I couldn’t wait for Daylight Savings. True, I’d lose an hour of sleep over the weekend “springing forward,” but coming home from work in the pitch black sucked. It had been dark when I’d gone in to work, too, heading there early so an aide who usually took the early morning shift could go see her kid in a school performance.

The light was on in the kitchen. I should have figured out Mike was home, but my brain was foggy and slow. I didn’t have much room to process visual clues when all I could think about was how much I wanted to take off my shoes, sit down, and watch the stupidest TV show I could possibly find.

“I was wondering when you were going to get home.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin when Mike rounded the corner. “I didn’t know you were here!” Hand to my chest, my heart raced a hundred miles an hour.

“Expecting someone else?” His comment had a suspicious edge.

“No, of course not. You’re just usually not here when I get home.” Or sometimes when I woke up, either. That had been happening more and more lately. Sometimes he slept on the couch, saying he didn’t want to wake me when he got in really late or had to take off extra early. At first, I’d felt hurt and confused. Then I’d learned to enjoy the extra room in bed.

“What, I can’t come home to have dinner with my wife?” He pressed me close in a suffocating hug. Alcohol wafted from his breath when he kissed me, and I had to exert effort not to flinch. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

I guess I hadn’t tried hard enough. I brightened up my smile. “Of course I’m happy to see you. I’m just surprised. And I’m sorry, I don’t have anything planned for dinner.” I didn’t even think we had much food in the fridge.

“Nothing?” He looked disappointed.

“If I’d known you were going to be here—”

“How many times do we have to have this conversation?” His voice rose, loud and angry, and his hands tightened on my arms. “It’s not like I get a schedule handed to me every morning. I’m not a suit. Shit happens. I never know whether I’ll be home or not.”

I pulled away, looking down, wondering how it was possible that we were already fighting. Conflict seemed to erupt between us over nothing, the slightest breeze fanning sparks into a blaze.

“C’mere, baby.” He grabbed me back, using a conciliatory tone. “I don’t want to fight tonight.”

“I don’t want to fight, either.” I felt so tired. He stroked my hair, his hand snaking around my waist. He kissed me again and I could taste he’d been drinking hard liquor, not just beer. “I want to get you pregnant.”

He placed his hand on my belly, rubbing it. I was glad my face was against his shoulder so he couldn’t see my reaction. I’d never been good at hiding my emotions. Eyes wide in dismay, I was sure I had “hell no” written all over my face.

“We’ll have a kid,” he continued. “Everything’ll be good between us.”

I kissed him back, on autopilot, thinking how I used to feel that way, too. He’d started talking about wanting a kid about a year ago, and at first I’d been excited. I’d always dreamed of having children one day. I was married and settled, so that seemed like the logical next step.

But as the months passed same as they always did, no babies on the way, my heart started feeling heavy. And then I realized why. It wasn’t that I was worried that I wouldn’t get pregnant. I was worried that I would.

He reached up my shirt and unclasped my bra, laughing as he did it. “That’s the one thing I like about these baggy scrubs. They’re easy to reach around in.”

I shrugged out of my shirt, letting my bra fall to the floor, trying for all I was worth to get in the mood. I’d never felt magical fireworks with Mike, not even the first time we’d kissed. But, honestly, I’d never felt them with anyone. I’d figured you could either waste your time waiting around for Prince Charming, or you could jump onto the horse of the guy who actually rode up to your door. Or motorcycle, as was the case with Mike.

Now? A lifetime seemed like a pretty long ride. And waiting around didn’t sound so bad, either. At least I could slip off my shoes and watch some trashy reality TV.

Mike grabbed my ass, grinding against me as he palmed my breast. I drew my hand down to his hips, sliding it along his crotch where I felt…nothing. Soft as a baby’s bottom.

He tensed at my touch. I tried to pretend like it was no big deal, or like I hadn’t noticed. But he knew I’d felt him, flaccid. He’d been that way a lot lately. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten it up. There was no way I could ask him about it. He’d lose his mind. I guessed all men were sensitive on that subject.

I had to wonder, though, what was wrong. Was it me? Did he not find me attractive anymore? Or was he on something? I knew he drank a lot, but sometimes he also popped pills. I guessed they were speed or some kind of uppers since he had to stay awake late at night. Did they cause impotence?

