Chapter 29
MELANIE
“And that’s why Romeo and Juliet isn’t the greatest love story of all time, or Noah and Allie in The Notebook. It’s the love story of a man, a woman, and a baby who gave His life for you and died for your sins because that’s how much He loved you.”
I tried to concentrate on the preacher’s words, but they barely scratched the surface.
Underneath it all, something ugly writhed — an ache, an itch I couldn’t scratch, a sickness deep in my bones.
My thighs still throbbed from how Nick and I had fucked this morning — brutal, fast, like the world was ending — and every shift in the pew made the soreness pulse sharper.
I told myself this was different. That I wasn’t using anymore, just trading one high for another. Sex, not pills. Him, not poison.
But it was a lie.
Every time he touched me, I slid further into the fantasy. I let myself pretend this was real — that the way he held me down, the way he came apart inside me, meant something. That he was mine.
“And can you imagine what it had to be like for a woman back then to walk all that way while pregnant? And they didn’t have restrooms to stop in, and you know Mary probably had to stop and go plenty of times.”
The church crowd chuckled politely. I didn’t. Because right then Nick’s phone buzzed on the pew beside me — the same phone he’d abandoned to go to the restroom.
I shouldn’t have looked.
I knew better.
But I looked anyway.
And when I saw the message, it felt like someone hooked a fist inside my gut and twisted.
Hey suga, what are you doing after church? I miss you… when can you see me again? I’m so horney.
No name. Just a number.
No explanation.
No mercy.
I stared at the words until they blurred, until they burned themselves into the backs of my eyelids. My fingers twitched, itching to snatch the phone, to smash it, to text back something vicious and mean and humiliating.
He’s married, I wanted to scream.
He’s mine.
Except he wasn’t.
Not really.
We weren’t real.
We were a fucking business transaction wearing white lies and borrowed rings.
Maybe she knew. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe she thought he was single. Maybe he told her the truth — that I was nothing more than a placeholder until he found someone he actually wanted.
And why wouldn’t he?
Why wouldn’t he find someone better, cleaner, easier to love?
The nausea rose fast, bitter and hot. I clenched my jaw to keep from sobbing in the middle of the sermon.
He could’ve had anyone.
If she mattered, why didn’t he marry her instead of shackling himself to me?
Maybe he was planning to end this. Maybe he already had the divorce papers drawn up, folded neatly and final inside his desk drawer.
The seat dipped as Nick slid back in beside me.
I stiffened so hard my muscles screamed.
I felt him glance at me out of the corner of his eye after he checked his phone, and saw the message.
I didn’t move.
I didn’t blink.
I sat there, staring ahead, nails digging half-moons into my palms, doing everything I could not to let the flood of hurt spill out in front of him.
When we made this deal, we said if one of us wanted out, we’d walk away.
No questions. No fights.
Maybe this was him walking. Maybe it was me standing still, stupid enough to believe I could ever be loved.
Nick’s hand found mine on the pew, and I flinched before I could stop myself.
“Hey,” he said, voice low and careful, the kind of voice you use with a wounded animal.
“Are you okay?”
He leaned in, close enough that I could smell the clean heat of his skin, the faint trace of coffee on his breath. His fingers squeezed mine, trying to anchor me.
I forced myself to meet his eyes — those perfect green eyes I used to think saw me.
His brows pinched together in concern. He looked at me like I was fragile. Like I was his.
I hated him for it.
I hated myself more for wanting it.
I nodded too fast, the movement jerky and fake.
He searched my face for a second longer, then gave me the mercy of looking away.
I stared straight ahead, hands curled tight in my lap, my throat raw and burning.
And as the preacher droned on about sacrifice and love, I sat there punishing myself, one breath at a time, for being dumb enough — desperate enough — to think a man like Nick could ever stay because love wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t warm or safe.
Love was a lie you swallowed like broken glass, sharp and bleeding all the way down. And I deserved every fucking shard.
I slammed the car door so hard it rattled the frame and shook the mirrors.The sound barely scratched the surface of the noise roaring in my head.
“Mel, wait,” Nick shouted behind me.
I didn’t wait.
I couldn’t.
I needed out of my own skin. I needed keys.
I needed liquor. I needed to erase the pathetic girl I saw every time I blinked.I stumbled up the steps, practically ripping the front door off its hinges.
