Chapter 35 #2
“Positive. Besides, we're getting ready for Yana's bachelorette party together. Gonna be a whole thing.” She grins. “You ready to get fucked up?”
“Honestly?” I blink, thinking of Olive being safe with the rest of the kids at Beast’s mum’s. “Yeah. I really am.”
It’s like walking into a coffee shop that has a vanilla candle burning. Jada’s house has always felt like a home, even when I barely knew everyone.
She leads me upstairs to the same room I stayed in what feels like a lifetime ago.
I drop my bag on the floor and sink onto the mattress.
“You okay?” Jada settles beside me, kicking her feet up onto the bed.
My eyes narrow. “Define okay.”
“Fair point.” She pauses, but the way she shuffles tells me she’s not done. “You should probably talk to Hella. Figure out what's going on.”
I scoff. “I think I know what's going on.” My voice cracks. “He's done with me. Moved on. He probably found someone new and—”
“—He hasn't,” she cuts me off before I get carried away.
My eyes snap back to her. “How do you know?”
She shrugs. “Because he's been an absolute nightmare for three weeks. Snapping at everyone. Drinking too much. Nearly killed a prospect for breathing too loud.” She shakes her head. “That's not a man who's moved on. That's a man who's hurting and looking for an out.”
I stare off into the distance. “Then why won't he look at me?”
“Because he's a stubborn asshole who doesn't know how to process emotions like a normal human being.” Such a fucking catch.
“Great. So what do I do?”
“You wait.” She waves her hand to the side. “Let him work through his shit. And when he's ready, he'll come to you.”
“And if he doesn't?” I ask, brow raised.
She hesitates. “Then you decide if he's worth fighting for.”
The bachelorette party starts at eight. By nine, I'm three drinks in and the edges of the world are pleasantly blurred.
Yana looks beautiful. Happy. Radiant in a white mini dress with a sash that reads 'Ain’t your fucking wifey’, and Phoebe's coordinating everything with military precision, ensuring drinks stay full and music stays loud.
I dance with Jada and try not to think about Hella. Try not to wonder what he's doing at the bachelor party. Try not to imagine him with his hands on someone else.
I fail spectacularly.
Around ten, we migrate to the clubhouse. The party's in full swing. Music pounds. Bodies press. The air smells like whiskey and cigarettes and sweat. The combination sticks to my skin, seeps into my clothes. Makes me feel like I've snorted ten lines of coke.
I spot Hella immediately.
Of course I do. My body always knows where he is before my brain catches up. Some fucked-up radar I never asked for.
He's at the bar, surrounded by brothers. Laughing at something Ripper said. Looking relaxed. Content.
Happy.
The sight hits me wrong. Makes something violent twist in my chest.
My stomach churns.
Ripper sees me first, his face splitting into that shit-eating grin he wears when he's about to cause trouble. He waves me over, and before I can escape, before I can turn around and pretend I never came here, I'm being pulled into the group.
“Ladies have arrived!” he announces, smug bastard.
Several heads turn. Too many eyes on me at once.
Hella's gaze lands on me, all laughter dying on his face. Great. Because of course my presence has killed his night.
He follows me with calculated coldness that makes me want to punch Jada for ever stirring my delulu pot.
It's like I'm a stranger, wait, no, worse. Like I'm a fucking enemy.
My stomach dips. Everything inside me goes liquid and wrong.
Ripper leans closer. His breath smells of beer and concern. “Want me to kick his ass?”
“No.” The word comes out steadier than I feel.
“You sure? Because I'm pretty good at kicking ass.” He spreads his arms wide to match the grin on his face.
Despite everything, despite the way my insides are shredding themselves apart, I smile. “I'm sure.”
Another whiskey appears. Someone shoves it into my hand—I don't see who. I drink it. The burn feels like punishment and relief all at once. Then another. Someone keeps them coming, and I keep drinking them. The world tilts pleasantly.
Good. I want it to tilt. I want it to flip completely upside down.
Fuck him.
Fuck this.
Fuck everything except mine and Olive's little world back in Westbeach.
