“Empty, even though they have five sons,” Mrs. Evans said, bobbing her head while making deliberate eye contact.
Mrs. Francis was quick to sigh. “Today’s kids just don’t understand their responsibilities. My mother would be turning in her grave.”
Last Shyla heard, Mrs. Denver’s boys were in their fifties welcoming grandchildren of their own. That didn’t excuse them ignoring their mother or not checking in as often as they should, but it did put calling them “kids” in perspective.
“You know if you ever need anything, you can just give me a call,” Shyla said.
Mrs. Francis took her hand. “You need to think about yourself now. You’ve missed out on so much, my dear.”
“What you did for your grandfather,” Mrs. Denver said, exuding awe and gratitude. “Not many people would’ve done that.”
“And to stick around for Stan,” Mrs. Evans said.
The women were all agreeing with each other, making sounds of praise that were difficult to accept. During the service, Shyla had teared up a few times. Clinging to Score helped to get her through. Having him near gave her strength.
With him all the way across the room, he wasn’t close enough for her to hang on to. She could turn around and look at him. One look would be enough to convey that she needed him. But he wouldn’t enjoy being fawned over by the starlings. Maybe he wouldn’t dislike it, but they weren’t the type of people he was used to handling.
Any illusion that the wake would be an easy affair vanished when someone grabbed her shoulder to jerk her back. Shyla had been so focused on the starlings that she hadn’t been aware of who was nearby.
Mick forced his way into the group. “What are you ladies talking about?” he demanded. “This is my dad’s day.”
His dad’s day, but he wasn’t to be forgotten either. The first any of them knew of the ensuing intrusion was the rising level of hubbub in the room.
Before Shyla could even seek Score out or check what was going on, an arm appeared between her and Mick. With a sure grip, it grabbed Mick by the throat and yanked him around. That was when Shyla noticed Score. Maneuvering Mick with his straight arm and sure grip, Score marched the host backwards through the guests and out the living room door.
Her man took charge rather than moving anyone aside or introducing himself. The word “pussyfoot” wasn’t in Score’s dictionary.
Having just claimed the man, Shyla figured the starlings would have something to say. Before any of them got a chance, she spoke up. “Uh,” she said, throwing a sheepish smile their way. “Excuse me a minute.”
Everyone in the room was fixated on the door, rubbernecking in their attempts to see what was going on. No doubt plenty of judgements were being made about Score’s actions. Though imagining Mick had charmed people with his usual lack of finesse, she hoped there was a chance of some support too. Mick had a special way of pissing people off, as he’d just proven.
Shyla hurried out of the living room, closing the door behind her, sealing them in the empty hall. Whatever was about to happen, it was probably best that the masses didn’t bear witness. Though if Score took Mick outside, the picture window in the living room would become a movie screen for those inside.
So far, Score hadn’t ventured out. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, Mick in front of him, pinned to the wall by the grip on his throat. Any time he tried to move, Score used just one hand to slam him back.
“How dare you! This is my—”
“You made a mistake,” Score growled, pressing his fist into Mick’s upper chest. “You’re gonna admit that and apologize to the lady, or you and me are gonna take a ride.”
Shyla didn’t know exactly what that meant, but figured he wasn’t just planning to show Mick the view. Standing with her back to the closed living room door, she wasn’t sure what to do. Leave him to work or step in before Mick thought to press charges?
“Who are you—”
“The woman you put your hands on belongs to me,” Score said, planting his hand on Mick’s throat again to jerk him higher. “No one puts their hands on what’s mine.”
“Baby?” Shyla said without leaving her spot.
“I got this, Lamb,” Score said without taking his focus from Mick who was beginning to sweat. “Go upstairs and get what’s yours.”
The only thing Shyla had mentioned being sorry to leave was the clock. It wasn’t a major deal, but she didn’t think that was the moment to tell him.
“This is my—”
Mick’s words stopped when Score’s grip tightened. “Anything that she wants, she gets. If that means erasing you, that’s what’ll happen.”
His grip constricted. Mick grabbed for the hand cutting off his air supply, trying to loosen its hold. Not that he had a chance.
Shyla swallowed and took Mick’s gasping and clawing as acquiesce. If she didn’t do as told, then Score might not let go before Mick lost more than his dignity.
Ignoring Mick’s gargled pleas for mercy and his wild eyes searching for hers, Shyla passed the men and ran up the stairs to take her clock from the wall. Pausing at the door on her way out, she glanced around the space that had been her sanctuary for years. Part of her wanted to take a tour, to wander around and breathe in as many memories as she could before leaving for what really would be the last time.
But knowing Mick’s predicament, she sighed and retreated, closing the door behind her. Instead of showing haste and running down the stairs to offer Mick aid, Shyla took her time about descending. Score stayed fixated on the man under his rule, ignoring the desperate wheezing and
