yes, I wanted it.  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d wanted something so badly.

* * *

V
ince was a meat-and-potatoes man.  It was okay if I made them in a beef stew or a pot pie or even hamburgers and fries on occasion, but he wanted his goddamn meat and potatoes every night. 
If God hadn’t wanted us to eat meat and potatoes, they wouldn’t taste so good together.  Ain’t that right, sweetheart?

I’d been eating variations on the theme for fifteen years now and had long grown weary of the lack of variety, but I’d also, more recently, tired of making myself something different.  If I ate that something different in front of Vince, it would sometimes lead to words, so I usually ate before he came home if I wasn’t going to eat the dinner I made him.  I wasn’t sure why he cared what
I
ate, but asking him so I could solve the mystery wasn’t worth the argument sure to follow.

This night would be different, though, because I had something to tell him.  So I made him a ribeye (his favorite), medium (just the way he liked it), with a baked potato (and a second one in reserve), along with a salad and red wine.  But first a beer before dinner.  All favorites, all hot and ready to be served the moment he was ready.  As usual, he walked in the door before six o’clock, mumbled a cursory greeting as he walked past the kitchen, strode to the bathroom where he urinated and then washed up, using Lava soap.  Then I could hear his boots on the floor as he made his way to the bedroom where he took off his t-shirt and exchanged it for a clean one.  This was his normal routine.  After dinner—if things went well—he’d have another beer or two, settle in and either watch the football game or another show on television, then fall asleep in the chair (that depended on what he was watching and how much he’d had to drink) or shower and go to bed.  Also depending upon what he watched and how much he drank, we might have sex, although that happened less and less as the years went by...and I was okay with that too.

This evening would break the routine, though, and I could only hope his mood was decent.  This too was dependent upon other factors, namely his day.  If his day hadn’t gone well, things could be very, very bad...so I hoped that his day had been good.

“My, my, darlin’.  You have outdone yourself today.”  He sat at the table, not grabbing a beer out of the fridge when he saw the glass of wine on his side of the table.  “What did I do to deserve this?”

I smiled and picked up his plate so I could load it up with goodies fast.  There was already a bowl of salad on the table and a few bottles of dressing so he could choose whatever he liked and get started on it now.  There were also rolls in a bowl, and he grabbed one, slathering softened butter on it while I got the rest of the food together.  “You always deserve the best,” I said, not really paying attention to my words as I pulled the cast iron skillet out of the oven.  It had been keeping both flesh and starchy vegetable warm while awaiting my husband’s arrival, and I used a spatula to pick up his steak before sliding the thick slab of meat on the white plate.  Many a time I’d been tempted to stab the meat with a fork to pick it up, but I’d done that once and gotten a swollen cheek out of it.  That wouldn’t happen again. 
Never stab the meat,
he’d said. 
It will let all the juice out.
  Then I fetched a potato out of the oven with a mitt and set it on the plate, cutting a crisscross in it and then pushing the sides in so it fluffed up a bit, ready for him to top with butter and sour cream.

I brought his plate to the table, setting it in front of him.  Before I could turn back to the stove to get my food, he wrapped his hand around my wrist.  “What are you butterin’ me up for?”

He was no dummy, much as I wished he was.  I needed to fess up and quick.  Just get the shit over with, hope he wasn’t in too foul a mood, take my licks, and go to bed.  Any damage he caused should be over by the time the drug test returned positive results and I could go to work.  Or, if he was careful like he often tried to be, my bruises would be confined to areas not normally seen by ordinary people.  “Oh, well...I just—”  The words caught in my throat as I placed a second smaller steak on my plate before getting another baked potato out of the oven.  “I’ve been putting in some applications, and Harriman’s called me.”

There was a pause and I felt my throat constrict, the hair on the back of my neck stand on end, and my stomach clench.  I readied myself for whatever might come, but I knew that if I heard the chair scoot away from the table, I’d want to move away from the hot stove.  Cuts and bruises hurt enough without burns piled on.  The pause felt like forever, but he finally said, “Harriman’s Drug Store?  On Main Street?”

I swallowed past the monstrous lump in my throat, but I felt my breath finally release.  “Yeah.  I, uh—”

“That might be kinda nice, you bringin’ in a little money.  Just in time for Christmas, darlin’.”

Wow.  That had been easy.  Too easy.  Reactions like that always made me wonder when the other shoe was going to drop.

