Anxiety twists my gut. I don't know Jasmine's story, but the way she backed away from him doesn’t lead me to think he brings her flowers or kisses her good-night.
I push down on the handle. “Jasmine, are you—”
My eyes scan the empty room.
“Fuck.” I turn and bump into Torch.
“What the hell happened? Melanie is all freaked out. She told us some guy was permanently banned, and told Trace that you said to make sure everyone knows.”
I look down the hall but there’s no sign of Tracie. She must be with Melanie. My hand drags through my hair. I don’t have time to stand and shoot the shit. I need to find her. “It’s Jasmine.”
“Who?” His eyes narrow as the name registers. “Your assistant?”
“Her husband is the asshole who was in here a few days ago, the one that got rough with Melanie.”
“Shit. What happened today?” He leans against the wall next to him.
“I told the fucker not to come back. Told him, Torch. What does the dumb fuck do? Shows up here, shooting his mouth off. Melanie came and got me. Jasmine came out of the office I’m guessing to see what all the yelling was about. Should have seen her. Color dropped right out of her face. I thought she was going to drop on the spot.” I remember her face as she saw him, the fear that filled her eyes. The way that he gripped her arm and she winced at the contact. That wasn’t the first time he’s put his hands on her, but if I have anything to do with it, it’ll be the last. “He hurts her. I know he does. I need to get out of here and find her. Can you keep an eye on the club for tonight?”
While I’ve been talking, Torch’s shoulders have squared. He’s no longer leaning on the wall. His fists clench at his sides. He’s ready for whatever needs to be done. “Need company?”
“No, I got this. I need a car though, or a truck. I don’t know that taking my bike right now would work.”
“No problem.” He reaches in his pocket and fishes out a key. “Take Tracie’s car, I’ll give her a ride home and have one of the prospects take your bike to your place.”
“Thanks, brother.”
“Anytime.” He claps me on the back and walks back toward the front of the building.
My desk is still covered in paper but I manage to find Jasmine’s application with her address on it and run through the club to the car.
***
I get more than a few honks and threats as I weave through the traffic, changing lanes at a moment’s notice, running lights, not even bothering to take notice of the speed limit. The closer I get to Jasmine’s address, the harder my heart pounds. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I know this guy; know his M.O. I’ve taught plenty of these guys a damn lesson about putting their hands on women. I grew up with that shit. I would never want what was done to my mom to be done to anyone else. It isn’t right.
You just don’t do that shit.
People like Dylan, the ones who pick on those smaller than them, or people who are insecure, just to get their rocks off, fucking disgust me. And then those victims blame themselves.
It all starts to click. Jasmine’s mannerisms, the things I couldn’t figure out are clear as day now. I knew they looked familiar.
Jasmine is my mom.
“No!” My fist slams against the steering wheel.
Get control.
I breathe out. “She needs me.” She doesn’t know it yet, but she does.
I don’t know where I thought she lived. Part of me expected it to be a rundown part of town. Call it misguided preconception. Tidy houses line the streets. A couple of people are walking their dogs. The fences and gardens are all well maintained. There’s even a small park with children playing on swings. The area is just . . . nice. If only her neighbors knew exactly what went on behind closed doors.
Do I even know?
The car slows as I look for her house number. I spot her car in the driveway and cut the engine, rolling into a space on the street. If he’s inside, I don’t want to give him the heads up. I watch the windows from the car. There’s no movement and I really hope he stayed out to cool off.
I jog up to their house. I wonder how she’ll react when she sees me. Will she be relieved, or will she turn me away? If there is one thing I learned from my mother, it’s that abuse can and will completely brainwash a person.
No.
God, I have no right being here, but I keep walking, controlling my every move. There are concrete steps up to a screen door. I reach out and press on the handle.
Locked.
Oh, hell no.
I bang my fist against the screen. It rattles in its frame, but I don’t care. If Jasmine is home, she’s going to know I’m here. “Jasmine,” I call, moving down the side to look through the kitchen window.