All pretense of fooling around halted, the two of us just standing there, I felt like I had to say something. “Is everything…OK with you?” I asked, quiet and hesitant.

“God damn it, Sky! Why is it always about me?” He pulled away, pounding his fist onto the kitchen counter so hard it made the dishes on it jump. “And what is this bullshit?” He picked up a dirty plate, shoving it close to my face for me to see.

“Mike!” I pulled back. “I wasn’t trying to say—”

“Maybe if you were around more! Where the hell were you when I got home?”

“My shift doesn’t end until six.” I hated it when he got angry. He didn’t listen, just ranted.

“You left the place a pigsty.” He picked up a dirty coffee mug I’d left out on the counter.

“I had to go into work early this morning.”

With sudden, fierce vehemence, he threw the plate and mug against the wall. The mug made a loud bang and then a thud as it dropped to the floor, but the plate smashed into pieces, jagged bits scattering out in a wide splash. I screamed, frightened, and covered my ears.

He stood, slightly unsteady on his feet and breathing heavy. Raking a hand through his hair, he looked at me accusatorily. “I think you should quit that job of yours.” Then he grabbed his jacket and slammed out of the apartment.

Shaking, I stood there and tried to tell myself that everything was all right. Yes, Mike had a temper, but he wasn’t a bad guy. Every couple went through tough times. Weathering them was what marriage was all about.

I told myself that, but I didn’t believe it.

“Come get some sunshine with us.” Ace winked at me as he put on his jacket, getting ready for a courtyard stroll. Jax stood by his side, hands in his pockets, watching me intently.

“I should probably go check on Sandi,” I said, reluctantly.

“What, Sandi down the hall? You like her better than me?”

“You know I don’t like anyone better than you, Ace.” I handed him his cane with a smile.

“Look at this girl.” He motioned to Jax. “Such a charmer.” Jax just nodded, but I blushed under the weight of his stare. Ace pulled on his cap, setting it at a rakish tilt.

“I love that cap,” I complimented him. The man had style.

“See?” He directed his comment at his grandson again. “If you wore more caps like me you’d do better with the ladies.”

“Oh, I’m sure Jax does just fine with the ladies.” The words were out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying.

“Are you now?” Ace chuckled.

“What makes you say that?” The big man himself crossed the room slowly toward me.

I cleared my throat, wondering why in the hell I’d blurted out such a thing. I might as well have told them both that I thought Jax was gorgeous. But the man was, and he had to know it. In my experience, men who looked like him attracted women like flies to honey. And the women who got stuck on them fared about as well as the dead flies. That was why they called men like him lady-killers.

Only Jax didn’t set off my alarm bells the way those types of guys usually did. He had none of that off-putting brash cockiness, that “aren’t you lucky to be talking to me” full-of-himself vibe. Instead, it seemed like Jax paid attention to me. A lot of attention. I shivered as he stood next to me, all too aware of his body heat, his sheer size.

“Jax didn’t even go to prom!” Ace called out as he pushed open the sliding glass door onto his patio.

“Making me look so good.” Jax rolled his eyes as he escorted me out, following Ace. He rested his hand lightly on my lower back, polite, even chivalrous, but the contact made my heart leap. “What’s next, Ace, are you going to pull out a few photos from when I was thirteen?”

“He was a gawky kid, this guy,” Ace told me, conspiratorially, linking his arm through mine. I guessed I was accompanying him on his stroll. “He’s filled out now, but first he got all that height and weighed about 120 pounds.”

“That is not true.” Jax shook his head. I couldn’t stifle a raucous laugh at the image. He was so big and burly now, but I guessed that hadn’t always been the case. “Sure, laugh it up,” he teased me. “I bet you never went through an awkward phase. You were always gorgeous.”

That made me burst out laughing all over again. Plus feel all warm inside. Had he just told me he thought I was gorgeous? “In middle school, I cut my own bangs. That did not go so well.”

“Never a good idea,” Jax agreed.

“And then there was the time I decided to bleach some streaks in my hair.”

“Why the streaks? I see it on you young girls all the time,” Ace mused, ambling by my side at a slow, strolling pace.

