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Prologue
Pipe
What would it be like to be with a woman that didn’t always say they loved you?
But showed you.
How would it feel to never hear the words I need you, but that they could convey that with one look?
Would it matter to her that I didn’t bring in six figures a year?
Did she really care about my socks never matching because I tossed them wherever they landed?
Or did she just shake her head and pick them up on her way to the laundry room? Or… did she just grab them and trash them?
Did she really care about my needs?
So much that she left dinner in the oven for me so it could keep warm?
Did she keep my favorite beer stocked?
Did she toss a towel in the dryer for me to use after a shower so I could be comfortable?
Would she recognize when I’ve had a bad day, walk up behind me, wrap her arms around me, and just be there for me?
How would it feel to finally have all of that?
“Pipe. Are you ready?” I cringed when my wife asked me that.
No, I wasn’t ready. I didn’t think I would ever be ready to be seen with her out in public again, not after the last time.
The last time? We were getting groceries. I had one cart for the things I wanted, and she had another cart for the things she wanted. Apparently, because they didn’t have her favorite brand of chips that cost eight dollars a freaking bag, she threw a tantrum right there in the middle of the store. And then I had to hear about going to that certain store because I was tired from a run helping another club and didn’t want to travel over an hour to another store that she preferred. All because it catered to the rich. And it always had her favorite chips in stock.
And if I were being honest, I never touched her out in public either. Not just because of the tantrums she threw but the fact that I wanted to be associated with her as little as possible.
But alas, I was young and dumb and didn’t understand that women were spiteful and sneaky as hell when I asked her to marry me seventeen long-ass years ago.
“Yeah,” I grumbled out as I got up off the couch, holding in the wince that wanted to burst forth, and walked to where my kutte was hanging beside the door.
Today, I was having the nomad patch on my kutte removed, and I was having Mississippi put on the bottom rocker where it rightfully belongs.
Shrugging the kutte on my shoulders, I grimaced as I pulled my arms up and felt the pull of my ribs. Four weeks later and they still hurt like a motherfucker.
“Hurry up, Pipe. We should have been there half an hour ago.” She snapped as she walked to the door, still inserting an earring in her ear. Of fucking course.
Did she help me with my kutte? Fuck no.
Were we not late because she had to apply half of her makeup stock on her face? Again, apparently fucking not.
I held that shit in. It wouldn’t do any good to remind her that we were late because of her.
It would have been like talking to a brick fucking wall.
Besides, I never felt the need to tell her she didn’t need to wear that war paint.
In all honesty, she fucking needed it.
I know what you’re thinking…