Nothing. The worktops are free of clutter. Cookbooks are lined up neatly on a shelf. There’s a bowl of lemons and oranges on the table—shit I’ve only ever seen on the television. It looks like a show home.
I move back to the door and see movement from the house next door. I spin around, a pair of weathered eyes stare back at me. The old woman mouths something quickly, then disappears behind the curtain.
Odd.
I rattle the screen again. Still nothing. I press my ear to the metal and hear a crash from somewhere inside. My stomach drops.
My legs carry me to the front garden, where I look for something—anything—to break the lock. My foot catches on a large rock and I grab it and race back to the door, hammering down on the handle until my shoulders burn and the cheap metal crumples and the door swings open.
“Please. Dylan. I’m sorry.” Jasmine’s small voice reverberates through me.
There’s a laugh and goose bumps break out over my body, my shirt clinging to the cold sweat that coats my skin. “You’re sorry. I saw the way you were looking at him,” Dylan snarls. His voice is deep and cold. “Did you fuck him? Is that why you’re working there? You want to be a whore? A little slut? I’ll fucking show you how to be a good whore.”
I take the stairs two at a time, pausing when I reach the second floor and see a trail of blood leading to a closed door. I should have had Torch come with me.
“Please. Stop.” Jasmine’s cries are more desperate now.
I follow their voices and charge into the room.
Jasmine looks up at me from the floor, her chin pushed into the thick pile of the carpet. Her lower lip is split, her eyes red and swollen. The left one has almost entirely closed up and a large purple welt covers her temple. By tomorrow I’m sure that they will turn black and blue. Her clothes hang off of her in pieces. But what gets me, what royally pisses me off and makes me want to kill the fucker, is seeing Dylan connected to her body.
His thrusts are hard, his grunts forcing cries from her tiny body. While he gets off on torturing Jasmine, she begs him to stop.
It is as if all my thoughts gnarl together as the need to protect her floods my bloodstream, an insatiable craving twisting my insides as I lunge forward to keep this monster away from the girl with the haunted brown eyes. I knock him to his back and slam my fist into his face, hearing the crunch of his nose under my hand. His head hits the wall behind him and his eyes roll back. My fists connect with his face, over and over again. I’m like a man possessed. Blood spatters on my clothes. My knuckles split but the pain almost feels good. I can’t control myself as the way he was hurting her replays in my mind again and again. My vision fades in and out until all I see is black
“Cutter!”
My eyes snap open, landing on the sweetest image I have ever seen. Although Jasmine looks as rough as I feel, she is beautiful, in every sense of the word. Tears run down her cheeks as she reaches out to touch me but pulls back, her teeth grazing over her bottom lip. She winces, her tongue peeking out to gently glide over the split in the skin.
“Jasmine.” My voice sounds hoarse—strange. I’m exhausted, each lungful of air burning me. My shoulders and arms are like lead weights and my clothes stick to my skin, making it har
d to move. A trickle of sweat runs down my temple and drops to the floor. I go to grab her hand when a sound from beside us stops me.
Dylan lies curled up in a fetal position, his breathing raspy and uneven, like he’s gargling with water. Except it’s not water in his mouth.
I throw open the closet and rifle through until my hands land on what I’m searching for. The heavy blanket hangs off Jasmine’s shoulders and I tug it tightly around her, lifting her into my arms and carrying her out of that room before he has a chance to wake up.
I take the stairs gently, careful not to jolt her body too much. She doesn’t say anything, her eyelids fluttering closed. Her small body curls into mine, her fingers gripping my shirt, holding on for dear life.
I’m here.
No more pain.
You’re mine now, Jasmine.
I’ll make you see that.
Chapter Nine
Jasmine
Everything hurts.
Every movement is like knives stabbing me. My skin burns and my body feels like it’s caged in, like my insides are too small for my body and they want to burst out.
