My phone buzzes.
Twisted: Heard your girl is having a rough time. Let me know if you need anything. Church tomorrow at noon.
Me: Not my girl, but thanks.
Twisted: Whatever you say, brother. Whip said you got the look in your eyes already. Shit happens faster than you can blink sometimes.
Sharing stories is part of the brotherhood. Years of information and experience passed down from generation to generation, and not all of them are designed to scare the shit out of us. Twisted’s always said he knew from the first night he met Nikki that she’d eventually be his. Whip said the same thing about Lucy. When Jasmine walked into the club, it was like I could feel my heart pounding double-time, my body letting me know that something was up before I even saw her. An invisible force, pulling me to her.
Growing up I never really knew what a healthy relationship was. The only things I knew were pain, abuse, and misery. No one in my position would want a relationship after seeing my parents. The idea of a healthy relationship wasn’t ever something that I considered.
Dishes clang in the kitchen. I follow the sound and see Jasmine wash her plate, dry it, and then place it in the cabinet. Her movements are robotic and that has nothing to do with her injuries. It's what she’s been trained to do. I can't help but wonder if she ever wanted to leave him. If there was a time when she had enough.
Sensing me behind her, she takes my plate from me and I’m about to tell her no when I remember what Lucy said to me.
You have to let her continue her routine for the most part. Trying to change it all at once is going to paralyze her. She's scared and she's been doing the same things every day for years. These are things she views as requirements. The only way to get her out of it is little by little. A couple changes a day, any more and she'll have a breakdown.
I let her take the plate from me as she mindlessly goes through the motions. I want to reach out and stop her. Throw the goddamn plate against the wall. I want to pull her to me and tell her to forget all the bullshit he drilled into her, but I know that would probably do more harm than good.
I wait until she's done and then take her hand leading her back to the couch. "I need to ask you something and if you aren't comfortable telling me, just say the word."
She nods.
I take a breath trying to watch the way I say this. “Why didn’t you leave him? You couldn’t have been happy.”
Her eyes go blank.
***
Jasmine
I listen for the car pulling out of the driveway, my body shaking with what I’m about to do. Dylan has been getting more violent and controlling since we moved out here. Yesterday he took my cell phone. He says my family is trying to come between us.
I need to get away. Before he hurts me even worse than he already has.
A small backpack sits by the door, with enough to last me a few days. There’s exactly two hundred and nine dollars and eleven cents in my purse—the measly fruits of two months of slipping small bills out of Dylan’s wallet when he was passed out. The directions to the bus station loop in my brain. I must have studied the map for hours trying to commit them to memory.
This is it.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door, the sunlight warming my face. I smile. Then my face in cast in shadow and a hand closes around my throat.
I open my eyes. How did he know?
Dylan’s face is full of anger: the whites of his eyes bloodshot, his teeth clenched, chest heaving. He squeezes, draining the breath from me. “You stupid fucking bitch. You thought you could leave me?”
He pushes me back into the room and I fall to the ground.
I cough, trying to catch my breath.
I hear his boots on the wooden floor, coming toward me. I curl into the fetal position, but when his hand grips my hair and he starts to pull my ponytail like it’s a leash, I’m forced to get to my feet, walking backward up the steps as he drags me behind him. When the top step catches my calf and I stumble, my foot slipping, my entire weight suspended by my hair, I scream. Dylan does nothing but laugh as he yanks me back up, pushing me into our bedroom. The crack of my skull hitting the dresser echoes through my head and dots pepper my vision as I slide down the heavy drawers into a heap on the floor.
“Dylan, please. I’m sorry.”
He walks into the closet and emerges with his box. “Not yet, but you fucking will be.” He turns, two sets of handcuffs in his hands. They’re the metal ones. The ones he always clicks too tight. The ones that bite into my skin and leave dark bruises that keep me indoors for days afterward. “Undress, now.”
It takes me three attempts to stand up, my legs not listening to me, and I have to clutch at the dresser to stop myself from falling down again. My head throbs. Lifting my shirt over my head, I start to cry.
“Faster!”
I jump at his voice and move as quick as possible. “Get on the bed, slut.” I flinch at the harshness of his voice, even though it’s a tone I’ve heard numerous times.
Moving over to our bed I climb onto it, he smacks my ass so hard the force sends me falling onto the mattress. I yelp from the pain and his laughter sounds behind me.
With my face buried in a pillow, he grips each of my wrists in turn, hooking the handcuffs around them and then around the bedpost. The fabric closes in around me, making it hard to breathe, and my arms are stretched so tight that I can't even bend my elbows. His hand clasps around my ankle and he twists. Pain shoots up my leg and I scream into the pillow, my tears soaking it. Something soft is wrapped around both ankles and then my legs are pulled.
I can’t move.
My limbs are pulled so tight that it feels like they might rip off of my body. I know what’s coming. My muscles tense in anticipation and fiery bursts shoot through my limbs, like someone has crawled inside my body and is ripping me apart from the inside. Blackness encroaches on my vision as my breath is trapped in the attic of my throat and the pain starts to take me—not away, but to some place deep inside my psyche that knows how to deal with this. How to make it through. With every sob that leaves me the pressure increases and I feel myself start to unravel. But I won’t give that to him.
