Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Lola
H e takes me back to his room above the saloon and gives me a brief tour of the large space.
“While you’re here, it’s best you stay upstairs unless otherwise told.”
I nod and sit on the edge of the bed, waiting for him to continue.
When he doesn’t, I look up and see him scowling at me.
Shit. Was I not supposed to sit?
I quickly get to my feet and stand next to the bed, keeping my head down.
He sighs, and then his hand is sliding under my jaw and tipping my head back so I have no choice but to look him in the eye.
“Make yourself at home. Use whatever you want. I’ll get one of the girls to go shopping for you—just let me know what you need.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“You have anything with you?”
“I have a bag in my truck with my ID and stuff. But no spare clothes, if that’s what you mean.”
“Then you’ll need everything.”
I huff, but before I can argue, he continues.
“You’re my old lady. That means I can buy you whatever the hell I want.”
“I won’t be able to pay you back until I get a job.”
“Did I ask you to pay me back?”
“No, but?—”
“I’m not him.”
“I know that. Trust me, I’m not comparing you to him. But I had a good guy once, too—and look how that worked out.”
He opens his mouth, and I just know he’s about to tell me that I wouldn’t be in this position if I’d kept my legs closed.
Thankfully, he swallows down his words, saving himself a slap.
“You didn’t argue when I told you to stay in here. I expected you’d put up more of a fight. The Lola I remember had more sass.”
“That Lola’s long gone. And why would I argue about staying in here? Being alone’s pretty much the norm for me.”
“You wanna explain?”
“Not really. My head hurts, and I’m exhausted. I just want to lay down and get some sleep.”
“Alright, I’ll let it go for now. Give me your keys—I’ll get your bag from the car.”
I pull them from my back pocket and hand them to him.
“I parked out on the road. I wasn’t sure I’d be allowed to drive in.”
“I’ll find it. Get some sleep. I’ll lock the door behind me.”
So I’ll be locked in?
Maybe I’ll be upset about that later.
Right now, I just don’t have it in me to care.
“Where’s your phone?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Everyone’s got a phone.”
“I don’t—not anymore. And I don’t really have anyone to call, anyway.”
He crosses his arms over his chest.
“If you’re waiting for a different answer, then I’m sorry to tell you—you’ll be waiting a while. The last phone I had, Driller smashed, and I didn’t bother getting another one. Besides, they’re a luxury I can’t afford.”
“You won’t mind if I check, then.”
I lift my arms straight out beside me and spread my legs, pretending I don’t care that he doesn’t believe me.
What’s one more name on the list?
I need to remember that this isn’t a love story.
It’s an arrangement—one that gives him a built-in babysitter, and me a break from being a human punching bag.
Assuming, of course, Hannibal’s true to his word.
In my experience, most men lie as easily as they breathe.
I suck in a sharp breath as his hands glide from my wrists, up my arms to my armpits, then down along my ribs.
He drops to his knees and runs his hands slowly up my legs, pausing at the apex of my thighs before sliding his fingers over my pussy so smoothly, I’m almost sure I imagined it.
Then he’s standing again, his hands moving up to my chest—probably to check my bra.
Only I’m not wearing one.
And I know he knows that because he was staring at my boobs in the damn clinic.
He’s quick. I’ll give him that.
I should be freaking out, but I’m mostly numb to it all right now.
There’s already too much going on in my head for me to dissect the man’s actions.
“I’ll get you a phone when we leave.”
But not before.
Not until he’s absolutely sure I’m not a spy for Khan.
I almost laugh at that.
If Khan were on fire, I’d pull out a bag of marshmallows and watch him roast.
I don’t say anything, though.
I just nod and wait for him to leave.
It doesn't bother me no not having a cell phone. I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t have anyone to talk to. Hell I wonder if anyone even knows I’m missing yet? Driller said he had people watching but usually means watching the house. They won’t come inside to check on me. Heck, I wouldn’t be surprised if they only ones who’ve noticed I’m gone are Smokey and Bandit and I’m not exactly going to call them and let them know I’m okay now am I? God, I’m pathetic.
He opens his mouth to say something else but shakes his head before he heads to the door. I stay where I am until he leaves, pulling the door closed behind him. I wait until I hear the lock click before I take a deep, shaky breath. The tears I’d mostly managed to hold back finally break free, running down my cheeks as I make my way into the bathroom. Gasping, I grip the counter with both hands and stare at myself in the mirror, my reflection mocking me.
