Chapter 17
Emily
Iwake with a start, bathed in darkness. At first, I’m disoriented, unsure where I am. The soft, luxurious sheets surrounding me and the cloud-like mattress beneath are enough to tell me I’m not in my own bed.
I sit up and rub my hands over my eyes, wincing at the sting. Everything comes flooding back, replaying in my mind like a bad dream.
Mick losing his shit because I wouldn’t give him the little money I had.
The fight that followed.
Dominic showing up at the house unannounced and convincing me to leave with him.
Walking away from a life that felt unescapable.
The downside is I’m now homeless and broke. It feels like everything is spinning out of control. I can’t tell which way is forward. Mick isn’t going to let me leave him like this, and the thought makes bile rise in the back of my throat.
There’ve been plenty of times when Mick’s behaviour has frightened me, but he crossed a line yesterday. There’s no going back. I honestly thought at one point he was going to kill me. Thankfully, he had the foresight to leave before it came to that.
I toss back the covers, switch on the lamp, and rise from the bed. I feel uncomfortable being here, despite how welcoming and sweet Lucia was with me when I arrived.
I don’t even know these people; I barely know Dominic.
I rummage in my bag for my phone, and see it’s 3 am. There are no missed calls or messages from Mick, which is weird and a little concerning. Unless he’s still at the club and not aware that I’ve left.
Or maybe he’s with one of the bikie sluts. The thought hits me with a sour taste, but it only lingers for a heartbeat before I push it away. They can have him.
The night I found a half-naked Amber draped across his lap as if she owned him, the cold realisation settled into my bones. The understanding that he was probably cheating on me with her and God only knows who else was like a slap to the face.
In hindsight, I’m grateful I always insisted he wrap it. I’m on birth control, so I didn’t need it. I did it because I knew exactly the kind of women who hung around the clubhouse. God only knows what diseases they carry, passing themselves from one man to the next like it’s some kind of sport.
I should have seen all the signs. The late nights, the quick excuses, or the times he’d come home smelling like cheap perfume. Love makes you blind, or maybe it just makes you stupid.
Smoothing my fingers through my hair, I tiptoe towards the door and ease it open just enough to peek out. The place is swallowed in darkness, shadows stretching across the hall, but a dull light glows from somewhere further down.
A strange discomfort settles over me. I feel weird being here, like I’m trespassing even though Lucia invited me. But I need water. My mouth is dry, and my head is pounding. It’s probably because I didn’t eat or drink anything yesterday. The bucketload of tears I shed hasn’t helped.
I pause in the doorway, unsure. Am I even allowed to wander around while everyone’s asleep?
I don’t know the rules here. I don’t even know where the kitchen is.
For all I know, I could turn the wrong corner and end up face-to-face with some mobster.
But standing here won’t fix the ache in my skull or the dryness clawing at my throat.
Is Dominic even still here?
Then I remember I have his phone number. One I never used, but felt compelled to keep for some reason.
I gently close the bedroom door and move back to my bag to grab my phone, searching through my contacts.
I wasn’t stupid enough to save his number under his real name. I might not be a genius, but I’m not reckless either.
I’ve never cheated on Mick, but that didn’t stop him from accusing me every time he slipped into one of his paranoid moods.
It was like he needed someone to blame for the things he was imagining.
Or maybe those accusations were just his own guilt leaking through for the things he was doing behind my back.
I’m starting to realise that the ones who scream the loudest about trust are usually the ones breaking it.
Me: Are you still here?
Sonia from work: Who is this?
I screw up my face, feeling like an idiot. Of course, he’d have no idea who it was. I never gave him my number.
Me: It’s Emily.
Sonia from work: You kept my number?
His reply has heat climbing my neck, like I’ve been caught.
I stand still for a moment, trying to come up with a reply that won’t make me seem even lamer than I already do, when a soft knock on the door makes me jump.
“Em, it’s me,” Dominic’s deep, gravelly voice whispers from the other side.
My first instinct is to sprint back to the bed and hide under the covers like a coward, but instead, I do the grown-up thing and hesitantly open the door.
“Hey,” I say, feeling my cheeks warm.
“Hey,” he replies, reaching up to rub the back of his neck like he feels just as awkward as I do.
