Fearless (The Las Vegas Defiance MC #2)

Chapter One

MARLEY

“We need to talk,” Derek, my long-term boyfriend, mumbles as I sit next to him on the sofa, playing on my cell. It’s after midnight, and I was thinking about getting ready for bed because Lord knows he is going to be up working on his computer for another couple of hours.

“Okay…” I set my cell down on the coffee table, my hands already starting to shake. “What’s going on?”

He doesn’t move closer. Actually, he barely even looks up from his laptop. He simply sits there as if we’re in his office, and I’m an employee he’s about to fire.

Which, I guess, is exactly what’s happening.

“This isn’t working anymore, Marley.” His voice is flat, rehearsed. He’s clearly practiced this. “I think we both know that.”

The words hit me like a punch to the chest, knocking the air from my lungs. “What? Derek, what are you talking about?”

“I’ve been thinking about this for a while,” he continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “We’re just not compatible. You don’t fit with my lifestyle, with my friends, with where I’m going professionally.”

I blink, trying to process what’s happening. “Your lifestyle? Your friends?” Heat crawls up my neck. “Derek, those are my friends too. We’ve been together for six years—”

“Exactly!” He cuts me off, his jaw tight. “Six years, and you still can’t seem to understand what’s expected of you.”

“Expected of me?” My voice rises, confusion mixing with the first sparks of anger. “What the hell does that mean?”

He sighs, like I’m being difficult. Like I’m the unreasonable one. “Look, I’m trying to be nice about this—”

“Nice?” I laugh, but it comes out strangled. “You’re breaking up with me and calling it nice?”

“Fine.” His eyes narrow, and something cold slides into his expression. “You want me to be honest? You’re just… not the right image for me anymore, Marley. You don’t take care of yourself the way you should.”

The room tilts on its axis, and I feel I’m the reason the weight is shifting. “What?”

“Come on.” He gestures at me, his lip turning up slightly, that same dismissive wave he uses when an idea in a pitch meeting isn’t working.

“You’ve put on weight. Clearly quite a bit.

It’s noticeable. My colleagues have mentioned it.

My mother has mentioned it. God, Marley…

can’t you even think about what this is like for me in this? ”

His words are daggers, each one finding its mark.

My hand automatically goes to my stomach, that instinctive, shameful gesture I hate myself for. “I… I work out four times a week,” I rebut, and I hate how defensive I sound. “I eat healthy.”

“Obviously not healthy enough.” He shrugs, and the casual cruelty of it makes me want to be physically ill.

“Look, I’m not trying to be a jerk. I’m just being real with you.

You’re beautiful, Marley, you could be stunning, but you need to put in the work.

Maybe when you lose a few pounds, maybe forty or fifty, you could reach back out to me. We could try again.”

I stare at him, blinking.

This is the man I’ve shared a bed with for six years.

This is the man I’ve cooked for, laughed with, built a life with.

This is the man who’s looking at me right now as though I’m a before picture in a weight loss ad.

“You’re s-seriously breaking up with me because of my w-weight?” My voice cracks, and I hate myself for showing him I am vulnerable.

“I’m breaking up with you because you’re not the right fit anymore,” he corrects, like there’s a difference.

“And honestly, it’s starting to affect me professionally.

When I take you to client dinners or company events, people notice.

They make judgments. And I can’t afford for my personal life to negatively impact my career.

You understand that, don’t you, Pookie-bear? ”

My stomach churns, and the worst part? I see it in his eyes. He actually believes this is reasonable. He thinks he’s being practical.

The condescending fucking jerk!

“Also,” he continues. Oh God, there’s more.

“You’re going to need to step up your appearance at work.

I can’t have the other employees seeing you looking so…

casual all the time. It reflects poorly on the firm.

On me, Marley. Maybe consider some more professional attire.

Tailored pieces. Things that fit properly.

” He glances at me up and down, his expression screaming disgust, then exhales and shakes his head.

Something inside me breaks.

Not just my heart, that’s already shattered on the floor, but something more profound.

My sense of self-worth.

The confidence I’ve spent twenty-nine years building.