* * *

L
ess than a week later, Mr. Thorne was walking me through Harriman’s.  Old man Harriman was no longer the pharmacist, he explained, having retired several years earlier, but there were two pharmacists now on staff as well as several pharmacy technicians so they could keep up with the corporate drug stores coming to town.  I would be a second cashier.  There was also one stocker, because we weren’t just a pharmacy.  We sold over-the-counter medicine as well, cosmetics, and a few basic household supplies like paper plates and laundry soap.  There were also delivery drivers, which was probably the main thing that kept this pharmacy in business over the corporate big boys, because Harriman’s wasn’t open late, crazy hours like the other ones, but the big ones wouldn’t dream of delivering medicine when the townsfolk lined up for their better mousetrap.

Carol, the older cashier who was training me, explained that she was decreasing her hours as she got closer to retirement, which was the main reason why there’d been an opening.  “Once people start here, they stay.  Harriman’s is a great place to work.”  And I believed her.  I hadn’t been there but ten minutes and already felt welcome.

After half an hour, I saw him.  He was a handsome man about my age with dark hair and a solid frame, and he was stocking one of the shelves near the back.  When he saw me, he smiled and walked up to the cash registers.  “You must be Stephanie,” he said.  I smiled, feeling very shy, because it had been a long time since I’d spoken to a man other than my husband.  Well, that wasn’t
entirely
true.  After all, I went to the doctor from time to time and I’d had people help me when I shopped.  Not all of them were female.  But it had been quite some time before a man’s eyes had twinkled at me the way this man’s did—and I wasn’t sure how to react.  Before my mouth could form a reply, he put out his hand and said, “Arturo.”  I nodded then, my smile growing wider.  “A pleasure to meet you.”

When I found my voice, I replied, “Likewise.”

“You need anything, you ask me.  I’m always just a few steps away.”  He nodded and then turned away, walking back down the aisle to give his shelf more attention.

I felt immediately drawn to him, and I didn’t know why.  If Vince knew that I’d so much as
looked
at another man, my life—and the man’s—were in danger.  So I tried to pretend like my cheeks weren’t pink when Carol said, “Arturo’s been here about five years.  Really nice guy.”  A customer came to the register and she rang him up, took his money, gave him change, and then turned to me.  She had long since stopped training me, instead intent upon chattering.  “Arturo lost his wife several years ago and has been raising his sons on his own.  Such a sad story.”  I nodded but didn’t have anything to contribute.  Arturo’s life was none of my business.

But he kept looking up and smiling at me all day long.  I knew that might be a problem, and I wasn’t sure how to deal with it.

* * *

F
our days later, I was working the front register on my own and doing just fine.  On the domestic front, I’d gotten pretty good at making slow cooker meals on days when I’d be home later—things like the beef stew Vince liked so much, and he said he’d give a little (meaning he’d either wait a little later to eat dinner or serve himself out of the slow cooker), but no microwave meals.  That was okay.  I was learning to be innovative, and it didn’t hurt that there was a small section of magazines at Harriman’s and, when it was busy, I peeked at the women’s ones for meal inspiration.

I hadn’t been there a week and I was already catching myself looking at Arturo when A) he walked past me or worked in my vicinity and B) I wasn’t waiting on customers and I was sure I wouldn’t get caught.  I knew it was a dangerous game I was playing, but he had intrigued me with his quick smile and warm brown eyes.  I’d had it so shitty for so long, I’d almost forgotten hope.

But Arturo reminded me of that.

One day, I was stealing glances at him while he was helping a vendor with a delivery.  I learned quickly that we usually took deliveries through the back (and our delivery drivers used that door as well), but the side road was being repaired and so the alley had been blocked off for several days.  All deliveries were going in and out the front door.  And the vendor was having a hard time, because he had to park in the middle of Main Street.  The middle lane was a turning lane, yes, but he was having to walk his dolly back and forth through traffic.  Arturo, ever the nice guy, told the vendor he could stack the boxes just inside the store out of the way, and he’d take them the rest of the way back to the storeroom.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Thanks, man.  I owe you one.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

Less than half an hour later, Arturo was signing off on the delivery and fetching his own dolly out of the back.  I was helping customers, but soon I saw him lifting one box after another onto the dolly.

Heavy
boxes.

Boxes that made his biceps and veins bulge and his chest swell under the short-sleeve white shirts we had to wear.  I could see the definition, though, and it made me think of things I hadn’t pondered since my youth.

And that night, as my husband took me roughly as he often liked to do, I thought of Arturo.

* * *

H
alloween came and went, and—on the first day of November—all unsold candy from that holiday went on sale.  Half price.  Carol told me that Mr. Thorne always scanned it all and did a price change so it would ring up correctly on the register...but it didn’t always work that way.  Sometimes we’d have to do an override.

Well, I wasn’t very good at that, nor was I good at catching if a price was incorrect.  I hadn’t even been there two months and I was still learning the ropes.  The job often made me feel incompetent and I’d question myself, wondering why I wasn’t catching on faster.