“Some people can pull it off. But skunk stripes were not a good look for me.” At least that one had been easy to fix with some hair dye. The bangs had taken months to look normal again.

Ace paused to greet some of his neighbors, engaging them in the friendly banter that came to him so naturally. Jax and I stood around, looking at our shoes, the plants in the courtyard, anything but each other.

“You been doing any baking lately?” he finally asked.

That was a subject I could talk about all day. As long as I didn’t look directly at him. That was like staring right at the sun. I knew I’d get burned. Speaking to his forearm—and what a forearm it was, all corded with muscle with a light dusting of hair—I told him about my experimentations with crusts, how I was thinking about adding more cinnamon into my apple pies, and how excited I was now that it was mid-March and we were starting to get fresh, ripe, locally-grown strawberries.

“Have you ever been to the farmer’s market downtown?” He shook his head “no.” As I glanced up to catch his reaction, I nearly lost my train of thought. His eyes were so dark, but in the bright mid-day sunlight I could see some flecks of caramel. He had a bit of stubble on his strong jaw. I bet it would feel good against my skin, all scratchy in exactly the right way.

“Anyway—” I pulled my gaze away, reining in my thoughts. “There’s a great farmer’s market downtown Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings. This week I’m going to try to find strawberries and rhubarb.”

“Strawberry-rhubarb pie.” Jax made an appreciative sound deep in his throat. It didn’t make me think about baking.

“Do you like that?” My voice sounded a little too dazed, too husky. I cleared my throat. “That kind of pie? The flavor?” I rushed to clarify.

“Mmm-hmm.” The man made the sexiest sounds I’d ever heard, standing in broad daylight going for an exercise walk with his grandpa. I made a mental note to never let myself be alone with Jax. It would mean all kinds of trouble.

“How did you learn to bake?” Such a simple question, but I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had asked me, or if anyone ever had.

“I sort-of taught myself,” I reflected. “You can learn a lot on YouTube.” Back in my eighth and ninth grade years, I hadn’t had a whole lot going on after school. I’d been too young to do much more than babysit to earn a living, and I’d never been all that athletic so I wasn’t on any teams. It was just my mom and me in our little apartment, and she’d worked every day until six and then stayed out after, so I’d come home and baked.

“Your mom didn’t teach you?”

“No, she’s not really a baker.” Or much of a cook. Or one to spend much time in the kitchen or around home at all. “We’re pretty different, my mom and I.”

He nodded, seeming to understand. I’d always admired my mother’s naturally extroverted personality and her flair for fashion and style. And I’d always suspected she found me somewhat boring, her quiet daughter who preferred baking at home instead of going out to parties. When I’d told her I was marrying Mike, she’d been dumbfounded. “Don’t you want to go out and experience more of life?” she’d asked. My answer: not really. I’d never felt much desire to bust out wild and crazy. Only maybe now I was starting to think my mother had had a point.

Ace started making his way down the courtyard again, and Jax and I fell into step. “Watch out.” Jax said it to both of us, pointing out a branch that had fallen across the path. He brought his hand to my elbow, guiding me to the side. I had to fight my impulse to lean into him, taking the excuse to brush against his wall of muscles, maybe even fake losing my balance so I could press my palm to his rock-hard chest.

“There you go.” He gave my arm a light caress with his thumb as he let go. The touch went straight to my head like fizzy, bubbly champagne. That wasn’t good. People got reckless when they drank. The last thing I needed was to lose my inhibitions around that man.

“I’m going to go check in on Sandi.” I hung a left, walking over toward a side entrance. “You two enjoy the rest of your walk!”

“Come back!” Ace called after me.

I smiled, giving him a wave. “See you later.”

“See you later, Sky.” That rumbling voice, so deep and warm. I replayed it over and over throughout the rest of my afternoon and evening, cherishing it like a favorite and well-kept secret.

Wednesday night I made strawberry rhubarb pie. First, I scoured the Internet for as many recipes as I could find. Then, I dove into my baking books, circling and dog-earring, stickie notes all over the place. I was going to make the best strawberry rhubarb pies the world had ever seen. Because maybe, just maybe, Jax would get a taste.

I still hadn’t hit on exactly the right flavor combination for strawberry rhubarb pie, so I’d never brought one to Romi’s. If I figured one out, though, I was sure they’d be interested. Every morning I took over pies, they claimed they sold out by lunchtime.