“So fucking stupid, Lola. Why don’t you ever learn?”
Rummaging around, I find a couple of washcloths and a pack of toothbrushes, as well as a huge box of condoms. Ignoring the condoms, I grab the washcloths and use one to gently wash my face, careful of the bruises.
Driller usually likes to keep the bruises in places most people won’t see—or that are easy to cover up. I often wear skimpy clothing even when I don’t want to. But the more skin I show, the less he can mark without raising questions. Of course, that forces him to get creative and hurt me in other ways, but I’ll take the small victories where I can. Every once in a while, though, he just lets go of that rage, not giving a fuck where he hits me. That’s when I’m stuck at home or forced to wear that awful stage makeup.
Once my face is clean, I take the other washcloth and run it under cold water before wringing it out, folding it into a square, and pressing it against my eye. It’s going to look worse tomorrow without icing it, but this is better than nothing.
I use the bathroom while I’m in here, then wash my hands and hesitantly walk back into the bedroom—my new prison for the foreseeable future.
I eye the bed warily. A huge part of me wants to climb under the covers and find solace in sleep—the only place I feel safe. But the other part of me feels horribly vulnerable doing so. Wouldn’t it be like offering myself up like an all-you-can-eat buffet?
I look around and bite my lip. I’m being ridiculous. If Hannibal wants to fuck me, avoiding the bed won’t make a difference. He could take me against the wall or on the carpet, even bent over the chair in the corner.
I place the damp cloth on the dresser and open the top drawer. Finding a stack of boxer shorts, I pull a pair out before moving on to the next draw. After rummaging around for a bit, I find the softest T-shirt I can find and close the drawer.
I glance at the door, wondering if he’s out there, waiting, ready to pounce if I… “Jesus, I’m losing it.”
I sit on the edge of the bed and toe off my shoes, thankful I didn’t wear socks. I’m not that big, but getting socks on and off is ten times harder than it used to be. I might have to give up wearing them altogether, because I’ll be damned if I ask Hannibal for help.
I quickly strip off the rest of my clothes and pull the extra-large and super soft T-shirt over my head. It falls to mid-thigh and covers everything. I decide to skip the boxers for now and save them for later, so I have something clean to put on after I shower. Even if Hannibal does send one of the girls out to shop for me, I’ll still need something clean to wear. Sure, I can wash out the underwear I’m wearing, but I’ll need the boxer shorts while they dry.
I pull back the comforter and climb into the bed, staying as close to the edge as possible. I snuggle under the covers and try not to think about the danger I’ve put myself—and my baby—in by coming here. If Driller finds out I’m not just here but being claimed by Hannibal, he’ll kill me.
Surprisingly, given the dumpster fire that is my life is right now, it doesn’t take me long to fall asleep—everything finally catching up with me. Once upon a time, sleeping in a strange bed would’ve been impossible. Now I find comfort in any bed that isn’t my own. The irony’s not lost on me.
When I wake up, I feel a steel band wrapped around my waist, just above my bump. Panic makes me tense. I’ve tried everything to keep Driller away from my baby, knowing that anything could set him off. He plans to use the baby against me, but his temper is a volatile thing. He reacts before he thinks and all it would take is one blow to?—
No. I won’t let that happen again.
As sleep fades and reality returns, I remember that I’m not back home with Driller. I’m not home at all. I carefully ease myself out of bed and quietly walk into the bathroom to pee. My son might be on the small side, but that doesn’t stop him from using my bladder as a trampoline.
My head pounds, and my face throbs. I forgot to put the washcloth back over them after I changed earlier. Grabbing another one, I wet it with cold water before wringing it out and pressing it to my face. Sighing as the pain starts to ease, I head back into the bedroom and stare down at the bed.
Hannibal’s lying on his stomach, the blanket pooled at his waist, showing the tanned expanse of his back and the large Ravens Soul emblem inked into his skin.
I swallow and walk over to the chair, sitting down gently before tucking my feet up into the seat. I use the T-shirt to cover my knees and rest my head on the arm of the chair, keeping the cold cloth pressed to my face. Just as I’m starting to drift off again, I feel hands on me, jolting me awake.
“It’s just me,” Hannibal says softly before scooping me up and laying me back on the bed.
He pulls the blanket back over both of us before wrapping his arm around me once more, his breath warm against my neck as I try to calm my racing heart and force myself to relax.