The screen slammed behind me, rattling like a gunshot.
I threw myself at the kitchen junk drawer, digging through it with shaking hands, my breath coming fast and shallow.
If I couldn’t find the keys, I’d settle for divorce papers.
If I couldn’t find those, I’d settle for burning the whole fucking house down around us.
“Would you stop and tell me what the hell is going on?” Nick’s hands grabbed my arms, hard enough to make the breath punch out of me.
“Don’t touch me.”The words came out cracked and animalistic.
I tried to jerk away, but he was too strong — too real — and the fury in me snapped like brittle bones under pressure.
“Not until you tell me what’s wrong?”
He demanded it like I owed him something.
The rage flooded up, raw and blood-hot. I lunged and bit his hand, sinking my teeth in deep enough to taste the metallic rush of blood.
He cursed and yanked back, and for one glorious second, I felt powerful — then the shame came crashing right on top of me, heavier than air.
“I need a drink.”
“No, you don’t,” he snapped as I staggered toward the cabinets, tearing through them with a desperation that felt almost inhuman. Pots clanged to the floor. Drawers slammed against the wall.
I didn’t care.
Let the whole house rot.
Let me rot.
When I remembered the bottle stashed upstairs, a sick heat unfurled in my gut, like winning a prize at my own funeral.
“Ya know Nick, playing house has been fun and all, but I don’t like fucking hypocrites.”
“What are you talking about? Are you drunk already?”
“No, but I wish I was.” I could feel him on my heels, breathing down my neck, and the house felt like it was shrinking, the walls pressing closer and closer until I couldn’t breathe.
“My mom is coming over later, remember? And I don’t want us to be fighting.” He followed me up the stairs, and I hated the sound of his steps behind mine — steady, familiar, like we were something that could be saved.
“Newsflash, mama’s boy, couples fight.”
“Yeah, but typically, the other person knows why they are fighting.” His voice cracked higher, sharper, scraping across the raw nerves already exposed inside me.
I spun around so fast my vision blurred.
“You know, it’s funny how when you find me on a guy’s lap that I didn’t initiate, I’m called a slut and an embarrassment, but when I find a girl in your phone texting you that she’s horny, it’s all fine and dandy.
So I guess I’m the only one who can’t be seen sneaking around, but it’s okay for you to fuck other people? Pretty sure that’s called a hypocrite.”
“That text message I received?”
“Don’t act like you didn’t already know why I was pissed. The phone was right there next to me.” I stabbed my finger toward the spot like it was a knife meant for his chest.
I wanted him to hurt.
I wanted to hurt myself worse.
“Melanie, I have no idea who that is or where that message came from. I swear.”
I scoffed so hard it scraped my throat raw, rolling my eyes with the kind of exaggerated drama that only half-covered the real ache splitting me apart. “You expect me to buy that shit?”
Nice try.
I pushed past him, wanting to bolt — anywhere, any direction — but he caught me and shoved me onto the bed. The impact rattled my bones.
For a heartbeat, fear flickered — real, ancient, deep in my gut.
“I may be a lot of things but I’m not a fucking liar.”
I glared up at him, daring him to break me completely.
“Really? Then why are you lying to the damn government? This—” I waved a hand between us, feeling the ugliness of it on my skin — “is a fucking lie, or did you forget?”
“No, it’s not,” he gritted out. His face hardened into something cold and ruthless.
I saw the killer in him, and goosebumps prickled up my arms like ice splinters. Still, I locked my jaw and sat up straighter, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
“Ya know, I’m not mad you are fucking other people just don’t get so mad if other guys want to fuck me. That Johnny guy was cute, and maybe he does have a big C—”
“Don’t—” Nick’s voice cracked around the word, low and guttural, and it almost made me smile — a cruel, broken thing.
“Don’t what?” I asked sweetly, faking innocence as easily as breathing poison.
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” He ripped his phone out of his pocket and threw it onto the bed like it burned his hands.
“Call it.”
I frowned, confused despite myself.
“Call the number, now,” he ordered, his voice rough enough to tear skin.
I grabbed the phone, clicked on the message, hit the call button.
It didn’t ring.
It beeped once. A monotone voice answered:
I’m sorry, the number you’ve reached is not a working number. Please hang up and try again.
