Stop. Think about something else.
Not the Harley girl that works with Dylan, though.
I desperately want to stop my thoughts from going down a negative path on what’s supposed to be a wonderful night. That’s when I hear the door open, and it’s a welcome distraction.
For years, we all watched you waste away after Bell dumped you…
You can’t fuck her on the side and then go home to your ol’ lady…
She deserves everything…
You, better than anyone, know how much I love Bell…
I continue sitting there on an overturned crate in the storage room, watching milk drip from my nipple into a shot glass, replaying the conversation I just overheard until I feel needles and pins in my legs.
I can’t believe that Rebel is Dylan’s ex. The one he’d pined after, for years. The one that got away, apparently, and took the bullseye above her ass with her.
I suddenly wish I’d observed him more intently when he told me she was coming to work for him, or listened better when people mentioned her in the past.
I, on the other hand, am Junior’s mother. Both men have spoken of me in that capacity alone, like I hold no value outside ofit. I’m not Marissa, not a person, not someone who deserves everything, or anything. Dylan needs to tread lightly because he thinks I’m someone who would keep my child from his father.
That’s what finally breaks through the numbness, and the anger I feel is wonderful.
I start lacing my corset back up.
That fucking asshole! I’ve told him multiple times how excruciating it was to grow up not knowing who your father was, and for him to think I would deny my son that bond is beyond low.
Now, the last two months make perfect sense.
I can’t believe that I tortured myself for not being a good-enough partner, for not carving out more time for us as a couple. I spent so many nights worrying that Dylan might be feeling neglected. Ha!
I bet he wasn’t worrying about my feelings while he was fucking that hussy.
I remember her smarmy smile when she told him, Your ol’ lady and I have the same taste. The memory makes me gag, and I think I’m going to throw up.
Dylan seems so disgusting to me now. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to kiss his mouth again without wondering where it’s been. I want to get in the shower and scrub my skin raw at the thought that I’ve unknowingly shared a man with someone.
Oh, Lord, what if he gave me an STD? I think, and my entire body goes cold.
Sly probably thought I was as pathetic as Angie when I showed up at the party. He knew. Angie knew; that’s why she was being weird. Are you here to mark your territory? Buzz’s confusingquestion suddenly makes sense as well. Everyone must have known.
The humiliation makes me want to curl in on myself, to protect my soft, vulnerable spots from more hits. I need to go. I need to get the fuck out of this disgusting place, and I need to hold my boy.
I can’t believe I used to romanticize the MC and the role it played in Dylan’s life growing up, partly because Susan always went on and on about how the Wolves filled the gap left behind after Dylan’s father had passed, and how the club men guided him and helped him with his business. I love Susan, but right about now, I wanna throw this shot glass at her.
I stop and look at the glass in my hand. In my panic, it didn’t even register that I’d left the clubhouse. The night air is cool and sobering. I only have my phone, but no money or car keys.
Do I go back inside to get the keys from Dylan, or do I try to get a cab out here on New Year’s Eve?
The thought of going back inside and looking at all their lying, deceitful faces makes me feel sick. The thick, oozy humiliation is coating my throat.
Finally, after what feels like twenty minutes but was probably two, I decide to ask the brother at the gate for a ride home. Unfortunately, the dark guard booth appears empty.
As I lean in to get a better look, strong arms grip me from behind, and someone puts what feels like a T-shirt over my face. I drop both my phone and the shot glass full of breastmilk.
Right at this moment, there’s a bunch of drunk, violent, and probably armed bikers not far from here. I could scream for help, run, or struggle.
Inexplicably, I don’t. I can’t. My body has shut down completely.
