Chapter 8
Eight
Jami
One Month Later
The house is too quiet without him.
Tommy’s boots aren’t by the door. His jacket isn’t on the hook. The kitchen doesn’t smell like coffee at odd hours because he can’t sit still.
He’s gone on a week-long run with the club, and I keep telling myself I can handle it. Four years sober, steady job, steady love — I can handle a week alone.
But the voice in my head doesn’t believe me.
It whispers when I’m folding towels, when I’m driving to the site, when I’m scrubbing drywall dust. You don’t deserve this. You’re still her. You’ll always be her.
By Friday evening, I can’t stand the walls pressing in anymore. After work I drive straight past the house, past the compound, past everything familiar, and head for the beach.
The tide’s out. The sand is wet and dark, cool under my bare feet. I walk close to the waterline, letting the waves lick at my toes, hoping the sound will drown out the whispers.
For a while, it works. The horizon is wide and endless, and for a moment I let myself breathe.
Then I hear her.
“Well, if it isn’t Jameson Rivera.”
I stop, pulse spiking. A woman stands a few feet away, arms crossed. Blonde, sharp-featured, lips twisted into a sneer I know too well — the kind of look people give when they think they know your worth and it isn’t much.
“Do I know you?” My voice is steady, but my stomach knots.
She smirks. “Don’t need to. Everybody knows you. Trash stays trash. You can play house with that biker all you want, but people don’t forget.”
The words slice. She doesn’t know the details, but she knows enough to aim for the scars.
I swallow hard, fight the tears burning behind my eyes. I want to scream. I want to run. Instead, I stand tall and square my shoulders.
“You don’t get to define me,” I say, voice sharp. “You don’t know me, and you sure as hell don’t get to tell me who I am. So take your gossip and your bitterness and walk away.”
Her smirk falters. She wasn’t expecting fight. She mutters something under her breath and turns, storming back up the beach.
I stay rooted to the sand until she’s gone, every muscle shaking. My throat aches from holding back the sob, but I don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.
When I finally sink down on the sand, tears spill, hot and heavy. The ocean roars in front of me, and I whisper, “I’m not her anymore. I’m not.”
But the words don’t stick.
The next day, I go through the motions. Work. Sweep. Haul. Smile when the guys crack jokes. But the woman’s words cling to me like grit under my skin.
Trash stays trash. People don’t forget.
By evening, I can’t take it anymore. Feeling restless I take a drive. Twenty miles out of town there’s a dive bar with neon lights buzzing over the door.
I sit in the car for ten minutes, arguing with myself. You’re stronger than this. You don’t need it. But the whispers win.
Inside, it smells like stale beer and cigarettes. A jukebox plays something twangy. The bartender barely looks up when I sit down.
“What’ll it be?” he asks.
I stare at the bottles lined up behind him. My mouth waters. My stomach twists. “Vodka tonic,” I choke out, the words scraping my throat.
He nods and sets a glass in front of me, condensation already slick on the rim.
I wrap my hand around it but don’t lift it. The smell hits me — sharp, chemical, familiar — and my whole body trembles. I stare at it like it’s a loaded gun.
I can’t.
I want to escape it all. This will do that without me hitting the hard stuff. I’m an adult, this is legal. I can control myself. Just one drink.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
I can’t.
“First one’s the hardest,” a voice says beside me.
I look up. A man’s slid onto the stool next to mine. Mid-forties maybe, shaggy hair, tired eyes. He lifts his hands like he’s harmless. “Relax. Not trying anything. Just noticed the look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you order it but can’t drink it.” He nods at my glass. “Been there. I’m sober too. Five years. Wife died. Tried to drown myself in whiskey. Didn’t work. Meetings did.”
Something in me softens. A stranger who gets it. Someone who isn’t looking at me like trash.
“I shouldn’t even be here,” I admit, voice low.
He nods. “Me neither. But sometimes you just need a place where the noise is louder than the noise in your head.”
The bartender wanders back. The man holds up a hand. “Two waters.”
He pushes one toward me. “Here. Safer. Trust me.”
I stare at the glass. Clear. Harmless. My throat’s dry, so I take a sip. Cool. Clean. Relief.