I shouldn’t have gone back. I should have known how bad it would be. I barely got his name out before he hit me, the force sending me crashing to the ground. I remember parts after that, but it’s like watching them on a broken movie reel: it keeps skipping and jumping and the sound is all distorted. He landed blow after blow, my screams and pleas making no difference. Gradually, as my body fought to protect itself, each hit hurt less and less. The sensation of drifting out of my body was a strange one, but a welcome relief. I wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t.
When Cutter showed up I thought I was dreaming. I never thought I’d be so pleased to see savagery in someone’s eyes. He saved me, swooping in and making it so Dylan couldn’t hurt me anymore. I’ve never had anyone stop Dylan before.
I know it is all my fault—why he gets so angry. He just gets frustrated, that’s all. I can’t be what he wants. I can’t do anything right and he feels the need to punish me. If I were stronger—better at being a wife—our relationship might not have been what it was.
I open my eyes to unfamiliar surroundings. My first instinct is to panic and my eyes dart around the room, looking for Dylan. When I find no trace of him, I push myself up onto my elbows, crying out and looking down to see purple bruises creeping up my arms. I stretch out my arm, testing for broken bones and finding none, but knowing that physical breaks are not the ones that hurt the most.
Physical breaks heal.
My soul is shattered, and I’m not sure there is a doctor alive who can heal it.
I try to remember what happened last night. I gasp realizing where I must be.
Cutter’s.
He took me to his house? I look down and see an unfamiliar pair of sweatpants and an over-sized T-shirt, both engulfing my bird-like body. He gave me clothes to wear. That means that he undressed me. He would have seen me naked. Seen the bruises, wide and round like Dylan’s fists. I ease up the hem of the T-shirt and tears spill from my eyes when I see the dried blood coating my colorless skin.
A feeling of uneasiness rolls through me. He’s going to come for me. He will be livid that I left the house; that I left him. My limbs start to shake as my mind imagines everything that he might do.
“Don’t be scared.”
I hear his voice but I can’t see him anywhere. I sit up in the bed and wince as my abused muscles fight to work. Through the shadows, something moves and I see a figure in the corner of the room, sitting in a chair. I squint, an ache shooting up the right side of my face, and see Cutter. He’s changed his clothes. Relief sweeps through me. I didn’t want to have to look at him with Dylan’s blood dried into his shirt. It was enough seeing the images when I closed my eyes, but to be confronted with them in real life . . .
“You . . . you have to take me back.”
I’m barely able to get the words out. My lips are swollen, making it hard to say certain letters, and the split in my lower lip threatens to burst open with every vowel sound. There is no doubt in my mind that Cutter was just trying to help me, but that doesn’t stop the fear that gnaws away at my insides knowing that he has just made everything so much worse.
“No.” His voice is strong but not menacing. He stays in his seat and eyes me warily as he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The movements are slow and he maintains eye contact the whole time, as if he’s afraid I’ll bolt if he moves too quickly.
“I have to go back. He’ll come get me anyway. You don't under—”
"You are not going back to that house. It isn't safe, and now that I know what that asshole does to you, if I see him again I will kill him. You've been through a lot, Jasmine. Try to get some more sleep."
With that, he stands up and light streams into the room as the door opens briefly, the latch clicking as it closes softly behind him. I take a deep shaky breath.
I’m not going back?
He wants me to leave Dylan? What would I do? I’ve been with him for so long that the thought of being alone is terrifying. I’m not stupid. I know I wasn't safe with him. I just . . .
I don't know what I will do without him.
I lie back in the bed, the soft cotton of the sheet cool against my burning skin. I try to fall asleep but so many thoughts are racing through my head, I know there is no way I will. This isn't going to work the way Cutter thinks it will. He might think that he can save me, but he can't. He doesn't realize that I caused what happened to me.
It’s my fault.
Sunlight peeks through the slats in the blinds. I think of all the times in the past where I’ve wanted to stay in bed for fear of doing more damage to my body, but remind myself that that’s just my mind’s way of justifying lazy behavior. The effort it takes to swing my legs over the edge of the bed leaves me lightheaded and I have to grasp the bedside table to keep myself from falling.
