That lands in an unexpected way. But given what I know about Stacy, it makes sense and explains more than she probably realizes. I lean back to be able to watch her closer. She lets out a small, nervous laugh. The first real break in her composure tonight.
"I was fifteen when I met Razor."
Fifteen. What the fuck? I go still. Completely. She doesn't notice. She's too absorbed in her story, or maybe she does and keeps going anyway.
"He was already high up in the MC," she tells me. "Respected. Untouchable."
Another small pause that gives me enough time to do the math. If she were fifteen then, that would be nine years ago. With Razor nearing forty now, he had to have been…
"He was thirty." She finishes my thought.
Something tight and controlled locks into place inside my chest. Thirty. Fifteen. I don't move. Because if I do, if I let even a fraction of what just hit me show, this conversation changes. And I'm not done listening. Not yet. My grip tightens slightly around the glass. Enough that I feel it slightly cracking. I've killed men for less. For looking at what was mine the wrong way. For touching something they weren't allowed to touch. And this… this wasn't a touch. This was ownership. Grooming. Control dressed up as choice. My jaw shifts once. That's it. That's all I give her.
I grind my teeth and grate out, "Did he…" I ask, forcing my voice to stay level. Too level.
Her eyes flick back to mine. And for a second, just a second, I think she sees it. The stillness. The calculation. The violence sitting just under the surface. But she doesn't pull back. Doesn't soften it. She wants me to finish the question. "Did he touch you?"
"Yeah," she nods quietly. "He did."
Snap.
Just like that, it's not only my control that splinters, but the glass stem as well.
"Oh," she exclaims, but I don't even notice it.
I stare at what's left of the glass in my hand. The stem, cleanly broken between my fingers. I don't remember tightening my grip. I don't remember deciding to. It just… happened. Like something inside me gave way at the exact same moment. Slowly, I set the broken piece down on the table. Carefully. LikeI'm handling something fragile. Like I'm not the one who just broke it. I have to because otherwise I might upend the fucking table in rage at what was done to her.
Blood beads along the side of my finger, a thin red line where the edge caught skin. I ignore it. My gaze lifts back to her. And this time, I don't bother softening it.
"How long?" The question comes out rougher than before.
"Gabe—"
"How long," I repeat, quieter this time.
Worse. Because now it's not a question. It's a demand. A beat. Her throat moves as she swallows.
"Over two years," her voice is barely audible.
Something dark shifts in my chest. Over two years. Fifteen to seventeen. With him. Around men like that. Learning. Adapting. Surviving. Having sex. My hand curls against the table, and a broken shard of glass bites deeper into my skin. I welcome it. It refocuses and anchors me for the time being. Because the alternative is my getting up, walking out, finding the fucking asshole right now, and ending him in the most painful way imaginable.
The chair scrapes with a sharp squeal. Abruptly. I look up. Audra is already on her feet. Tension rolls off her in waves. "This is why I didn't want to tell you."
Her voice is tight. But there's something underneath it, something close to anger. She turns and marches toward the railing. Putting distance between us. I frown, pushing to my feet and following her. She braces her hands against it like she's holding herself in place. I study her for a second, confused over what just happened. Then I realize, "Because I'm going to make him pay for what he did to you?"
She spins around so fast it almost throws me. "What? No—wait—" She stops. Stares at me.
I stare back. And then it clicks. Not all of it. But enough.
"Audra," I chose my words more carefully, "I'm not judging you. I'm mad at the piece of shit who?—"
"He didn't force me," she cuts in. Sharp and immediate. "I wanted it. I welcomed it." Her eyes lock onto mine. Daring me. Challenging me.
"To you, it looks like something else," she continues in a tight voice, "but that's not how it felt." She waits. "So now you know." Her chin lifts in defiance. "I was fifteen when I lost my virginity. I was fifteen, fucking a thirty-year-old man."
Heavy silence follows because I don't react. At least not the way she expects. Not the way most men would. Because this isn't about the shock effect. Or judgment.
"He groomed you," I finally push out.
