“What call?” Prez asks absentmindedly.
“Blue Security. Phoenix. Squid.”
My impatience is showing, but I don’t care. A good man’s life is on the line.
“Oh, right. Sure thing. Don’t worry,” Prez tells me like I’m a child who doesn't know any better.
What a fucking asshole.
“Thanks for your help. Slim, escort Marissa to your room and get Rebel down here, right now.”
Chapter 9
Marissa
I’m fuming after being dismissed, and I make sure to stomp my feet on my way upstairs as Dylan follows behind me.
Muscle memory leads me into his old room at the clubhouse, and the tension between us reminds me of the day I told him I was pregnant with DJ. I was standing in this exact spot, and Dylan was sitting on the bed across from me.
I turn away from it and shut my eyes against both the memory of his apprehensive joy at my news and the thought of what he might have done on that same bed with her recently.
“Can you get Junior for me?”
He hesitates. “Don’t you want to rest for a bit?”
“Not right now.” I shrug.
The longer I’m left alone, the more I’ll start to talk myself out of leaving. Not out of love, out of fear. The thought of starting over is daunting.
I have no family or friends to stay with until I get back on my feet. Finding a decent apartment, paying the security depositand first month’s rent with my meager savings, and continuing to pay for DJ’s daycare while having enough food to survive seems like science fiction.
DJ and I are all alone in the world, without anyone to have our back. I guess I should’ve believed Mom when she told me. I want to laugh bitterly, remembering all the times I swore to myself that I’d prove her wrong, or defiantly believed the world was kinder than she claimed.
I mean, Susan’s always been nice, but she’s Dylan’s mom. She sure as hell isn’t gonna take my side in this.
Rachel loves us, but she has three kids and a full-time job. Besides, Truck is Dylan’s VP. He might think the club princess’s feelings come first.
As I watch Dylan hover by the door with his hand on the knob, I briefly imagine that I can do it. He doesn’t know that I know what he’s been doing, and I can continue pretending not to know. I don’t even have to do it well.
I can use his obvious guilt to go on like we have been, barely seeing each other while living under the same roof. I would do anything for my boy, including suffer lovelessness so that he doesn’t have to.
Dylan nods and leaves, apparently having decided not to say or ask whatever it was he’d wanted to. I go to sit on the bed, then change my mind mid-squat, and start pacing the room instead.
I can’t be alone in here, I can’t. I make my way towards where I think my boy is, but low whimpers at the bottom of the stairs make me stop.
“I…” a woman says between small sobs. “You don’t understand.”
“Well, help me understand,” Dylan says in a gentle, patient voice that not even his son gets to hear from him.
I hear them shuffle up the stairs, and my heart starts racing. Luckily, they stop mid-way.
“Talk.”
“Carlos and I were together. For two years.”
“Who the fuck is Carlos?”
“The Preacher, that’s his name.”