“Just sleep, Lola. I have a feeling we’re gonna be in for a rough couple of weeks.”
Of course it’s going to be rough. I could have told him that myself. But as I think it, I feel my eyes drooping, and even though I know I should fight it, I let myself drift off into oblivion.
When I wake up again, I’m alone. The muted early morning light spilling through the blinds tells me it’s the next day. I’ve slept for longer than I have in years, but I don’t feel any better. If anything, I feel worse, but then everything feels worse after a beating. My face feels like it’s been stomped on, and there's a manic monkey playing cymbals in my brain.
I contemplate getting up, but I really don’t want to.
It's warm and safe under the covers, and I can almost pretend I’m still a teenager whose biggest worry is what to wear to prom. But in the end, my bladder makes the decision for me. I take my aching body and head into the bathroom to relieve myself. Once there, I strip off my T-shirt and climb into a warm shower, careful to keep my face clear of the spray. That would hurt like a bitch.
I get washed before wrapping a towel around myself. Using one of the spare toothbrushes, I brush my teeth, and ignore the train wreck in the mirror, which looks like she’s been in a fight with Mike Tyson and lost. Once I’m done, I pull my hair back and braid it before tossing it over my shoulder.
I walk back into the bedroom and put on the boxers I found yesterday, along with a black sweatshirt I find in the closet. It doesn’t matter how I look if I’m not leaving the room—but I do need to be comfortable.
When I found out I was pregnant, I read up on what to expect when expecting and realized most of it was more of a guideline than a rulebook. There are no hard and fast rules—what affects one woman might not bother the next. For me, I was lucky that morning sickness had been minimal.
What I’ve struggled with is exhaustion. I’d hoped it would get better after my first trimester, but it didn’t. I don’t know if it’s because I’m so stressed all the time or because I don’t eat enough. Either way, I’ve turned into the nap queen. If I don’t get at least one in, I wander aimlessly, like a zombie looking for brains. But as much as I’d love to go right back to sleep, I need to try and break the habit before the baby gets here.
I look around for something to do and spot my bag on the floor beside the door. I walk over and ease myself down with a soft groan. I rummage around in it and smile when I pull out the book I’ve been reading. I also take the squashed sleeve of crackers I have in there and the lukewarm bottle of water and carry them over to the bed. I climb back in and shift around until I find a comfortable position before cracking open the book and losing myself for a while.
I don’t know how long I read for, but I’m so absorbed in the story that I’m oblivious to everything around me. That’s what usually happens when I fall into a book. I don’t even hear the lock click, so when the door swings open without warning, I shriek like a banshee.
Hannibal stands in the doorway with a tray in his hands and a smile on his face. I swear, for a moment, I see lust in his eyes—but when I blink, it’s gone. “I brought you something to eat,” he says, trying not to laugh.
I feel my face heat, and I look away, suddenly very aware of how ridiculous I must’ve looked shrieking like that.
Placing the book down on the bed beside me, I stare at the tray as my stomach growls loudly.
He curses as he kicks the door closed behind him and walks over, placing the tray on my lap. “I should’ve brought you up something earlier. I’m not used to taking care of people,” he admits.
I barely hear him, my focus on the food in front of me. There’s a plate piled high with sandwiches, a bowl of fruit salad, a chocolate chip cookie, and what smells like a mug of hot chocolate.
“No, this is perfect. I don’t know if I’ll be able to eat it all, though.” I swallow the lump in my throat and reach for a grape, popping it in my mouth. I bite down and groan at the taste.
“Just eat what you can. You could stand to gain a little more weight. I’m pretty sure you’re even smaller now than when I first me you—and you weren’t pregnant then.”
“I could shop for food back then.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I snap my mouth shut as he sits on the edge of the bed.
“So you haven’t been starving yourself on purpose?” he asks.
“No. I just can’t eat what I don’t have.”
He starts to say something else, but there's a knock on the door.
Sighing, he stands up and heads for the door.
“I’ll be back later—with some prenatal vitamins and a shake to help you gain a few pounds.”
I take a bite of my sandwich and nod.
“When I get back, we’re gonna talk,” he says, then leaves, locking the door behind him.
I pause mid-chew, feeling my stomach churn for a whole different reason.
Talking never gets me anywhere––it’s like smashing my head against a brick wall.
I might be in a different clubhouse, in a different biker’s bed, but I know everyone here’s already made up their minds about me.
Nobody’s going to listen to me.
Least of all Hannibal.