“Why not?” He replies before sucking on my tongue some more.
“I’m not looking for anything right now,” I say between moans.
What I don’t say is that I have a long history of getting too attached and trading sex for the promise of love.
“Hmm,” he hums as he bites my neck.
It’s been such a long time since I’ve been hugged or held or caressed in any way. I’m starving for closeness, so I let myself gorge on it before it’s taken away.
Later, when Dylan flips me over onto my stomach to fuck me from behind, I close my eyes and pretend that this is a man who loves me.
Much later, I’d learn that I wasn’t the only one pretending.
I never got around to getting that tattoo.
But Dylan did leave a permanent mark on my body and mind, around six months later.
Funny how that worked out.
Chapter 1
Marissa
November 2010
My alarm clock goes off less than an hour after Junior’s last wakeup. My entire body hurts from sleeping contorted around him, and my eyes are scratchy and dry. I double-check the time to make sure this isn’t some mistake. Yup, 5:00.
Maybe I’m coming down with whatever bug Dylan has. I smile to myself. He is so caring, sacrificing the little time he has with DJ by sleeping in the guest room to protect our baby’s health.
After carefully transferring Junior to the safety of his rarely-used crib, I sneak off into the bathroom for my 10-minute morning routine. Toilet, teeth, quick body shower. No use in washing my hair in the mornings since I’ll just have to wash it again after work to get the food smells out.
I don’t really look at myself in any of the mirrors. I don’t want to see how much I resemble the girl in The Ring movie, especially with my hair so limp and unstyled. I need to cut this mess off now that I no longer have the time to properly care for it. I don’tcare how much Dylan loves it. I do care, actually. But it’s a real bother. Thank God for whoever invented claw clips.
There is this framed photo on the wall of the Gray Wolves MC clubhouse, of a young woman straddling a Harley while leaning back on the palms of her hands. She’s wearing high-waisted, skin-tight faded jeans and a leather jacket. The bike is parked at what appears to be a wooded picnic area. The wind’s whipping her long black hair around her face so all you can see is her bright, wide smile. Whenever I see it, I envy her. That’s what I thought hooking up with an MC member would be like.
I was still raw from my mother’s passing when I met Dylan, and it seemed like he and his lifestyle would whisk me away from all of it: the small apartments of my childhood, my fatherlessness, and all the complicated, unresolved feelings about my relationship with my mother. Instead, I became a mother myself, and nothing was ever the same again.
This too shall pass has been my mantra every day since. Every sleepless night, every extra pound, every emotionally taxing day...
This. Too. Shall. Pass.
I repeat it to myself as I wait until the last possible minute to put my bra on. Pumping for daycare, DJ’s breastfeeding marathons during growth spurts, and all the hormonal changes have made my big, droopy breasts even saggier.
Braless, I’m bothered by their weight and pull whenever I bend over to pick things up or when I rush up the stairs. Some days, they feel like that metal toy that Principal Patterson had on his desk, with the little balls swinging and hitting each other for all eternity.
But that’s still preferable to the eight hours of bra pressure that clog my milk ducts every few weeks.
Dylan thinks I should stop breastfeeding soon. He says that once Junior starts eating solid foods, he shouldn’t be hanging on his momma so much.
What no one seems to realize is how safe and happy nursing makes my baby. He isn't even six months old yet. He still hasn’t learned to hide the needy parts of himself like I have. He needs that connection with me.
Six months is nothing in the grand scheme of things, I muse, as I throw the frozen meat and veggies into the slow cooker.
“A nice, hot stew to help Daddy get better”, I say out loud in a sing-songy voice, although I am alone in the kitchen. A silly habit born from narrating everything I do to DJ.
I worry about Dylan. His immune system has been crap lately.
Lunch is in the slowcooker! Love you!