We talk, surface-level stuff. He tells me about his job, his dog, his grief. I nod, sip the water, let the tension in my chest ease.
I don’t see his hand when he leans close. Don’t see the flick of his wrist. Don’t see the powder dissolve. God, how I wish I did.
I wake to sunlight stabbing my eyes. Everything is wrong. The sheets aren’t mine. The room isn’t mine. My head is heavy, body sore.
I shift, and the reality slams into me — I’m naked.
There’s a man beside me, snoring softly. The man from the bar.
Panic claws up my throat. I scramble out of bed, grab my clothes from the floor, heart racing so hard I might faint. My skin burns, crawling with the memory of hands I don’t remember.
What did I do?
Shame floods me, hot and choking. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I know is I need to get out.
I dress fast, not looking at him, not looking at myself. My keys are on the nightstand, and my hands shake so bad I nearly drop them. The motel isn’t one I remember. How far away am I? How did I get here? So many questions run through my head. Is my car close by?
I slip out the door and into the morning air, lungs heaving. Looking around, the bar is across the street. Relief rushes through me. My car’s still in the lot. I climb in, slam the door, and sit there shaking.
Tears blur my vision. I grip the steering wheel, nails digging into the leather.
I can’t tell anyone. Not Tommy. Not Jenni. No one.
If I say it out loud, it’ll be real. And if it’s real, then everything I’ve built — the sobriety, the love, the home — will crumble.
So I swallow the sob, start the car, and drive.
The voice in my head whispers, Trash stays trash.
I press the gas harder, desperate to outrun it. At home, I find relief that he hasn’t returned. He doesn’t know what I’ve done. I rush to the shower and try to wash away the night. There might not be any physical evidence of what happened but the invisible is playing in my head over and over.
The sound of engines hits me before I see them.
I’m in the kitchen, pretending to clean the counter I’ve already wiped twice, when the rumble grows louder. My chest tightens. The Hellions are back. Tommy is back.
I should be happy. I should be running to the door, smiling, ready to throw my arms around him. That’s what I used to do — every time.
But today my stomach knots so hard I can barely breathe.
The door swings open, and there he is. Boots heavy on the wood, cut hanging on his body like a second skin, hair a mess from the ride. My man. My home.
“Tiny,” he says, voice warm, and in three strides he’s in front of me. His hand cups the back of my neck as he leans in and kisses me, deep and hungry like he’s been gone a month instead of a week.
And I want to puke.
Not because of him. Never because of him. But because of me. Because of what I let happen. Because of the stranger’s breath still clawing at the back of my memory.
I force myself not to flinch. Force my lips to move against his. Force my arms to wrap around him like nothing’s wrong.
When he pulls back, he studies me with those storm-gray eyes. “Missed me?”
“Always,” I whisper, but my voice shakes.
He frowns, thumb brushing my cheek. “You look pale. You okay?”
I swallow hard, the lie burning before it even leaves my mouth. “I don’t feel well. Must’ve caught something.”
His hand drops to my waist, steadying me like I might fall. “Should’ve called me. I’d have come straight home. You want me to make you some soup?”
“No,” I say too fast. “You had club business. I’m fine. Just tired.”
He searches my face like he can read the truth written under my skin. My heart slams against my ribs, terrified he’ll see it — see the guilt, the shame, the filth I can’t scrub off.
Finally, he sighs and presses his lips to my forehead. “Then rest. I’ll take care of everything.”
The words should comfort me. They always have. But now they twist in my chest until I can barely stand.
Because if he knew — if he knew where I’d been, what I’d done, what I woke up to — he wouldn’t be saying rest. He wouldn’t be looking at me with love.
He’d be looking at me with disgust.
He should be telling me to hit the road and don’t look back.
I turn into his chest, hide my face in his shirt, and let him hold me. He smells like leather, outdoors, and home. My throat tightens, tears threatening.
“I’m fine,” I whisper again, praying he believes it.
Because if he doesn’t, if he asks the wrong question, if he digs too deep — everything will shatter.
And I’m not ready to lose him. Not yet and really not ever.