Satan’s Property Novel – I watch my husband Rooster bend another woman over the hood of my car. Rooster turns the sweet butt around and roughly pulls her miniskirt up over her hips. He presses himself against her. My mind reels, but my body doesn’t move. I hear soft mewling cries from the woman and grunts from Rooster as he finishes inside her. He zips up, pats her coolly on the butt and heads toward the front door. I shut my eyes and turn away from the door as he stumbles in. He drops into bed next to me and begins snoring at once. I will my brain to shut off so that I can get a few blessed hours of unconsciousness. But it’s no use. I’m wide awake, the smell of booze and another woman’s perfume hanging heavily above our marriage bed.
I glance at my alarm clock for the millionth time—3:31 AM flashes back at me in angry red pulses. I kick my legs in frustration under the sheets.I’ve been trying to sleep for two hours, but the Sandman just isn’t showing up. And he isn’t the only man missing from my home tonight. Scout raises his head from his spot at the foot of the bed to whine at me. You might not have been sleeping, his look seems to say, but I was . “Sorry, buddy,” I murmur, reaching down to scratch his ears. He flops back down onto the mattress, pacified. Nowadays I actually sleep better when Rooster isn’t here—which is, admittedly, most nights.
But tonight I just feel so restless. My already-nagging insomnia worsened when Rooster convinced me to drop out of school last year, just a semester shy of graduating with my nursing degree. I swear, I can feel my brain atrophying inside my head now that I’m not taking classes. Working part-time at the reception desk at the club’s auto-body repair shop isn’t exactly stimulating, intellectually. Swinging my legs onto the carpeted floor, I shove my hands through my hair in frustration. I feel downright pathetic, moping in my unsexy pajamas. Sometimes I just want to hop in my car with Scout and take off. Go anywhere. Never look back. But every time I start to dream about escape, the cold realization of my situation hits me. I have no money. No degree. Don’t know anyone outside of the Devil’s Army. Don’t have a way out of this storm I currently call a life.
I screw my eyes shut as I feel a wave of helpless sadness threaten to overwhelm me. I’ve learned to swallow my heartache by necessity, and I do it again now. I climb back into bed and crawl down to where Scout is curled, burying my face in his familiar fur. He’s now sixty pounds of solid muscle. I can hardly believe that my dad gave him to me in this very room just a few years ago. Rooster and I moved into my parents’ house after we were married, and stayed once my father passed away. The master bedroom is at least thirty percent larger than this, my childhood bedroom, but I just couldn’t bear to make that my bedroom with Rooster. I still avoid going in there. The dull ache that I carry around with me becomes a stabbing pain whenever I enter my parents’ old room. I hear a growling noise coming from the street and stand up, padding down the hallway toward the front windows.
Scout jumps off the bed and lopes along behind me. He’s a good guard dog and he doesn’t seem alarmed, so I’m not either. Besides, you’d have to be a pretty dumb burglar to try to break into an MC president’s house. Come to think of it, this has been the home of two Devil’s Army presidents now—my dad and Rooster. All the more reason for home invaders to stay away. Pulling back the checked gingham curtain, I peer out into the night. Behind me, Scout circles a spot on the rug and lies down, uninterested. I hear a soft, seductive giggle and glance toward the driveway. In the yellow glow of a streetlight, I watch my husband bend another woman over the hood of my car. My mind reels, but my body doesn’t move. There was once a time when I would have run out there screaming at my husband, expletives flying out of my mouth left and right.
But that time is long gone. After the fifth mistress or so, my heart hardened against Rooster’s transgressions. As far as I know, the cheating didn’t start until after my dad died, but I’ve come to understand there’s a lot that I don’t know about my husband. With perverse curiosity, I watch my husband drunkenly grope this woman—probably some Devil’s Wraith sweet butt he picked up at the clubhouse. Bringing her back to our home was especially messed up, even for him. I wonder if he actually wants me to see this. I wouldn’t put it past him. He gets a kick out of hurting me. They stumble around in the darkness, and I watch him stick his tongue down her throat as he pulls her miniskirt up over her hips. He grinds against her, and I’m repulsed to feel my own heartbeat quicken. It’s been months since he’s touched me, or showed any interest in me at all.
