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shook, as she tasted the sauce. “I don’t have to explain my reasoning to you. I love Dave and he deserves a good meal. He had a bad day at work today.”
    Well fuck me. Maybe I could get out of the house before he found out about my day. If I didn’t, who knew where I’d wake up in the morning? My guess would be the hospital .
      “Now get upstairs and change clothes.”
    “Whatever.” I mumbled under my breath.  
    I made my way to the top of the stairs and took a left down the hallway. My room was to the right, but the bathroom was on the opposite end of the hall. I wanted to shower first, thinking the warm water would ease the tension in my shoulders, that and my hand hurt where it had connected with Brandt’s face. Hot water had a way of curing pain that aspirin didn’t. That was a theory I was all too familiar with.  
    The bathroom was small, big enough to hold a shower, toilet, and sink. I painted it blue two weeks after we moved in. Every time I looked at the baby boy blue walls a smile spread across my lips. Dave screamed at the top of his lungs that night. He’d given me permission to paint the bathroom, but didn’t specify what color. I decided to find the most obnoxious color available. There were worse colors, but I still had to be able to use the bathroom without becoming nauseous.  
    As steam clouded the mirror I stripped off my wet clothes and tossed them in the small hamper under the sink. I stretched my arms over my head and grimaced in pain when my shoulder popped. The spot just below my ribs still hurt from the rounds Dave threw the night before.  
    Pots and pans clattered in the kitchen and I pulled a Green Day t-shirt over my head. If asked about my taste in music most people looked at me and thought with my small, but muscled arms and semi-chiseled abs I’d be a hard-core rocker. I didn’t bother correcting them. Instead, I kept my love of alternative music away from people. Not because it embarrassed me, but I didn’t want it taken away. At home Dave didn’t allow music to be played, something about it being a brainwashing technique. My theory fit more along the lines of control. Dave wanted complete control of everything that took place in his house.  
    Thanks to his issues, I had few things that were mine. Music was one of them. In Florida Mom let me set up an amp in the garage. For my sixteenth birthday she and Dad bought me a Fender Billy Corgan Strat.   Now, my most prized possession sat in the back corner of the closet, hidden from prying eyes. I’d lost my dad, my home, and my friends. No chance in hell I’d lose the Strat.  
    I ran my hand down the fret board, dreaming of the next time I’d get to play. When we moved from Florida mom promised the kids at school would want to get together to play. She knew Dave wouldn’t allow me to set up the amp and play. He made that clear the first time he visited our Florida home. All the fights at school weren’t helping gain friends, so I hadn’t played. It’d been six long months since their last vacation. The only time I’d risked pulling my baby from its hiding spot. My fingers ached at the reminder. The pick in my pocket burned a hole through my jeans.  
    Angry, frustrated, and suddenly lonely; I pulled my amp and guitar from the back of the closet and plugged it in. Dave wasn’t home yet, and I wanted to play. The first strums sent vibrations through my bones and a smile to my face.  
    “Luke.”  
    Mom’s voice pulled me from the escape the music gave me. I looked at the clock sitting next to my bed. The bright red numbers indicated I’d been playing for nearly an hour, so much for helping Mom.  
    I unplugged and set everything back in the closet until the next time then jogged back downstairs to help set the table for dinner.  

CHAPTER SIX

    The silence hanging over the dinner table made me nervous. Nerves combined with anger always ended badly, at least for me. My fingers clinched the fork tight enough that