I’m saved from walking through that minefield by Angie and Rebel screaming like two drunk teenagers when Alice Cooper’s I’m Eighteen comes on.
“It’s our song! Sly! Slim! Get over here!” Angie waves at me, and Marissa nods at me to go, trying to conceal the small hurt at being excluded.
Rebel has lifted both her hands and is swaying to the song, her back to us, the bullseye on her lower back like a beacon calling me home.
It’s never been a fair fight, I think as I stand up and make my way to the woman whose name is etched on my soul. My past, my present, my future. The spark that ignites my blood.
I remember all the times Rebel and I were belting out the lyrics to this song, young and stupid and drunk with our friends, our club brothers, right in this very place, and I finally exhale. A weight is lifted from my shoulders, and my stomach is no longer tense.
Marissa will understand. I’m not one of those sleazy guys who pick up and fuck randos from the bar. Rebel is my first love.
I love Marissa too, but it’s a steady, clear-headed kind of love, the way you love a family member. I care about her. But what I feel for Bell is overwhelming and all-consuming.
I’ve put my arm around Rebel’s shoulders, she’s put hers around Angie’s, and Angie has put hers around Prez’s, and the four of us are jumping up and down like that while screaming out the lastpart of the song, and all the brothers are cheering and whistling. Everything is right in the world.
I turn around to catch a glimpse of Marissa. She’s not on the couch. She must have gone to the bathroom. Good. Tonight should be a nice night for the two of us, a memory to treasure.
Tomorrow, on the first day of 2011, I’ll end things with her in the kindest way possible, and then I’ll finally, finally have the life I’ve always dreamed of.
“Follow me,” Prez tells me sternly, and I square my shoulders, ready to finally have a conversation worthy of a man.
We go out into the hallway, and then he pulls me into the storage room.
“What the fuck did you bring Junior’s mother here for?” he says without preamble, already worked up. “Twitch told me that you and my sister have been messing around; he saw her sneaking off to be with you at Thanksgiving, so I thought you two were a thing.”
“We are, but you need to talk to Rebel before attacking me. I’m taking care of it on my end,” I tell him firmly. “It takes some time, with the kid and all. You know how it is.”
“I don’t understand it, man. For years, we all watched you waste away after Bell dumped you, and now that she’s back, you’re dragging your feet? Don’t bullshit me, Slim. My sister isn’t cheap club pussy. You can’t fuck her on the side and then go home to your ol’ lady. She deserves better than that.”
“She does deserve better, I agree. She deserves everything. You, better than anyone, know how much I love Bell. I just need to let Marissa down gently because of Junior. I don’t want her badmouthing me to the kid later.”
Prez nods. He knows what a scorned woman is capable of.
“Take this as my final warning.”
“No worries, Prez.”
We head back to the common room.
Rebel is everything. She’s my soulmate, the only woman for me.
So why do I feel so shitty at the thought of breaking Marissa’s heart?
Chapter 4
Marissa
Iwanted tonight to be great. I wanted to have a sexy date night and spend some quality time together, while also making an effort to be part of Dylan’s world. Thus, when he went off to dance with his friends, I tried to be cool. I really did.
But now I find myself sitting alone on the couch, outside the fun, already on edge because I'm away from DJ and Angie's being all cold and weird for some reason. I need to take a break, call Susan to see how DJ’s doing, get some air, and remind myself why I’m here.
Susan reassures me that Junior is sleeping peacefully and that the babysitter, Sarah, is wonderful. Apparently, the two of them are having the nicest night, just sitting and chatting. I make a mental note to schedule more date nights like this one, not only for my relationship but also for Susan’s social life.
I stop at the kind of disgusting coed bathroom on my way back, and as I lean over to pull down my shorts, I feel a pang of pain in my right breast. Not only is this corset a true torture device interms of pressure, but it’s also time for Junior’s first wakeup of the night, and my boobies know it.
I have to express some milk to prevent a clogged duct, so I find an empty room and a shot glass, and sit down behind a stack of beer cases. I don’t want to flash anyone who might come in. I almost moan when the worst of the pressure starts to fade, but my eyes get misty.
I suddenly miss Junior more than anything.