Not now.
Not ever.
“The longer you cry like a fucking baby, the longer I’ll have fun.” Before I can look over to where he is standing, he strikes me across my back.
With his belt.
A scream rips from my throat.
The dam is broken. He is relentless, strike after strike hitting a new piece of skin. I bite down on the pillow to mask my cries, remembering he said he wouldn’t stop till I was quiet.
After a minute or so the belt is gone, and as the silence steals the oxygen from the room, my breathing coming in raspy, labored pants, I dare to lift my face.
I’m alone.
A minute later I hear the front door open and close.
He left me like this.
My body hurts just remembering that day. "He didn't come back to the room for what felt like the longest time. How long exactly, I don’t know. Hunger had long since eaten away at my insides, and my lips were cracked and bleeding. The bedding was coated in blood, sweat, tears . . . other stuff. The smell in the room would have knocked me unconscious had the lack of food and water not already had that covered. Not that he gave me any. When he did come back, he released me and told me that I needed to have the sheets and mattress cleaned by the time he got back from work."
A chill runs through me. "I couldn't walk—not properly, not for weeks. My guess is that he sprained or fractured my ankles. I couldn't tell which because I was never allowed to see a doctor. Doctors meant questions, and we couldn’t have people asking questions.”
My eyes are closed and it takes everything in me to keep the contents of my stomach, the pain fresh in my mind if not on my body. “To get downstairs took a lifetime, and even when I made it down there I had to crawl just to put everything in the washer. I got to the living room and saw the news. N
early a full forty-eight hours had passed.”
I meet his eyes for the first time since I started my story, and the rage inside of them shocks me.
“I never once considered leaving him again.”
Chapter Thirteen
Cutter
I think I’m going to throw up. Sitting here, trying to hold my shit together, is one of the hardest things I’ve done.
Hearing her tell me what happened when she tried to leave, knowing what he did to her just to scare her into staying . . . it makes my fucking blood boil. Men like him deserve an unimaginable death. I wanted to find him before—now I want to find him and torture him until every ounce of life leaves his body.
I look into Jasmine’s wide eyes, her lower lip quivering. I want to take that look away. I want to erase all the pain from her past, all the damage he caused her.
“Turn around.”
My voice is measured as I try to hide the anger behind it. She looks like she might question me but then does as I’ve told her. My hands itch with a burning need to touch her. I slide the T-shirt she’s wearing up her back and my breath hitches. Beneath the fresh bruises of the other day, white scars cover about seventy-five percent of her back. Hearing what he did to her was bad enough; seeing it is ten times worse.
Before I can stop myself I lower my head, my lips touching the puckered skin. She shudders but then stills. With her silent permission I do the same to the one next to it.
And the next.
And the next.
Each of these marks are full of fear and pain. I want to erase the memories associated with them and give her something good to think of when she sees them. As I move from scar to scar Jasmine’s shoulders drop. Color returns to her skin. Her breathing levels out.
This woman is so strong. People look at women who have been abused and presume them to be weak. It takes a strong woman to survive, and that’s what she’s done. She has survived hell, and now I am more determined than ever to bring her back from it.
When I slide her shirt back down, she doesn't move.
"Turn back to me."
She listens immediately and it makes me sick. I can't read the look on her face. I don't know if I scared her, or if it was a comfort.
I want to say something but I have no idea what. She isn't ready to hear how I'm feeling about her. She certainly couldn't handle being mine. And so we sit there, just looking at each other; a silent conversation between two people who have so much to say but can’t bring themselves to utter the words.
My phone buzzes.
Whip: Lucy asked if you want her to come over and hang out with Jasmine during church tomorrow.
I let him know that'd be great. Putting my phone back in my pocket, I look back up to Jasmine, still in the same position. She's looking at me as if she's waiting for me to tell her how to fix everything. Waiting for an answer. The thing is, there isn't one. There is no right way to put yourself back together after you’ve been shattered.
I tried to force my mom into being herself again and it only made things worse. She has to find the strength within herself to survive. It’s not something I can give to her.
“Let’s get to bed. It’s been a long day for both of us.”
She nods and stands up, following me to my room. While she lingers in the corner by the window, I grab a change of clothes from my dresser and head into the bathroom to get changed. I’m gonna let her take the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch. As much as I'd like to have her in my arms, I don't want to put her in a position where she's uncomfortable.
I want her to trust me.
“You can have—” The words catch on my tongue, completely shocked to find her naked on the bed. Her head is dipped and her eyes have the blank look I hate.
"Jasmine, what are you doing?"
She looks over to me. “You said we were going to bed. I just wanted to be ready for you. I’m thankful that you helped me. I have to show it.”
She has to?
