Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Dead Weight
Teyonah
I had to get Scott out of there before Dominic did something we couldn't undo.
My hand trembled as I gripped Scott's clammy arm. His body sagged against me like a corpse learning to walk. His skin burned through the thin fabric of his shirt. It was feverish and slick with sweat that soaked through to my palm.
"Come on." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Let's get you upstairs."
He mumbled something incoherent, his head lolling to the side as I half-dragged him toward the basement stairs.
Each step felt like moving through quicksand.
My dress clung to my thighs, still damp from my arousal.
I couldn’t think about how good Dominic had felt deep inside me. Not now. Not with Scott's ragged breathing in my ear and Dominic's presence burning through the closed door behind us.
The basement’s outer door opened onto the backyard, and the night air hit me, cutting through my disheveled dress and finding every place Dominic's hands had been.
Goosebumps rose where heat had been moments before. My body couldn't decide what it was.
Ice or fire.
Ashamed or sexually liberated.
Don't think about it.
"T-Teyonah. . ." Scott's voice cracked. "Why. . .were you. . .down there?"
"I told you. The toilet." The lie tasted worse the second time.
He stumbled, nearly taking us both down, and I braced against his weight. His body felt foreign—unfamiliar angles and softness where Dominic had been all hard muscle and erotic strength.
Scott smelled wrong too.
Stale beer.
Puke.
Sickness.
How ironic that last night he’d been talking down to me like I was nothing, and now with him thinking he was on his deathbed, he yelled out my name.
If it hadn’t been for my kids, I would’ve let him see Dominic and me in that bed.
For a few seconds, I’d actually wanted it.
I wanted Scott to walk in and choke on the sight of what real desire looked like—what it sounded like when a woman was touched the right way and by a real man.
Not some pretender.
Not some spineless bully.
But a gentleman with a huge heart.
In my head, I could see it so clearly.
Scott standing there in the doorway with that dumb look twisting his face.
Dominic still deep inside me, making me cum harder—louder, freer, and more alive than Scott ever could.
And me smiling through the orgasm.
In fact, if Scott could just see what Dominic carried between his legs, he’d finally understand what he’d spent years trying to shrink in me—the hunger, the joy, the damn right to feel good in my own skin.
Also, he would get extreme penis-envy.
Because there was no comparison. Scott’s cock was average at best—average size, average skill, average effort. He was the kind of man who thought two minutes of missionary with the lights off counted as passion. He'd roll off me and fall asleep while I lay there wondering if this was all there was.
Dominic? He'd studied my body like it was an exam he intended to ace. Found nerves I didn't know existed. Made me make sounds I'd never made. And that cock—thick, long, and exactly right—fit like we'd been designed for each other.
Scott couldn't compete.
Wouldn't even know the game had changed until it was too late.
But more than that, Scott would have to face the truth: he broke something in me he’ll never get to fix.
And that was also why I couldn’t let him see it.
Because a man like Scott doesn’t just lose—he retaliates. He would have twisted that moment into something ugly, drag it through court, use it to rip Oliver and J away from me.
He would have weaponized my pleasure, my body, my motherhood.
He would have taken custody and tried to make my boys think I was the villain.
So I swallowed the urge, shoved it down deep, right next to every scream I’d ever bitten back.
Not for Scott.
Not for me.
But for them.
For my babies upstairs, sleeping soft and innocent, dreaming in the house their mother was fighting like hell to keep whole.
Still, my body didn’t care about any of that.
It yearned for Dominic.
His mouth.
His hands.
His cock.
His groans.
It remembered the stretch and fullness and the way Dominic stared at me like he was happily drowning within my soul.
God. . .I miss him already.
Soon, we made it through the backyard—or rather, we almost did.
That's when I saw her.
Mrs. Patterson.
In her backyard.
At midnight.
Shit.
My blood turned to ice.
I stopped so abruptly that Scott's weight nearly toppled us both. I grabbed his arm tighter, steadying him before he could make noise.
"Shh." I pressed a finger to my lips, my other hand gripping his bicep hard enough to bruise. "Don't make a sound."
Scott's glassy eyes tried to focus where I was looking. "Wha—"
"Shut up." The words came out as barely a breath.
Through the gap in our fence, Mrs. Patterson moved like a ghost through her yard. She wore pale pink slippers and that same floral housecoat from earlier—but for some reason now it looked different.
Haunted.
Wrong.
In one hand, she clutched a flashlight.
In the other, her Bible.
The flashlight beam cut erratic patterns across her lawn, jerking left, then right, searching.