I tried again. Same result. Tried texting. It failed, too.
“See, what’d I tell you.”
I looked away, swallowing the bitter lump in my throat, trying to cling to the anger because it was the only thing stronger than the humiliation trying to eat me alive.
“There are online sites you can text a fake number to. All you need is the person’s number to do it.”
I forced myself to look back up at him — at the way he towered over me, solid and real and fucking beautiful.
It felt like someone scraping a blade against my ribs from the inside out. “Who would do that, though?”
He shrugged, careless and exhausted. “My guess is on Alexa. She’s the only one I know who hates your guts.”
“Hey,” I scoffed, forcing a brittle, fake laugh. “Rude.”
He begins taking his shirt off, revealing his tattooed chest and arms. If I didn’t know him, I would think he was some druggie or sex predator.
It’s funny my stepfather is clean cut and all preppy looking, but deep down, he’s the monster.
Nick looks like he would be the deceiver on the outside since he’s hidden behind all those tattoos, but the real mask people wear is around their smiles.
And Nick rarely smiles, and if he does, it’s so damn beautiful, I can’t take my eyes away from him.
He’s only smiled a few times, and I etched each one into my memory so I would never forget it once we part.
“Take off your shirt.” He starts to slip his pants down along with his boxer, springing his erection free. And my mouth salivates at the sight.
“Why do I have to take my top off?”
“Because I want to see those perfect tits of your bounce as I fuck the shit out of you.”
Panic and desire spirals through me and I reach for one of the buttons and unbutton one.
“I can’t wait that damn long,” and before I know it, he's ripping my shirt open, exposing my bra. And his control and primal need for me ignites something inside me.
Do I like being taken like this? Is this what feeling desired by a man you want to have sex with feels like?
He pushes my skirt up to my waist and rips my thong open.
“I need to feel you.” When I reach for his hand, he pushes it away and grips my face, landing a kiss on my lips. His kiss is so intense, so feral my knees shake. Gripping my hips, he attacks my mouth, feeding me his tongue in a hot, vulgar rhythm that makes my blood heat and my head spin.
He kisses me like that so long my lips feel bruised, and that’s when I realize, he’s never kissed me during sex, or been on top of me like this.
A tremor goes through me when his hand locks around my throat and his teeth nip at my bottom lip.
He reaches down with his free hand and shoves two fingers inside me.
The invasion robs me of air, and I clamp down, my need overriding any other emotions.
My eyes roll back and I gasp for air as he finger fucks me into oblivion.
The strings of my impending orgasm curl my toes, and I writhe against his palm, and then his fingers are gone.
“No, please.” I croak out.
His teeth graze my ear.
“You want to cum princess? You’re going to do it on my dick.
” Need winds through me as I part my thighs as far as they’ll go, and then he’s buried inside of me.
My mouth falls open, and I pant against his lips while he takes me rough and fast. A husky sound leaves him and he tightens his grip around my neck holding me steady on the bed, as he fucks me so hard, it’s equal pleasure plus pain.
Gripping his ass and wrapping my legs around his waist, I try to push him deeper with every thrust. A throaty groan rips through his chest and he attacks my mouth again.
This time his kisses are needy and messy and violent, as if he was trying to fuck his own demons out of him. War demons.
It’s too much every lick, touch, and thrust chips away at the barrier I keep built around my toxic heart.
My body goes flat as he laps my tongue and pumps viciously.
Siphoning everything he wants from me. He groans against my neck, and the fingers digging in my hips constrict so much I know I’ll have bruises.
His features go taut as he withdraws and plunges back in, hitting a spot that feels so good it sets me off.
A scorching wave of pleasure rides through me and I desperately rock my pelvis, meeting him thrust for thrust.
“That’s it, princess,
I don’t care about anything else except how good it feels when he’s inside me. It’s addictive. A drug I can’t help but chase. My whole body spasms, and my moan is so loud, I fear it will travel to the surrounding neighbors. I cum so hard.
“Fuck.” Those green eyes grow dark and his fingers grip so tight as he pulses inside me. “Don’t ever talk about another man's cock in front of me.”
“Okay,” I rasped out. Liquid heat fills me, and a sharp bite to my throat makes me cry out. And then he’s sucking, soothing the sting and leaving his mark on me.