I push away from the bar and weave through the crowd. Maybe it's the alcohol. Maybe it's the anger. Maybe it's the desperate need to understand why he's looking at me like I'm nothing when he sure fucked me like I was everything.
Wait. What the fuck am I doing?
Too late, he spots me approaching, his expression never straying from the iceberg of his—whatever he is. Not a flicker of emotion crosses his face. Not anger, not desire, not even fucking acknowledgment. Just flat, dead eyes tracking my movement.
“Hella.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel, which is a goddamn miracle considering how everything around me has caught fire. Including my self-respect, apparently.
“Melissa.” No warmth. No familiarity. Like I'm a stranger he's been forced to interact with.
I swallow, my throat dry despite all the damn liquid it’s drowned in tonight. “Can we talk?”
“About?” He doesn't even look at me fully, just keeps his eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder, fingers tapping against his beer bottle.
Heat crawls up my neck, spreading across my face. “Are you serious right now?”
He tips the bottle back, throat moving slow. When his eyes find mine again, they're flat as concrete. “Dead fucking serious.”
Walls close in. Everything too much. The music too loud, the alcohol too strong. Someone bumps into my shoulder, hard enough to make me stumble. I barely notice, too focused on the man in front of me who's looking at me like I'm nothing.
“Why are you acting like this?” I demand, stepping closer, needing to break through whatever wall he's put up.
Nothing. Void. “Like what?”
“Like I'm nobody. Like the last however many months didn't happen. Like—” My voice breaks, betraying me at the worst possible moment. I dig my fingernails into my palms, using the sharp pain to steady myself. “Like you don't give a shit.”
“Maybe I don't.” He delivers the line with such casual cruelty, not even bothering to put force behind it.
My lungs give out.
“You don't mean that.” I search his face for any sign that he's lying, that this is just some fucked-up game.
“Don't I?” He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. “You made your choice, Melissa. You left. You took Olive and you left. What the fuck did you expect?”
I search his eyes when he pulls back. “I expected you to understand—”
“Understand what? That you're too good for this life? That you want all the benefits of being with me without any of the reality?”
“That's not fair,” I whisper, my arms wrapping around my body.
“Isn't it?” He straightens. “You want the fairy tale. The happy ending. The white picket fence and the normal life. But that's not who I am. And you know it.”
My eyes burn. “I never asked you to be someone else.”
“Didn't you?” His jaw tightens. “You left because you couldn't handle what I am. What I do. The choices I make. So don't stand here and act like I'm the asshole for moving on.”
“Moving on?” The words leave before I can shove them back down my throat. “Is that what you're calling it?”
“What else would I call it?” He glares. “You don't know how it feels to not have my attention, Melissa. To not have me be all over you. All you know is the me that chases, that fucking obsesses, that fucking loves. You don't know what I look like when I'm not those things to you.”
There's that Dextor Morgan gore I was talking about.
My throat closes, and I hate him for being right. Hate myself more for the way my body still responds to his proximity, even when he's tearing me apart with the truth. Pain builds behind my ribs, sharp and immediate, and I have to swallow twice before I can breathe again.
Before I can respond, a voice cuts through the noise.
“Hella?”
I turn to find my sister standing a foot away, looking uncertain yet beautiful in a simple black dress. Her hair's down. Her makeup's done. She looks nothing like the nun who showed up at my apartment.
“Hey.” Hella's voice softens. Softens. “You need something?”
“Checking if—” She glances at me, guilt written across her face, but her smile bright. “Hey!”
I can't breathe.
My eyes narrow. “What's going on?”
“Nothing.” Millie backs up a little, her cheeks flashing red. Enough to catch even in this shady lighting. “I should go back to—”
“Millie's been taking real good care of me,” Hella interrupts her retreat. His eyes lock on mine, and something violent twists in my gut. “Real. Good. Care.”
The world stops.
My blood turns to ice in my veins, and the drink in my hand suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Millie's face goes pale. Her mouth opens and closes. “Hella, that's not—”
“Not what?” I demand, my voice cracking on the second word. Rage builds deep in my chest, looking for a place to unleash. “Not true? Because it sure as hell sounds like—”
“It's complicated,” Millie whispers, as if that explains everything.
