I refuse to think like that. One day, I’m gonna see what he looks like when his eye isn’t swollen shut.
I glance down at Junior’s tiny hand in mine, then lift it up to my nose and smell it. I’m so happy he recognized me. I didn’t even realize I’d been worried about that. He’s apparently missed me a lot; Dylan has been grumbling about that.
Dylan is shooting me these little fake worried looks in the rearview mirror.
The time to worry about me would have been before sticking your dick into your ex! I want to shout at him, but it’s also such a bizarre situation that I kind of smile to myself.
I might be losing my mind.
Ever since I woke up at the hospital, the last two days have been hazy in my mind, and the kidnapping has felt like a distant dream. Now, the thought of Dylan’s affair brings a very important piece of information to the foreground of my mind.
The Preacher had wanted Rebel, and he was apparently willing to pay a lot of money to get her. What do I do with this information? Do I tell her brother?
For a moment, I wish the Preacher would find her. I wish she’d disappear and never come back to our lives again.
But as I glance at the back of Dylan’s head, my heart knows that the damage is already done. I can never love him again. I can never spread my legs and welcome him inside me now that I know.
Maybe I’ll tell the truth. Later. After they’ve helped Hawk. I don’t want Sly to focus on protecting his sister at the expense of everyone else, like I suspect he would.
“Alright,” I whisper to Junior. “Let’s make a plan. First, we help Mr. Hawk, then we get Mommy healthy, and then we worry about everything else. What do you say?”
When Dylan parks in front of the clubhouse, it takes me a moment to get out of the car. My body is rusty from disuse, and everything hurts and creaks.
Hawk is still sitting tied up in that chair. He is. He isn’t dead or anything.
Dylan has already unbuckled DJ from his car seat and is carrying him across the gravel lot, and the image of our son in his arms threatens to sway me. My heart hurts for my boy.
“Are you okay?” Rachel whispers at my side, and I gratefully take the arm she’s offering.
“Not really,” I tell her.
I didn’t have the time or energy to go into my personal drama when we talked at the hospital. That falls under the “worry about everything else” part of the list, together with “find decent place to live with very little money” and “how not to lose custody when Dylan can afford a much better lawyer than I can”.
“If you’re not up to being interrogated, Truck can convince Prez to give you more time.”
“Thanks, Rach, but I want to get it over with and go home as soon as possible.”
“I don’t think Slim will let you go home until they know that the danger is truly over.”
I try to focus on her face as we walk, only half-listening, because I’m afraid to look at where I was when they grabbed me.
My neck itches unbearably, and I want to be inside already. I need to hold my baby.
*
“Marissa, I’m glad you’re alright,” Sly, the lying asshole, tells me, and I stare at the point right between his eyebrows as I nod.
I can’t believe I spent the last two years chasing this guy’s approval. I knew he was important to Dylan, so I always tried extra hard around him and Angie. Fat lot of good that did me.
Almost as if conjured by my mind, Angie appears behind him and tries giving me a hug, but I step back and apologetically gesture to my chest.
“Bandages,” I say, and she gasps.
Let her think I have some horrific wound. Maybe that’s what it takes to jolt her conscience awake.
I look around, and Rebel’s not here. I relax slightly. I don’t know how I would have reacted if I’d seen her.
“Should we go into my office?” Prez asks Dylan, not me, and off we go.