"Where are you unclean demons?!" Her voice carried across the night air, high and strained. "I heard you! I know you're out here!"
What the hell?
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Scott swayed beside me, but I held him upright, one hand clamped over his mouth now because I could feel him about to speak.
Mrs. Patterson's flashlight swung wildly toward a bush. She rushed forward and shoved the Bible at the shadows. "Shoo! Get away from me!"
Nothing moved.
There was nothing there at all.
I knew her ass was crazy but this is next level.
"Devil, you can't trick me." Her voice cracked. "God forgave me for what I did. You hear me? He forgave me!"
Oh my God.
I needed to get Scott out of here.
Now.
I tugged him forward, moving as quietly as possible, but Mrs. Patterson's voice grew louder, more desperate.
She'd stopped in front of the large oak tree at the back of her yard—the one she'd been digging near days ago. Thank God her back was to us now, shoulders shaking.
The flashlight beam dropped to her feet, illuminating her slippers.
"God washed my sins in the blood of Jesus." Her voice broke completely, dissolving into something raw and terrible. "Now that's our heavenly secret. Don't nobody know what I did but me, God, and Billy Jo."
Billy Jo.
The name sliced through my panic like a scalpel.
Oh shit. Billy Jo Johnson is her first cousin. The city coroner who'd signed off on Pastor Patterson's death certificate years ago.
I almost had a damn heart attack right there.
Oh God.
The woman had truly murdered her husband.
My hand flew to my mouth, muffling the gasp that tried to escape.
The flashlight fell from Mrs. Patterson's hand, hitting the ground with a dull thud. She didn't seem to notice. Instead, she lurched forward and wrapped her arms around the oak tree, pressing her face against the bark like it was a confessional.
"That man was an unclean demon." Her words came out muffled and choked. "And that demon of mine stood in the pulpit pretending to be holy, sleeping with anything that had panties on. God came to me and said. . .kill him with kindness, Jolene."
She sobbed—a horrible, wrenching sound. "And now that was just what I did. . .because when the Lord commands, you must do." Her voice rose to a wail. "I'm a good Christian. I'm a good Christian!"
Scott's knees buckled.
I caught him, terror giving me strength I didn't know I had.
We couldn't stay here. If she turned around, if she saw us. . .we’d definitely be getting baskets and baskets of poisoned cookies every day.
I hurried us away, my heart beating so loud I was certain she'd hear it.
Each step felt like it took an hour.
Mrs. Patterson remained at the tree, arms wrapped around it, rocking slightly.
Still confessing to the darkness.
Still clutching the bark like salvation.
I pulled Scott faster, my breath coming in short, silent gasps. We reached our back door and I fumbled with the handle, my hands shaking so violently I could barely grip it.
Click.
The door opened.
I shoved Scott inside and followed, closing the door as quietly as possible behind us.
Only then did I let myself breathe.
Scott stumbled. “W-what. . .is your. . .problem?”
I kept rolling my eyes. Surely, they would be aching by the morning.
If you don’t get your dumb ass in this house. Yelling for a damn bottle of Tylenol. What happened to you being Mr. Lawyer? Mr. I’ve-got-the-real-job. Mr. You-need-me, Teyonah. You were lonely, Teyonah. Now look at you. Stumbling and whimpering my name.
As if he heard me, he trembled. “T-teyonah?”
“What now, Scott?” I looked at the kitchen. Earlier, he had left a trail of sweat or maybe it was drool on the hardwood, dark spots that would need cleaning.
"Your dress. . ." He slurred and then squinted at me through glassy eyes.
“What about my dress?”
"It's. . .backwards."
My blood went cold.
Oh fuck.
I glanced down. The tag at my neckline caught the overhead light—a small white flag of surrender advertising my guilt. I'd slipped the top of the dress back up so fast I hadn’t realized that Dominic had fucked the front to the back.
Scott groaned and doubled over.
“Don’t throw up on this floor. Go to the sink.”
“N-no.” He shook his head and stumbled forward. “No. I’m fine. I just. . .”
“What?”
“Y-your. . .dress. . .”
“This is the new style.” I gripped his arm and hurried him along. “Now do you want the Tylenol or not? Or do you have more fashion critiques?”
He barely kept my pace as his gaze tracked over my face—my swollen lips, my tangled hair, the flush I could still feel burning in my cheeks. "W-why were you. . .really down there, Tey?"
The old nickname made my stomach turn. "I told you—"
"But. . ." His voice cracked again. “Please. . .be. . .honest. . .”