“Complicated.” I laugh, but it's broken. Lost. Telling tales of betrayal. “That's what we're calling it?”
Hella drains his beer, eyes glued on me the entire time. The bottle hits the counter with a deliberate thunk before he turns his back.
And walks away.
Walks away.
Like he didn't just detonate a bomb in the middle of my fucking life. Leaving me standing there with my sister—my sister—who apparently has been “taking care” of him.
“Lissa, please.” Millie reaches for my arm, her fingers trembling. “It's not what you think.”
I jerk back so hard I almost stumble. “Don't touch me.”
“He asked me to help—”
“I don't want to hear it.”
Everything tastes like vomit in my mouth.
I turn and push through the crowd, shoulders slamming into strangers who grunt and curse. Bodies press against me from every direction. A bass too loud, lights too bright, everything too fucking much.
I find the bathroom and lock myself inside, staring back at myself in the mirror. Who is this girl? Mother? Yes. One that’s probably failing epically. Ex of a biker? Maybe. Not sure.
Lost.
I swipe at the smudged makeup beneath my eyes. Above all, she’s a woman on the edge of falling apart.
Your sister.
He fucked your sister.
The more I replay it in my head, the further the fractures split in my chest. I thought I heard Olive laugh at her one night, but figured I was imagining it, or that Millie was in the clubhouse with everyone when Hella called. What if she's been living with him?
I press my palms against the sink and try to breathe.
In. Out. In. Out.
Someone pounds on the door.
“Occupied!” My voice cracks.
“It's Phoebe. Let me in.”
“I'm fine.” I sniff, rolling toilet tissue in my hand and wiping my nose.
“You're not fine.” She taps at it again. “Open the door.”
She’s not going to give up, so I do my best to fix my makeup. “Give me a minute.”
I splash cold water on my face and straighten my top.
You can do this.
You can survive this.
You've survived worse.
You knew he was going to disappoint you.
When I finally swing the door open, Phoebe's waiting. She takes one look at my face and pulls me into a hug.
“What happened?” She growls into my ear.
“Hella and Millie,” I murmur, afraid someone will hear the confessions of a stupid heart.
“What about them?” she asks, hands on my arms as she studies my face.
I can't say it. Can't make it real. “He said she's been taking care of him.”
Phoebe doesn’t react at first, then the moment it clicks into place, her eyes widen. “No.”
I glare. “Yes.”
“That doesn't mean—”
“It means exactly what it sounds like.” I pull away. “I need air.”
“Wait—”
But I'm already moving. Back through the crowd. Past the bar. Past the pool tables. Past the couch where Beast and Yana are curled together.
I spot Hella near the wall again. And beside him — Millie.
They're talking. That's all. Talking. But the way she's looking at him. The way she's smiling at him.
My heart shatters.
While I was in the bathroom snot crying about my little sister fucking my—whatever he is--, they were out here laughing. Amongst probably other things.
I can't do this.
Each step toward the exit the music fades further until I push through the doors, stumbling into cold air.
“Melissa!” Millie calls out. I’m gonna hit her. For the first time in my fucking life, I’m going to land one on her because despite giving everything I fucking could all her life, she still had to take the one thing that was mine.
Spinning around to cuss her out, my words are cut off when something rough is shoved over my head.
I try to scream, but a hand clamps over my mouth through the fabric. Strong arms wrap around my body, lifting me off the ground.
No. No. No.
I kick. Hard. My heel connects with something solid. Someone grunts.
“Bitch!”
Another pair of hands grab my legs. I'm being carried. Fast. Toward — A sliding door, and then airborne, before my back lands on the floor with a loud crack. Stars dance behind my eyes, everything tilting and words blurring.
“Hold her down!”
I fight. Kicking. Scratching. Screaming into the fabric covering my face.
Someone pins my arms. Someone else grabs my legs.
“She's a fighter—”
My foot connects with a face, and someone laughs.
“Nice try.”
Another voice, before another door slams closed. “Knock her out already!”
Pain explodes at the base of my skull.
Then nothing.