Apron on, poofs of flour and dashes of sugar flying around me, I set to work. Mike was out, who knew where, and frankly I hoped it stayed that way. I could turn up the radio, sing along to the kind of upbeat syrupy pop songs I loved, and lose myself in creating the taste of home. Because to me, that was what the best pies tasted like. Not any home I’d ever experienced, mind you, but an idealized version, the home we all dreamed about with unconditional love, comfort and support. Sitting down at your kitchen table, even after a long, tough day, you could tuck into a slice and feel relaxed, satisfied and at peace.

Rolling out the crust, adding another twist of lemon or a pinch of sugar to the filling, I didn’t worry where Mike was and what he was doing. Or why I actually felt relieved that he no longer wanted to take me to hang with his crew. I didn’t wonder why I was happiest without him.

Instead, creating, mixing, tasting, I let myself daydream. Someday, maybe, when I brought pies to Romi’s, I’d see Jax. He’d ask me to sit and have a cup of coffee. We’d get a booth in the corner, somewhere private, and we’d talk for hours. I could look straight into those dark eyes, listen to his deep voice, and it wouldn’t stop there. Outside, he’d scoop me up onto the back of the chopper I’d seen him ride. I’d wrap my legs around him, not even caring where we went, just driving off with him, the motor rumbling between my legs while I held on tight.

The next Monday I didn’t work. Maria asked me to trade shifts with her so she could make a doctor’s appointment. I had no good reason to say no.

Tuesday morning I headed in, brightening up rooms with flowers and chatter. Most of the residents were so sweet, telling me how nice it was to see me, thanking me when all I was doing was my job. They didn’t know how much their appreciation lifted my spirits, too.

I spent some time with Ace. He was teaching me how to play Gin Rummy. It was slow going. I wasn’t exactly a natural card shark, but I enjoyed spending the time with him, as always. I breezed through the kinds of questions I had to ask, about what he’d eaten for breakfast and lunch and whether he’d taken his meds and done his daily walk. Ace was naturally social, so he tended to get up and about without too much prompting, and his upbeat sense of humor made going through my checklist easy and even fun.

On my way out, he told me, “Jax missed seeing you yesterday.” He waggled his eyebrows. Of course I wanted to ask more, breathlessly pressing him for details. “How do you know? Did he say so? Did he ask after me? Do you think he’s going to ask me to prom?” Recognizing the wide disconnect between the growing depth of my attachment and the reality of my life, I managed to say a neutral, “Oh.”

“If you weren’t married, I’d lock the two of you up in a closet. You’re just his type.” Ace winked at me. I promptly turned beet red.

“Ace.” I laughed as I stepped into the hallway, glad he couldn’t see my over-reaction to the idea of getting locked into a closet with Jax. My one request would be that Ace throw away the key.

I took some deep breaths, trying to forget the image. But how could I when there we’d be, in the dark, no one to stop us from falling into each other. A blur of hands and mouths, stripping off our clothes, panting, I’d rake my fingers down Jax’s back as he pressed me rough against the wall. Bad Sky. I had no idea how I could concentrate on anything now. Then I got to my cubby.

Every staff member had a little rectangle in a grid along a wall, dating back to the days when most communications were handed out via paper. We still got fliers from time to time—the medical profession might be one of the last to shift entirely to electronics—but mostly my cubby lay empty. Except when I checked it that morning, I had a note.

Written in a masculine scrawl, it read:

Sky,

I tried your strawberry rhubarb pie.

Ate the whole thing in one sitting. I’m not proud of myself.

You should open up your own shop.

Jax

I pressed the note to my chest, eyes closed, almost wanting to breathe in the moment so I could remember the happiness. I’d felt a little silly, going to all that trouble over ingredients and recipes and baking. Apparently he’d gone over to Romi’s and bought himself one of my pies. He’d loved it. And he’d taken the time to tell me and then encourage me to pursue my dream, the one I didn’t even talk about it felt so fragile and unrealistic.

I pictured him sitting in a kitchen, just him and my pie. But maybe he had a girlfriend. My smile fell, my eyes opening. Yeah, he probably had a girlfriend. I shouldn’t read anything special into the note.

