Chapter Sixteen
Sadie
It was the first time I had said the words out loud. Simon would barely let me speak when he came to Alan’s house after I called him. He rushed in and took over, not letting me tell him what had happened.
My breath hitched as Billy stared at me.
“Get dressed, Sadie,” Billy ordered, then he turned and walked out of my room while I stood there naked.
I never heard him come in, but I knew he was there. I felt him the minute he stepped inside my room. I’d seen his bike outside. Knew he was here for me. I wanted to ask about Simon. Wanted to ask what the sheriff had done.
But the way he’d looked at me, the way his eyes darkened and his eyelids dropped as if he were drunk at just the sight of me, made me tongue-tied.
Then he moved.
He prowled toward me, hunger radiating off him in waves. He always flirted with me when he came into the salon. But all the guys did. It was just how they were. It didn’t mean anything.
At least, I didn’t think it did.
Every time I checked him out after his appointment, he leaned over the counter to hand me a tip and whispered things to me that I never imagined.
Things he wanted to do to me.
Things I’d begged Alan for.
But Alan told me I was sick. Told me I was demented, like my brother. He always talked about Simon and the way he flirted with men. But he didn’t flirt with Alan.
Not once.
It made him mad, but he wouldn’t admit why. I asked if he was jealous because Simon didn’t flirt with him; that was the first time he hit me. I should have left then.
But I stayed.
Because no matter how many times the bikers came in and flirted with me, I knew it was only in fun. It was who they were. They flirted with everyone. Alan was the first man to pay attention to me.
The first man who wanted me.
And he reminded me of that often.
Every time he hit me.
Every time he degraded me for the way I spoke or the clothes I wore. Every time I tried to defend my brother when Alan called him a faggot or a fairy. Or a fruit.
I’d let my brother down even though he didn’t know it. Because Alan never said those things in front of Simon. My brother might be gay, but he wasn’t weak. He worked out; Alan didn’t.
Where Alan used words to inflict pain, Simon had his fists. The difference was, Simon would never use them on a woman. Not the way Alan used them on me.
I should have left sooner, but I fell for the trap. I fell for the love-bombing and the apologies. I fell for the gaslighting and the manipulation.
I fell for the lies.
Like so many other women, I stayed because I let myself believe I couldn’t do better. Let myself believe I didn’t deserve better. Alan was to blame for the abuse, but I was the one who stayed.
I made the choice to allow it to continue.
I could make all the excuses I wanted: I loved him; he said he loved me; I pushed his buttons; I had nowhere to go. But the truth was, I had choices; I just didn’t like them, or I didn’t want to make them because it was hard.
I had more options than most women who found themselves in similar situations. I could have let Simon help. I could have let the club help. Instead, I let myself be a victim because I was weak.
I could admit that I stayed because when he wasn’t hitting me or telling me how pathetic I was, he was everything I thought I wanted. I accepted the bad times for the few good times because I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be worshipped.
I wanted to be seen as someone other than Simon’s little sister.
Seen as someone other than the fat girl who did hair.
Because even now as I stood naked in my motel room, even though I saw the hunger in Billy’s eyes, saw the bulge he didn’t even try to hide in his jeans, I was still the fat girl.
That was who I would always be.
I’d tried diets—all of them. They worked for a while, but I hated being miserable. I wanted to be happy. I wanted to enjoy life, enjoy food. Alan had made me happy at first.
When we first started dating, he didn’t talk about my weight unless it was to compliment my curves. He didn’t disparage my eating choices unless it was to talk about my health. He made me believe he loved me for who I was, not what I looked like.
Until he reeled me in completely.
Then there were little comments about a pair of jeans being too tight, or a top being too low-cut. Then he mentioned my health, but not in the ‘I don’t want to lose you’ way. It was more the ‘why can’t you control yourself’ way.
He used to tell me I needed to take pride in my appearance but then get angry if I took too long getting ready. If his friends flirted with me, he called me a whore, but if I was too quiet, he called me an embarrassment.
The knock on the door startled me out of my ramblings.
“Are you dressed, Sadie?”
“Almost,” I called back.
I scrambled to my suitcase and dug for my pajamas. It was late, and I was planning to go to bed. I didn’t know why Billy was here, but I was glad. I needed to know about Simon.
I needed to know that he was okay, and Billy would have that information. I didn’t care what he wanted, as long as he told me Simon was okay.
Once I was dressed, I yanked the door open and Billy pushed his way through, barely looking at me.
“Do you have a fucking robe?” His voice was angry.
“No,” I said, grabbing the blanket and sitting on the bed. “I wasn’t expecting company.” I pulled the blanket over my legs and tugged it up over my chest.
Billy groaned, but he sat against the desk on the other side of the room. “Why did you run?”