All of it crumbles in the way a wave hits a sandcastle.

“And speaking of work…” Fuck he’s still talking. He glances at his watch, suggesting he has somewhere more important to be. “I expect you to remain professional about this. We still have the Campbell campaign to finish, and I need you focused. I don’t need female emotional drama in the office.”

So fat shaming and misogyny all in one night?

“No drama,” I repeat, my emotions beginning to turn to ice. “You just told me I’m too fat to be seen with you in public, and you expect me to show up on Monday and act like everything’s fine?”

“I expect you to do… your… job.” His tone is sharp now, impatient. “We’re adults, Marley. This is business.”

The room starts spinning.

I can’t breathe.

I need to get out of here before I completely fall apart in front of him, and I do not want to give this prick the satisfaction.

“I should go somewhere tonight.”

“See, you get it!” Derek says, and somehow, impossibly, this gets worse.

“I need space. I need you to leave. I can’t have you here while I process this.

This breakup will be hard on me emotionally, too, Marley.

So, I’ll box up the rest of your stuff and drop it off at your parents’ house later this week.

” Then he goes straight back to working on his laptop in a stark contradiction to the words he just spoke.

Hard on his emotions, my ass!

For a moment, I can’t speak. I can’t think. I can only stare at him, this stranger wearing Derek’s face.

“You’re kicking me out… of our house? Tonight? Like right now?”

“I think it’s for the best. Clean break and all that.” I hear the ding of an email being sent, like he’s already working and no longer paying attention to our situation. Work is taking precedence over my internal breakdown. “You can take whatever you can carry tonight. I’ll get you the rest later.”

The humiliation is suffocating.

Six years.

We’ve been together for six years, and he’s dismissing me like I’m a one-night stand he’s ready to be rid of.

As he continues with his emails, clearly finished with our breakup talk, my breathing is rapid as I slowly stand from the sofa, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. I take off, stomping my bare feet a little extra heavy to prove the point of how fucking fat I am to him.

The complete and utter asshole.

I make my way to our bedroom—a room we have shared for the last four years of our six-year relationship. But I guess it’s his bedroom now. My hands shake so badly I can barely grip the duffel bag I yank from the closet.

Clothes.

I need clothes.

Toiletries.

My laptop.

Chargers.

While mentally making a list, I’m grabbing things at random, shoving them into the bag, tears blurring my vision so badly I can’t see what I’m packing.

My favorite sweater. The one with the bleach stain I could never get out. My worn copy of Manifest by Roxi Nafousi. My toiletry bag from the bathroom. Goddammit! Half the products are tumbling onto the floor because my hands won’t stop shaking.

I can hear Derek moving around in the living room, his footsteps impatient, trying to hurry me along and making me feel as though I am an intruder in what was my home thirty minutes ago.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror, mascara running, face blotchy and red, eyes wild, my stomach popping out against my tight shirt, and I have to look away.

He’s right.

I’m not pretty enough.

Not thin enough.

Simply not enough.

The bag is barely zipped when I slide on some flats and stumble back into the living room, clutching it against my chest like it’s the only thing tethering me to reality.

Derek doesn’t even look up from his phone. “You got everything?”

“I guess I’ll find out,” I manage, and my voice sounds hollow even to my ears.

“Great. I’ll be in touch about the rest.” He finally looks at me, and there’s nothing in his eyes. No regret. No sadness. No hint of the man who used to tell me I was beautiful. “And Marley? Monday morning, nine sharp. The Campbell meeting is at ten, and I need those revised mockups.”

He wants me at work on Monday.

Like nothing happened.

Like, he didn’t just destroy me.

“Go fuck yourself, Derek.”

It’s the most rebellious thing I’ve ever said to him, and it feels solid and real.

I don’t wait for his response. I simply turn and walk out the door.

The night air hits me like a slap, cold and sharp.

I’m standing on the porch, his porch now, and I don’t know where to go.

My parents live forty minutes away. My eldest brother, Callum, has two kids and a wife who would ask too many questions.

My other, and more fun, brother, Beck, is in LA for a photo shoot. Then it pops into my head…

Sage.

