Chapter 4
Marissa
I wanted tonight to be great. I wanted to have a sexy date night and spend some quality time together, while also making an effort to be part of Dylan’s world. Thus, when he went off to dance with his friends, I tried to be cool. I really did.
But now I find myself sitting alone on the couch, outside the fun, already on edge because I'm away from DJ and Angie's being all cold and weird for some reason. I need to take a break, call Susan to see how DJ’s doing, get some air, and remind myself why I’m here.
Susan reassures me that Junior is sleeping peacefully and that the babysitter, Sarah, is wonderful.
Apparently, the two of them are having the nicest night, just sitting and chatting.
I make a mental note to schedule more date nights like this one, not only for my relationship but also for Susan’s social life.
I stop at the kind of disgusting coed bathroom on my way back, and as I lean over to pull down my shorts, I feel a pang of pain in my right breast. Not only is this corset a true torture device in terms of pressure, but it’s also time for Junior’s first wakeup of the night, and my boobies know it.
I have to express some milk to prevent a clogged duct, so I find an empty room and a shot glass, and sit down behind a stack of beer cases. I don’t want to flash anyone who might come in. I almost moan when the worst of the pressure starts to fade, but my eyes get misty.
I suddenly miss Junior more than anything.
Stop. Think about something else.
Not the Harley girl that works with Dylan, though.
I desperately want to stop my thoughts from going down a negative path on what’s supposed to be a wonderful night. That’s when I hear the door open, and it’s a welcome distraction.
For years, we all watched you waste away after Bell dumped you…
You can’t fuck her on the side and then go home to your ol’ lady…
She deserves everything…
You, better than anyone, know how much I love Bell…
I continue sitting there on an overturned crate in the storage room, watching milk drip from my nipple into a shot glass, replaying the conversation I just overheard until I feel needles and pins in my legs.
I can’t believe that Rebel is Dylan’s ex. The one he’d pined after, for years. The one that got away, apparently, and took the bullseye above her ass with her.
I suddenly wish I’d observed him more intently when he told me she was coming to work for him, or listened better when people mentioned her in the past.
I, on the other hand, am Junior’s mother.
Both men have spoken of me in that capacity alone, like I hold no value outside of it.
I’m not Marissa, not a person, not someone who deserves everything, or anything.
Dylan needs to tread lightly because he thinks I’m someone who would keep my child from his father.
That’s what finally breaks through the numbness, and the anger I feel is wonderful.
I start lacing my corset back up.
That fucking asshole! I’ve told him multiple times how excruciating it was to grow up not knowing who your father was, and for him to think I would deny my son that bond is beyond low.
Now, the last two months make perfect sense.
I can’t believe that I tortured myself for not being a good-enough partner, for not carving out more time for us as a couple. I spent so many nights worrying that Dylan might be feeling neglected. Ha!
I bet he wasn’t worrying about my feelings while he was fucking that hussy.
I remember her smarmy smile when she told him, Your ol’ lady and I have the same taste. The memory makes me gag, and I think I’m going to throw up.
Dylan seems so disgusting to me now. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to kiss his mouth again without wondering where it’s been. I want to get in the shower and scrub my skin raw at the thought that I’ve unknowingly shared a man with someone.
Oh, Lord, what if he gave me an STD? I think, and my entire body goes cold.
Sly probably thought I was as pathetic as Angie when I showed up at the party. He knew. Angie knew; that’s why she was being weird. Are you here to mark your territory? Buzz’s confusing question suddenly makes sense as well. Everyone must have known.
The humiliation makes me want to curl in on myself, to protect my soft, vulnerable spots from more hits. I need to go. I need to get the fuck out of this disgusting place, and I need to hold my boy.
I can’t believe I used to romanticize the MC and the role it played in Dylan’s life growing up, partly because Susan always went on and on about how the Wolves filled the gap left behind after Dylan’s father had passed, and how the club men guided him and helped him with his business.
I love Susan, but right about now, I wanna throw this shot glass at her.
I stop and look at the glass in my hand. In my panic, it didn’t even register that I’d left the clubhouse. The night air is cool and sobering. I only have my phone, but no money or car keys.