“Simon told me to.”
Billy stood up straight, his gaze piercing as he walked closer to the bed where I sat in my pajamas, covered up because I needed a barrier. A cover over my body because I wasn’t sure if Billy was angry or horny when he looked at me.
“Explain,” he growled.
I didn’t know why I was so forthcoming. Maybe because it was Billy. Or maybe because my soul was dying. I should have done things differently. I should have called the club instead of calling my brother, but I thought, given his relationship with Matlock, he would call the club.
I mean, yes, their relationship was secret, and no one knew about it but me, but I just assumed Simon would call them. But if Billy was here looking for me, something had gone wrong.
“After I killed Alan, I called Simon. He came to the house and told me to leave. He broke my phone and told me to wait three days before getting a replacement with the same number. He said to pretend I was on vacation.”
“That’s why you’ve been using your cards, leaving a fucking trail all over the goddamn state.” He pulled his phone out as he muttered, “Jesus Christ, Matlock is gonna kill him.”
“What happened? Is Simon okay?”
Billy held up his hand as he put the phone to his ear. “Yeah, I found her. Yeah, it was her. He told her to fucking run.”
I stared at Billy, straining to hear the other side of the conversation.
“No, she told me everything.” He paused and looked at me. “Clear self-defense,” he explained as he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “We’ll be home tomorrow.”
I scrambled from the bed and grabbed Billy’s arm. “What happened?”
His eyes glanced down where my hand was, and I yanked it back as if I’d been burned. I still hadn’t learned my lesson. Why couldn’t I get it right? Why did I have to touch everyone?
I stepped back and sank down on the bed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have touched you.”
“Sadie.”
Tears welled up in my eyes at the tone of his voice. It wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t hard either. Maybe he wouldn’t punish me the way Alan had. Maybe there was still a chance I could soften his anger.
I closed my eyes tight, trying to find the right words that would soothe him. My eyes sprang open when I felt his hands on my thighs. Billy was crouched down in front of me. I swallowed carefully; he was too close. I’d never be able to avoid the hit with him in front of me like this.
“I-I’m sorry, Billy. I won’t do it again.”
“Sadie, look at me.” His finger lifted my chin until I was looking into his eyes. “I won’t hurt you, baby.”
A tear slipped out. Alan had told me the same thing once. Then it changed to ‘I only hurt you because I love you.’ And ‘You need to learn, baby.’ Then it changed to ‘Why do you push me to this?’
In the end, he wasn’t careful with his words. In the end, he was honest about what he thought.
It was my fault he hit me.
I wouldn’t listen.
I was flirting with someone.
I made him angry.
I forced him to punish me.
I wouldn’t give in.
I told him no.
I owed him.
The sound of his voice echoed in my head with every line he fed me, every excuse he used to hit me, punish me, rape me. Until he was right in front of me.
It was his face I was looking into. His face, smiling with love that wasn’t really true.
Love didn’t hurt.
Love didn’t strike out.
Love didn’t force you to do things you didn’t want to do.
Even when you said yes in the past.
Everything came rushing back all at once. Every hurtful word, every strike, every taunt and whine that I let pressure me into having sex with him. And every time he ignored it when I said no.
Until I broke.
My hands fisted at my sides as he called my name. His voice was soft and sweet, trying to lure me back in again. It was what he did. Only this time, I was done letting him.
I’d had enough.
So I punched him. I pulled my hand back and watched as he fell back on the floor. Then I moved. I pulled my legs up on the bed and scrambled to the other side.
I stood with my back against the wall and waited for him to strike. Waited for him to come after me. My eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape; only, there wasn’t one because he was between me and the door.
The only option was the bathroom. But there was no window. No way out once I closed the door. A door he would break down. A door that meant nothing to a man who wanted to hurt me.
He didn’t get up right away, and I silently begged him to. The longer he waited, the worse it would be. He stayed on the floor and backed up to the wall.
I stared at him, watching, waiting. But something wasn’t right. His eyes were soft, not angry. I scrunched my brows as I studied every line on his face. Blood dripped from his lip, and his tongue darted out to lick it away.
“You’ve got a mean right hook, baby.”
He sounded... happy? He chuckled, and something opened in my chest. I looked in his eyes again; they were so blue, like the sky on a cloudless day.
WAIT!
Alan had brown eyes. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my head, and I finally saw him.
Billy sat on the floor, his arms resting on his jean-covered knees. His messy hair hanging over his eyes. Blue eyes that stared back at me with laughter.
He stood up, his height towering over everything in the room.
“Get some sleep, baby. We’ll leave in the morning.” Then he opened the door and walked out without another word.
Without a slap.
Without a punch.
Still chuckling.
“Well, crap.”