What a fucking joke.
I unlocked the front door and stepped into the living room that had started to feel like ours over the past few months. My half-finished novel sat on the coffee table next to his motorcycle magazines. My favorite throw blanket was draped over his leather couch. My coffee mug—the one with the ridiculous cat meme that made him roll his eyes every morning—sat in the kitchen sink.
Evidence of a relationship that apparently meant nothing to him.
I grabbed an empty box from the garage and started in the bedroom. My clothes took up about a third of his walk-in closet. Dresses for work, jeans and sweaters for lazy weekends, the little black dress he’d bought me for the club’s anniversary party last month. I yanked everything off hangers and shoved it into the box.
A horrifying thought hit me like ice water as I grabbed my stuff out of the bathroom. I was going to have to get an STDpanel. He’d been wearing a condom with Crystal—I’d seen that much—but had he always? With every woman? And even if he had, weren’t there things condoms didn’t fully protect against? Herpes, HPV—god, I didn’t even know what I should be worried about. These weren’t thoughts I’d ever had to consider before. The thought made my cheeks burn with humiliation. I’d have to sit in some clinic waiting room, fill out forms asking about my sexual history, explain to a stranger that my ex-boyfriend had been screwing god only knows how many other women behind my back, and hope they could tell me I was safe.
How many women had there been? How long had this been going on? The entire year we’d been together? My stomach churned as I remembered every time we’d had mind blowing sex, every morning I’d woken up in his bed feeling safe and loved.
What a naive little fool I’d been.
I swept everything into my toiletry bag with sharp, angry movements.
The sound of Dutch’s Harley in the driveway made my stomach clench. I’d hoped to be done before he got here, but packing was taking longer than expected. Too many little pieces of my life are scattered throughout his house.
The front door opened and closed, followed by heavy footsteps in the hallway.
“Indira?” His voice was cautious, like he was approaching a wild animal. “What are you doing?”
I looked up from where I was kneeling beside the bed, pulling my favorite pair of pajamas from his dresser drawer. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Still in his jeans and Venom Riders cut, he looked every inch the dangerous biker president. This morning, that look would have made my knees weak. Now it just made me angry.
He moved closer, reaching out like he was going to pull me into his arms the way he always did when I was upset. “Hey, come here.”
I jerked back so fast I nearly tripped over the box. “Don’t touch me.”
The hurt that flashed across his face would have broken my heart an hour ago. Now it just made me angrier. “Keep your filthy hands away from me,” I snapped.
“Filthy?” His voice was genuinely confused.
“Have you even washed your hands since you fucked her?” The words came out in a rush of disgust. “You smell like her. You probably still haveherall over you.”
Dutch’s face flushed red, and he looked down at his hands like he’d forgotten what he’d been doing with them twenty minutes ago. “Indira—”
“What? Were you planning to come home and kiss me with the same mouth that was on her? Touch me with the same hands that were all over her body?” My voice was getting higher, more hysterical. “How long has this been going on, Dutch? How many times have you come to me straight after fucking someone else?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, guilt written all over his face.
“How long?” I demanded. “How long have you been fucking other women?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Indira—”
“How long, Dutch?”
“I never stopped,” he admitted quietly.
And just like that, the floor fell out from under me. “Never stopped. So we were never exclusive? Not once in this entire year?”
“You’re my woman,” he growled, as if that explained everything.
“One of many, apparently.”
“It’s not the same thing—”
“You’re right. It’s worse.” I turned back to my packing with sharp, jerky movements. “At least the club girls know what they’re signing up for. I was never given that opportunity.”