My phone buzzed with a text.

Mike: Meet me at the club after work

Right on cue, hearing from Mike stuck yet another pin in my balloon. Which was good. I was married. My husband was reaching out to me, trying to spend time together. That was where I needed to devote my energy. Even if it felt as appealing as pushing a boulder up a mountain.

After my shift, I freshened up quick back at the apartment and pulled on a fitted T-shirt along with some slim jeans and sandals. I’d still look like a nun compared to the girls who hung out with the Skulls, but I wasn’t trying to compete with them, anyway. Some might think I was like an ostrich with its head in the sand, not wanting to know, but as far as I was concerned Mike had married me, not them. He’d made his choice. It wasn’t up to me to police that. Even if I did, I had no illusions that I could change his behavior.

I’d never cheated on Mike, not once. Even though I sometimes wondered whether he could say the same. But in my 24 years I’d already learned the lesson that you couldn’t control what other people did in life. You could only try to stay square with yourself.

Club headquarters was on the outskirts of town in a run-down, nondescript building. I figured the club had the money to fix it up, but that would only draw attention to the spot. They’d had to move locations twice that I knew of in the past three years. I didn’t want to know why. The less I knew about what Mike actually did all day and night, the better I felt about it.

Knocking timidly, no one answered. I rapped again, louder, and a giant the guys all called Tiny showed me in. The place was loud and crowded, filled with faces I didn’t recognize. Tiny grunted at me in welcome and jerked his thumb over toward the bar where I could see Mike drinking with a couple of guys.

Shy, I picked my way through the crowd. Standing behind Mike, about to say hello, I saw something on the bar in front of him. I brought up my hand to cover my mouth. The music and voices were so loud that no one heard me gasp.

It couldn’t be what I thought it was. Because from where I was standing, it looked like a finger laying there on the bar. A bloody human finger, severed off of a hand.

“You’re one sick fuck, Griller.” One of the guys next to him raised his beer bottle in a toast.

“You should have heard him squeal when I cut it off.” My husband laughed. “Like a pig. Bled like one, too.”

“Did he talk?” the guy on his other side asked.

“You know he did.” Mike sounded so proud I half-expected him to beat his chest. “I’m the motherfucking Griller.”

I spun away, a sickening lurch in my stomach. I needed to get out, get some air. I made it to the door and pushed my way out, leaning against the side of the building for support. My hands on my thighs, head down, I tried to take in big gulps of air. I felt like I might throw up.

I remembered Mike telling me, on more than one occasion, “No one gets away when I grill them.” He bragged about it, how tough he was. How he could get anyone to confess.

Now I knew how he did it. He tortured people. Cut off their fingers. And he enjoyed doing it.

Over at a trash can, I threw up, heaving and crying. Then I wiped my mouth with my shirt, stood up and walked over to our car. The car he usually didn’t let me drive because he never knew when he might need it. Like when he had someone with him he had to torture.

I sat in the car shaking, remembering how awestruck I’d been when I’d first met Mike, amazed and impressed by him and his world. As a teenager, I’d watched TV shows about motorcycle clubs, and read plenty of romances featuring MC guys as the hero. What a dumb, naïve girl I’d been.

Not any more. Even before tonight, I’d seen more and more signs of Mike’s true character. I couldn’t hide from it any longer. My husband was a violent, unbalanced man. If he cut off a guy’s finger and brought it in to show his friends like some kind of a trophy, who knew what he was capable of? He was a monster.

Turning on the ignition, I pulled out, knowing what I needed to do. I had to get away from him. But that would take more than just driving away. That was going to take some planning. Mike wasn’t the kind of guy who just signed divorce papers.

I almost had to pull over to the side of the road and throw up again. But I told myself to toughen up. I had to use my head, be smart.

Step one was making sure I didn’t get pregnant. True, we barely ever had sex, but the last thing I needed was a baby with that maniac. The next day, I promised myself I’d stop by a clinic and get birth control. I’d gone off the pill a year ago when he’d said he wanted to try to have kids, but it was time to go back on. I’d just have to hide them from him. He’d hit the roof if he saw me taking contraceptives.

But I had to start taking them. It would buy me some time. It was just the first step, but it was an important one. Because now I knew with complete certainty, I had to leave him.