My eyes drop to the bedsheet and I’m mortified to see streaks of dried blood everywhere. I twist my body, biting my sore lip to keep from crying out as I begin to pull the cover off, searing fiery heat pulsating around the split as I slowly inch the dirty sheets off the bed, bundling them up against my chest. My brow is soaked with sweat and as I move toward the door a sharp pain lances through my skull, colorful spots dancing in front of my eyes. I feel every inch the beaten wife, my misdemeanors on display for everyone to see, and for me to remember. With each jarring step across the room the pain intensifies, my muscles quivering with the effort of keeping me upright, blackness encroaching on my vision as I fight to remain conscious.
Taking a deep breath, I stand up once more holding onto the bed frame for support. I make my way to the door and see the laundry room right across from me. I place the dirty sheets in the washer and add some detergent before going out into the living room. My feet take small careful steps, each one increasing my anxiety. I have to convince Cutter to let me go. The longer I stay, the more danger both of us are in.
The worn carpet of the hallway leads me out into a bright living space, where I find Cutter pacing back and forth, a phone tucked between his ear and shoulder. When he sees me his brow furrows in confusion.
He nods toward a beaten up but comfortable looking leather couch and I make my way over and sit down. He holds up two fingers and then flattens his palm before leaving the room. After a couple minutes, he reappears in front of me.
“Why aren’t you sleeping? You need to rest.”
My words catch in my throat. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. What if I say the wrong thing? I know my limits and what to expect with Dylan, but Cutter is a complete unknown.
"I couldn't fall back asleep," I whisper, so low that when he doesn’t immediately answer, I question if he heard me.
When his rough hand cups my cheek, my first instinct is to pull away. Soft touches like this are usually followed by a knock or a fall. I look up at him, pulling myself inward, making myself as small as possible.<
br />
"I have to go to the clubhouse. It won't be more than a few hours, but I want you to stay here. Make yourself at home. I'll be back soon." He waits for a moment to make sure I’ve heard him. I nod once. The things I need to say to him can wait for him to do whatever he needs to.
He’s halfway to the door when he turns back to me and his mouth opens as if he's about to say something. I wait, drawing shallow breaths in through my nose. It’s the only way to keep my lungs from burning. To stop the knives that attack my ribs with each inhale.
The sound of the door closing reverberates all around me and Cutter is gone.
I’m alone.
In his house.
Will Dylan find me here? A part of me feels like he will show up any minute and make me pay for this. Fear seizes every inch of my body as his face invades my mind. I move slowly around the room, closing the blinds, locking the door behind Cutter, turning and slowly sliding down the solid frame until my legs are tucked up underneath me.
From this angle I’m able to see parts of the room. I don’t know what I expected of Cutter, but the place is extraordinarily neat. DVDs are stacked in a bookcase which matches the entertainment unit and the coffee table. The remotes for the huge television have their place on the armrest of the recliner, and the throw pillows on the couch match the blanket folded up on the ottoman.
It’s while I continue my perusal of Cutter’s living space that I realize I have no idea what to do. A groan from my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten since lunchtime yesterday. I stand up unsteadily and make my way into the kitchen, the cold tile sending shivers up my body.
The refrigerator is stocked with food. I stand there and look at it, not knowing what I'm allowed to have. He said to make myself at home, but home had rules, guidelines. I reach for a piece of fruit but withdraw my hand. What if I'm not supposed to be eating that? What if I eat all the food he wants and he gets mad when he gets home? I close the door, deciding against eating right now.
Cutter’s shirt sticks to my skin. I could really use a shower to help wash away everything that happened last night. I go to the bathroom, the shooting pain in my side making me take small careful steps. I am about to get undressed when I again realize I have no idea what I am allowed to use or do. Are there certain towels that are off limits? Would he mind if I wore more of his clothes after the shower?
Mayhem (Deathstalkers MC Book 5) Page 6
