Her breasts are much bigger than Rebel’s, and I love seeing them shown off like this. Not that she lets me do anything with them since DJ came along. She always keeps them packed away during sex. Touching or sucking them “feels weird,” she doesn’t want to spray milk on me, or some bullshit like that.
“Fuck, baby, let’s go home,” I pull her to me, and she smiles in a way that breaks the confident facade of the outfit she has on.
The smile is honest, unguarded, hopeful, filled with genuine joy. Something in my chest kind of hurts.
“Why drive all the way home when there’s perfectly good bedrooms upstairs?” she whispers against my mouth before kissing me deeply.
An angry voice calls my name, and I break the kiss to look. Marissa blinks, confused.
“Hello!” Her mood lifts when she sees it’s the Prez.
“Hey, Marissa. Didn’t expect to see you here tonight,” he tells her coldly, and my stomach drops.
“I know, it’s been a while since I’ve been up here. It’s hard to get away with DJ and everything, but as I’m sure you know, it’s also important to make time for each other,” she beams at me and hugs my waist as she says this, oblivious to the tension.
“I do know that,” Prez says, giving me a look that indicates he’ll have a word with me later. “Enjoy the party.”
Shit.
Inside, Crusader by Saxon is blaring from the speakers. I’m soothed by the familiar smell of tobacco, alcohol, and gasoline. People greet us, and Riss even gets a few hugs, which relaxes me.
“Angie!” Riss shouts happily when she spots the club’s First Lady.
That’s one thing I can’t fault her for; she tries hard to do right by the club women. Even got all of them Christmas presents both years she’s known them.
Angie, however, has a sour look on her face as she stands with none other than Rebel.
As introductions are made, my fingers start to go numb and I avoid looking anywhere in particular. This moment doesn’t look or feel how I imagined it would. It doesn’t bring pride or clarity.
What do I want? Where do we all go from here? Why the fuck did I bring Marissa to this party?
“Don’t you think so, Dylan?” Rebel asks in a sweet voice.
“What?” I frown.
“Your ol’ lady and I have the same taste,” she says while twirling to show off her outfit, which, indeed, is almost exactly the same as Marissa’s, minus the cut, of course.
Rebel, however, isn’t faking the raw sex appeal. The clothes are not a costume, they’re who she is.
“I’ll get your number, and we’ll raid each other’s closets,” Marissa says innocently, and I examine my boots for any visible dirt.
Rebel laughs. “Deal.”
Riss asks about Angie’s boy, about how Rebel enjoys working at the shop, how everyone’s Christmas was, and then I finally manage to drag her away to one of the leather couches.
I put my arm around her waist, and she puts her elbow on my shoulder. She absentmindedly plays with my hair as she thinks really hard about something.
“Do you want a drink?” I ask her, uncomfortable with what might be going through her head.
“No, thanks. I’ll maybe get a Coke later, but I’m good for now.”
“Are you worrying about how DJ’s doing?” I ask, and her mood instantly lifts.
“Not right now, I’m sure he’s having fun. Or sleeping,” she laughs a little. “I’m just realizing that I’ve heard Rebel’s name spoken many times over the last two years, and, honestly,” she drops her voice, “I thought it was a brother who had passed away, because it was always spoken so wistfully.”
I do my best to keep my face impassive. “She was gone for a long time. The club missed her.”
Marissa nods. “I can see that. Did you hear what Angie said? She said we could be sisters! I don’t see it. I mean, the hair, yes, sure. But other than that, I don’t think we look alike.”