We both stand staring for the longest time, as if neither of us knows what to say or do.
The look he’s giving me is so intense, I have to look away. My eyes drift lower, which turns out to be a huge mistake, because that’s when I realise he’s shirtless.
He’s all defined muscles and ink. I could tell he was ripped even with clothes on, but holy hell, this man is something else. He has the kind of build that makes your brain short-circuit. The kind of body you feel over every inch of your skin before you even touch it.
“I’m thirsty,” I mutter, but by the time the words are out of my mouth, Dominic’s eyebrows jump, and I realise how bad that sounds. “For water,” I quickly clarify.
A low chuckle vibrates in the back of his throat, and I silently pray for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
“I can get you some,” he says, his voice softer now, almost careful. “Water, I mean.”
He steps back, ready to turn down the hall, and something in me panics at the idea of him leaving. Before I can stop myself, I reach out and catch his hand. My fingers wrap around his warm skin, and a sharp bolt of electricity shoots up my arm, so sudden and fierce I’m forced to suck in a breath.
He freezes, looking down at our hands, then back up at me.
“Can you maybe find me some paracetamol, too?” I ask, my voice barely steady.
The shock of touching him lingers, buzzing through my limbs. I lift my free hand to my chest, trying to regulate my heartbeat before it gives me away completely.
“You okay?” he asks, a frown tugging between his brows.
I nod, even though I’m not sure that’s true. “Yeah. I just … didn’t realise how dehydrated I was.”
He studies me for a second longer, like he can see every lie written across my skin, then he gives my hand the slightest squeeze before letting go.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, and for some reason, those simple words settle the chaos in my chest.
I sit on the side of the bed while he’s gone, hands clasped together between my knees, pretending my heart isn’t still thudding as if it’s trying to escape my chest. The room feels too quiet, too big, and too unfamiliar.
I focus on my breathing, on keeping myself calm, but the lingering buzz from touching his skin refuses to fade.
Soft footsteps in the hall make me look up.
Dominic reappears in the doorway, a glass of water in one hand and a bottle in the other. My eyes betray me instantly, dropping to the floor and catching on his bare feet, then drifting upwards over his grey sweats.
They sit low on his hips, revealing that delicious V that disappears into the waistband, which should honestly be illegal. My stomach gives a slow, traitorous flip, and I snap my gaze up to his face before I get caught ogling him like some kind of man-thirsty hoe.
Sonia’s ovaries nearly exploded when she watched Dominic feed Peach that time at La Riviera. If she were here now, seeing what I’m seeing, she’d probably keel over and die right on the spot. And I wouldn’t blame her. I’m barely holding it together myself.
Mick is tall like him, but that’s about where the similarities end.
Mick’s body is lean, almost wiry, and he doesn’t have a single tattoo because he’s petrified of needles.
The irony of it always amused me. A big, bad bikie who doesn’t think twice about breaking the law and can throw punches without a blink, but show him a tattoo machine and he turns into a trembling puppy.
Dominic, though, looks like he was carved out on purpose. All muscles and ink, with an intensity that takes your breath away. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t just walk into a room, he fills it.
He’s standing in front of me, half-dressed, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, while I’m over here trying to remember how my lungs work.
I rub the heel of my palm over my chest, and Dominic frowns again. “Do you need your inhaler?”
I nod once because I don’t know what else to say. I’m breathless, but I’m not entirely sure it has anything to do with my asthma.
He places the glass of water on the bedside table and hands me the bottle. I glance down at it, rolling it between my fingers until I can read the label. It’s children’s Panadol in liquid form. Was this all he could find?
“Where is your inhaler?” he asks.
“In the side pocket of my bag,” I say, pointing to where it sits on the floor by the wall.
Dominic crosses the room with that slow, heavy stride of his, the kind that pulls your eyes whether you want them to follow or not. He crouches beside my bag, muscles shifting under his skin, and unzips the pocket.
His big, meaty hand slips inside, searching, and something about the sight of him doing such a simple, careful thing for me makes my throat tighten for a whole different reason.
He finds the inhaler and stands, turning back towards me with that same concentrated concern in his eyes, like my breathing is suddenly the most important thing in the world to him.