With my eyes on the floor, I move around the bed to grab her clothes. I hand them to her but freeze as I try not to notice the different scars that litter her chest because if I look beyond the cuts and bruises, she’s gorgeous. Full breasts, narrow waist, curvy ass. Everything in me wants to slide under the covers with her and make her mine. But that isn’t what she needs, and if I do want her, that will ruin us before we ever start. “Put your clothes on.”
I turn away from her before I do something we both regret. The bed creaks and I turn back toward her. She’s tugged her T-shirt over her head and pulled the sheets up to cover her waist. Tear streaks stain her cheeks.
Fuck.
This could be the entirely wrong thing to do but hell if I know what else to do. I sit down next to her, lifting her chin so she’s looking at me. “Why the tears?”
She hesitates.
“Tell me.”
She exhales. "Nothing I do is right. I can't please you just like I couldn't please Dylan. I try, but I always seem to get things wrong." Her voice breaks as she spews out the confession.
I run my fingers through my hair, needing to do something with my hands, but it’s useless. Before I can stop myself, I pull her onto my lap.
"You're wrong. I didn't tell you to get dressed because I don't want you. I told you that because I want you more than I can stand." My voice is a strangled moan as her eyes lock on mine before traveling down to my toes. I'm hard as a rock, and I'm sure she can feel it, too. "Having you here today has been great. I want you to stay, I want you here. Don’t doubt that again, do you understand me?” I harden my voice on the last sentence to make sure she knows I’m serious.
I stand up and walk toward the door. “I need to get to bed, and so do you.”
“Where are you going?”
“The couch. I wanted to give you your space.” She looks around the large room. Her hands clutch the sheets and her teeth bite at her bottom lip. “Did you want me to stay?”
She tries to process what I’ve just asked her. I’m sure it’s the first time she’s been asked her opinion about what she does for a long time.
“Yes—I mean, if it’s okay.”
Everything in me screams that this is a bad idea. That I’m about to fuck up. But surely part of her recovery is leaning on someone, and if that someone is going to be anyone, it’ll be me. I walk over to her, standing in front of her so she looks up at me.
“Anything you want I’ll give you. You just have to ask.”
On the spur of the moment, I lean down and place a kiss on her forehead. I know it’s wrong but I can’t resist. I lean closer, my forehead resting on hers and, fuck, if the smell of her doesn’t overwhelm me.
I pull away before I’m tempted to do any more and she turns her back to me, bunching the sheets up under her chin, her hair splayed over my pillow.
Raising my eyes to the ceiling, I take in a deep breath before I climb in next to her, my back to hers, hoping with everything in me that I can pull her out of this sooner rather than later.
Chapter Fourteen
Jasmine
I wake to soft sheets and the first rays of the morning sun trickling through the blinds. I try to twist to see the time but find a heavy arm draped over me, pinning me to the bed. Fear invades me as my body goes stiff. My chest heaves and it feels like I’m suffocating, even though I know I’m not.
“Hey, it’s okay,” a voice whispers in my ear. My body strangely relaxes, and the arm lifts off of me.
I look around, remembering where I am. I turn toward the man next to me, the man who I can't figure out for the life of me. He is so different from anyone I've ever met. I was ashamed to tell him my story and show my weakness to him, but he listened without comment. He didn't look down on me. I found no judgment in his eyes. He eased my anxiety with gentleness.
A gentle loving touch.
As much as my mind is at war, he calms me. The constant anxiety is held back before it starts to build, the indecision that usually eats away at me before I can even
start my day is somewhat alleviated. Each time I think about making a choice for myself and Dylan’s voice sounds in my ear, Cutter is there.
The bed dips and I look over to see Cutter standing at his dresser. His bare back is sculpted with muscle and a large tattoo of the club logo. His muscles contract as he pulls a black T-shirt on over his head and when he turns around he smiles, catching me watching him. My cheeks heat with embarrassment. His chest is decorated with tattoos, and I can’t help but notice that he is much more defined than Dylan ever was.
“I have to go head over to the clubhouse for church, but Lucy is gonna come by and hang out for a bit.”
“You’re going to church?” I look around for a clock. “What time is it?”
He walks over and sits on the edge of the bed. “It’s almost eleven. We haven’t really gotten into all of this, but what do you know about MCs?”
My face must give away my confusion because he sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.
"Okay well, you should at least know the basics. MC is short for motorcycle club. Long story short, we are a family. There are different positions in the club. Tracie, from the club, she’s the vice president’s old lady—that means she’s his woman. Lucy is with Whip. He’s our sergeant at arms. I’m the treasurer. You haven’t met our president or his girl yet. Church is a meeting for us. Only brothers attend. I’d be lying to you if I said that everything we do is legal. If you choose to stay around after we get this mess figured out, you need to know that. I can't talk to you about club stuff, ever.”
I nod my head, although, I don't think I've processed even half of what he is telling me.
There’s a knock at the door. "I'll grab that. It's probably Lucy. I put all the clothes from yesterday in this dresser last night. Feel free to—" He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. "Put on a pair of black pants and T-shirt. You pick the color of the shirt."
Mayhem (Deathstalkers MC Book 5) Page 9