I need my best friend, Sage.

My fingers fumble with my phone, pulling up the Uber app. I type in Sage’s address. I can barely see the screen through my tears, but I manage the ride request.

The acceptance comes immediately.

A black Honda.

Four minutes away.

Letting out a relieved breath, I send Sage a text.

Me: Coming over now. Prepare the wine. And Cheese. And sappy movies!

Her response is instant.

Sage Against the Machine: What happened??? Who do I have to kill? I have my forks ready and the corkscrew on standby!

My tense shoulders relax just slightly at the sight of my crazy, chaotic best friend living up to the nickname I saved her as in my phone.

The thing about Sage is, no matter the situation, no matter the cost, if I need her, she will be there, and she will be raging about whatever the problem is, even if I’m not.

Hence, my pun on ‘Rage Against the Machine’ with her name.

Me: Thanks, babe… but why forks?

Sage Against the Machine: All my knives are in the dishwasher. Whoever pissed you off will have to be bludgeoned to death with forks. You cool with that?

I swipe the back of my nose with my forearm and sniffle, a small smile crossing my lips momentarily as I type back.

Me: I love you…

Sage Against the Machine: Love you too, bitch. See you soon. xoxo

I peer back around to the front door of my home, well, not my home anymore, and a fresh wave of tears pricks my eyes. “Fucking bastard,” I mumble under my breath.

My Uber driver is getting closer, so I open the message app to text him.

I just need to get away from this fucking house.

Away from him!

Passenger: I’m coming out now.

It shows the little viewed symbol, but I can barely see it as my tears are falling so fast I can’t catch them, running down my cheeks, dripping off my chin, probably destroying my already ruined makeup.

Not that it matters. Nothing matters. Derek thinks I’m too fat to love.

Too embarrassing to be seen with. Too unprofessional to respect.

And the worst part? A tiny, poisonous voice in the back of my head whispers that maybe he’s right.

The black Honda pulls up on the street, lit only by the streetlamp, and I lose it completely. Whatever composure I had left shatters. I practically run to the car, yanking open the back door and collapsing into the seat, my bag clutched against my chest, anchored to me as though it’s armor.

“Are you okay?”

The voice is gentle, concerned, deep, gravelly, and one hundred percent male.

I look up through my smudged glasses and tear-blurred vision, and all I can register at first is his size.

This driver is huge. Broad shoulders. Arms that look as though they could bench-press a small car.

His luminous green eyes are fixed on me with genuine worry.

“No,” I choke out. “Not even a little bit.”

“You wanna talk about it?” He’s turned, facing me in his seat, and his voice has this quality to it that reminds me of warm honey.

Soothing.

Secure.

Protected?

I laugh, but even to me it sounds bitter. “My boyfriend… sorry, my ex-boyfriend, just broke up with m-me.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “Said I wasn’t the right size for his friend group. That maybe when I lose a few pounds, I should reach back out to him.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

The outrage in his voice makes me blink a few times and then scrunch my brows.

He sounds… angry.

Actually, angry on my behalf.

“Dead serious.” I wipe at my face with the back of my hand, and my palm comes away black with mascara. “Apparently, I’m an embarrassment.”

The driver twists fully in his seat, and I get my first real look at him.

Holy shit. He’s not just big, he is gorgeous.

Thick beard, kind eyes, and a presence that fills the entire car.

This giant of a man is wearing a plain black T-shirt that stretches across his chest, and I can see tattoos creeping down his arms.

Not my usual type.

Not even close to the clean-cut corporate guys I usually date.

But something about him makes me feel… safe.

“Well… fuck him!” he says, and the vehemence in his voice makes me jump.

“Seriously! Fuck that guy.” He gestures at me, his expression fierce.

“You look damn fine to me. Real fucking good. Anyone who can’t see that is a goddamn cunt who doesn’t deserve you—” He stops abruptly, like he’s just remembered he is providing a service. “Sorry about the language, ma’am.”

I stare at him. This stranger. This Uber driver, who just called my ex-boyfriend a cunt and told me I look good.

“You… you think I look good?”