Do I go back inside to get the keys from Dylan, or do I try to get a cab out here on New Year’s Eve?
The thought of going back inside and looking at all their lying, deceitful faces makes me feel sick. The thick, oozy humiliation is coating my throat.
Finally, after what feels like twenty minutes but was probably two, I decide to ask the brother at the gate for a ride home. Unfortunately, the dark guard booth appears empty.
As I lean in to get a better look, strong arms grip me from behind, and someone puts what feels like a T-shirt over my face. I drop both my phone and the shot glass full of breastmilk.
Right at this moment, there’s a bunch of drunk, violent, and probably armed bikers not far from here. I could scream for help, run, or struggle.
Inexplicably, I don’t. I can’t. My body has shut down completely.
Whenever I’m watching a movie, and someone is being grabbed or taken, I yell at the screen, willing the character to fight or kick their attackers. I always thought that I would scream at the top of my lungs if something like that happened to me.
But my body has its own, independent reaction to danger. It’s slowly becoming clear to me that I have absolutely no control over it. For the second time tonight, I’m frozen and unsure of what’s going on.
There’s cloth covering my eyes, nose, and mouth.
All of my face, actually. I’m walking, or rather, being dragged somewhere, then I enter what sounds like a car.
My mind is racing, but the rest of me is utterly still.
I feel the vehicle moving, and despite the fact that I can’t see anything anyway, I shut my eyes.
Was this what Dylan meant when he said he was “taking care of it”? Is my son’s father trying to get rid of me? I sit up at the thought, and whoever is holding my upper arm jabs something into my ribs.
I’ve seen enough movies to know it has to be a gun. Hysterical laughter wants to erupt from my throat. Someone’s holding a gun to my ribs! I’m a lunch lady at a high school cafeteria, and I’m being held at fucking gunpoint.
After we exit the vehicle, we walk for a bit, doors are opened and closed, and I’m led up several flights of stairs. Since I can’t see, I make a misstep and stumble whenever we reach a landing, but the strong, bruising grip on my upper arm keeps me from falling on my face.
Then, I’m shoved onto a chair. As each of my ankles is tied to a chair leg, I thank God I changed my mind at the very last minute and wore shorts instead of a miniskirt. My legs being spread like this, leaving me vulnerable to anything…
I squeeze my eyes harder, like that’s going to be effective against whatever these kidnappers have planned for me, and it helps dispel at least some of the dark thoughts.
The tips of my fingers are freezing cold and numb. The rope is tightening around my waist and upper arms, then snakes around behind me to secure my wrists. When the fabric is yanked off my face, my stupid eyes decide to open really wide, only to be assaulted by a bright beam of light.
The two masked men standing in front of me start laughing when I wince and squirm helplessly. The air in the room is stale and kind of gross.
“What’s wrong, princess, the accommodations not to your liking?” one of them taunts me cruelly.
“Are you with the club? Is this…? Can you tell Dylan I want to talk to him?”
They look at each other. The light and the ski masks make it hard to discern their facial expressions.
“The only person you need to talk to is the Preacher, and we’re about to let him know you’re here,” the other man, the one shining the flashlight into my face, informs me.
“Why would I need a preacher? Oh, God, don’t kill me, please! I have a son, please… I won’t make any problems with custody, I swear on my son’s life!”
“Bitch must be high,” the cruel one says. “Let’s go, man. I still have deliveries to make.”
The door closes, and I’m left alone in the dark room. I don’t bother screaming or calling after them; I’m glad they left without beating or assaulting me. This time, I think, and I shudder.
As my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness, I see that there is a skylight on the ceiling, but no windows on the walls. I hear a sound to my right, and I still.
Please, God, don’t let it be a rat or some equally disgusting animal that’s going to come and start eating me.
I slowly turn and focus my eyes, and I see another chair with a person in it. A man, large and muscular, but hunched over weirdly. I can only see the top of his head; it looks like he usually shaves it, but hasn’t in a few days.
I gasp, and he lifts his face to look at me. His right eye is swollen shut, and he has a bloody lip.
“Who are you?” He rasps out.