“You are disgrace, Jennifer Anne. I can’t believe our parents are okay with this. God tells women, you are responsible for the lust you inspire in others.”
These were words I’d heard my father say on more than one occasion. From my father they were hurtful, but I could handle it. I was used to it. But from my brother, the words felt like barbed weapons, piercing my heart.
“I’m pretty sure God never said that,” Cletus announced flatly, reaching for Isaac’s hand, swiftly prying it from me, and inserting himself between us.
“Yes, He did,” my brother ground out.
“No. He didn’t,” Cletus continued. “God wouldn’t say something so stupid. The Creator of the heavens doesn’t care what her hair looks like, and He doesn’t care what she’s wearing. I’m pretty sure He’s got his hands full with more weighty matters, like dark matter, and black holes, and ISIS, and ignorant bikers of the criminal variety.”
“Winston, this is the last time I’ll ask you nicely to mind your own damn business,” Isaac seethed, his hands balling into fists.
“Besides,” Cletus went on philosophically, “you think those dresses your parents have her in don’t inspire lust? You think men all around these parts aren’t daydreaming about bending her over and lifting her skirt and—”
I gasped and, clearly forgetting myself, quickly covered Cletus’s mouth with my hand. But I was too late. Isaac shoved me to the side and lifted his fist, intent on pummeling the words from Cletus’s brain. A sound of fear and despair escaped my throat before I could catch it, and the world lurched forward in slow motion. I braced for his fist to make contact, wincing in terror.
But it didn’t happen.
Cletus blocked him, then leaned to the side in a remarkably agile movement for such a large man. Isaac ended up putting his fist through the shelf of canned goods, hitting his forehead in the process. Incensed and undaunted, he spun and walked right into Cletus’s left hook, and the sickening sound of bones crunching filled my ears. I covered my mouth to suppress another gasp as Cletus followed the first punch with a second, the momentum of which threw Isaac backward and against the shelves.
My brother fell to the ground, his head banging against the bottom shelf on the way down. Blood gushed from his nose, mouth, and a cut on his left eyebrow, flowing to his white shirt and leather jacket.
Tina stood to one side, gawking at Cletus.
But instinctual worry for my brother sent me rushing forward. “Oh no!”
Before I could reach Isaac, Cletus wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me from the floor.
“I have one more thing to say,” Cletus growled, my back pressed to his front, his beard against my temple. The quality of his voice—low with scarcely restrained rage—made me stiffen and grow still in his arms. The dangerous intensity behind his words sent a shiver of apprehension down my spine.
“Do you honestly think God would make a creature as lovely and talented and good as your sister, and then make the way she looks something sinful? Something to be ashamed of? No. He wouldn’t. If anything, your sister—her face, her body, her mind, and her heart—give glory to Him. And she shouldn’t be hidden. You don’t hide something that remarkable away from the world, like your parents have done, like you want to do. That’s the true sin.”
Then, immediately, Cletus turned me in his arms, tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and announced, “Time to go.”
CHAPTER 21
“Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.”
― Zora Neale Hurston
Jennifer
Cletus exited the Piggly Wiggly like the hounds of hell were at our ankles. The suddenness of being thrown over his shoulder knocked the wind from my lungs and I gasped for air, unable to find purchase as I endeavored to cough. But I was never in danger of falling. Even though he moved swiftly, I didn’t budge or slip from his shoulder.
He carried us straight to the parking lot, set me in front of a car I didn’t recognize, then opened the passenger door.
“Get in,” he ordered, glancing over his shoulder.
I was dizzy, black spots moving in and out of my vision, but the time spent in the store—being tossed about by Drill and my brother and eventually Cletus—had finally registered in my brain.
“I’m not getting in.” I gasped, coughing, a surge of something dark and ferocious climbing to the surface and making my bones feel rigid and cold.
I was just so . . . I was just so incredibly angry. And I was tired of people telling me what to do.
“Dammit, woman, please get in the car.” Cletus pulled his fingers through his long hair.