I can’t believe that still hurts me, but it does. The last time we had intercourse was depressing as He’d come home wasted and lasted maybe two minutes. I’m not sure he even remembered doing it the next day. The first few times Rooster and I slept together, the intercourse was overwhelming and intense, awesome in every sense of the word. My husband was a bit rougher than the men I’d had in the past, but at first I didn’t mind. But once he knew he could have me whenever he wanted, he lost interest fast. And that’s when his aggression really crossed a line—a line we haven’t retreated from since. Rooster turns the sweet butt around and roughly pushes her up against the hood. He presses himself against her, and I feel my body aching for his touch.
Anybody’s touch. I wouldn’t be above cheating on him if anyone would actually go near the wife of the Devil’s Army’s psychopath-in-chief. I hear soft mewling cries from the woman and grunts from Rooster as he finishes inside her. I watch for a second longer to see if there’s any evidence he’s used a protection. Nope. Guess there’s a positive to his no longer wanting to have intercourse with me—I won’t pick up any nasty diseases from his escapades. He zips up and pats her coolly on the butt. The way you’d thank a horse for a nice ride. The woman heads toward a car idling down the street as Rooster picks up a bottle of beer at his feet and heads toward the front door. “Jerk,” I whisper, stealing quietly back down the hallway. I jump back in bed, pulling the covers over me. There’s no point in talking with him about this latest betrayal. What’s another affair, really? Frankly, I’d rather just avoid talking to him altogether. The front door slams, and I hear Rooster pissing in the hallway bathroom.
Probably all over the seat, and probably on purpose. He loves leaving messes for his wife to clean up. I shut my eyes and turn away from the door as he stumbles in, pulling off his clothes. He drops into bed next to me and begins snoring at once. I open my eyes and stare into the middle distance, willing my brain to shut off so I can get a few blessed hours of unconsciousness. But it’s no use. I’m wide awake, the smell of booze and another woman’s perfume hanging heavily above our marriage bed. — The next day, I’m up before Rooster, cooking an omelette in the kitchen as Scout munches happily on his food in the bowl. I have the radio turned on low to my favorite morning show. I chop up some mushrooms and tomatoes on the cutting board. Rooster is really specific and demanding about the way I keep house, but at least this part—cooking—is something I enjoy doing.
I find myself humming along to the Boss’s “Born to Run” as I scoop the vegetables up and drop them into the skillet. The olive oil jumps up and burns my wrist as I drop the veggies in. I wave my hand in surprise and accidentally knock the handle of the skillet, sending the whole thing flying to the ground. Hot olive oil and vegetables are dashed across the tiled floor. Scout jumps in surprise and runs into the kitchen to make sure I’m OK. Groggy swearing rings out from the bedroom. I woke Rooster up. He really doesn’t like that—the man needs his beauty sleep . I take a deep breath and pick up the skillet, setting it soundlessly on the stove. But it’s too late. I’ve woken the beast. I wipe the floor with paper towels as I prepare myself for the barrage of insults sure to come flooding my way in a minute. Maybe Rooster will be too hung over for things to escalate to anything worse. I’m dumping the veggies and paper towels into the trash can when Rooster walks into the kitchen, glowering.
He wears only his black jeans, and his undressed, inked chest is rippling with tension. “Sorry. I burned myself,” I whisper, just daring to meeting his eye. “I’ll make you another one right away.” “It’s fine,” he growls, looking me up and down. “You OK, and all?” he asks, taking me by surprise. “Um, yeah, it’s no big deal,” I reply quizzically. Maybe last night’s tryst was better than it looked, because Rooster is in as good a mood as he ever is. I turn and begin cutting up some more veggies, carefully placing them back into the pan to soften. I cleanly crack three eggs into a bowl and whisk them with a fork.
I hear Rooster move toward me and freeze as he pushes up against my back, softly moving my hair to the side. He pecks my neck, and that’s when I know something really must be up. “Happy Anniversary,” he whispers, and I drop the fork into the bowl in surprise. I feel him smile against my neck. “You forget?” “N-no,” I stammer, “I just didn’t think you’d remember.” “How could I forget?” he coos in my ear. Well, you forgot last year and were screwing some hooker last night , I want to retort, but I keep my words to myself. I haven’t seen Rooster’s good side in a while, and I’ve seen enough of his bad side to hold my tongue.