8. Dallas
DALLAS
Biceps. The most underrated male body part on the planet.
Scratch that.
Pecs. Pecs are the most underrated.
Branded pecs, specifically.
The double-R brand that all the Redford brothers and Sam have is the same as their cattle brand. Duke’s is a jagged pink mark on his chest, and I know it’s a red flag that it turns me on, knowing he’d go through the pain of burning flesh just because.
My eyes feel like they’re about to pop out of their sockets, like one of those cartoon characters, with how little control I have staring at Duke’s exposed torso.
I can’t peel them away from the way his defined abs contort and shift every time he lifts his arm up and twirls the rope around his head.
He’s not super lean. His muscles have bulk to them, making his look incredibly strong and capable.
He can throw hay bales around like they’re hollow cardboard boxes, and I’d bet my entire week of tips that he could throw me around just as easily.
My mouth waters. A drop of wetness hits my cleavage. I look down, thinking it might have been the start of rain, only to realize it was drool.
I am literally drooling over this man.
A flush heats my chest. I quickly wipe it away, clamping my mouth shut.
Please, please, please, God, erase his memory if he saw that.
I tentatively look back up, sighing in relief when I see him turned away, squatting down to show the twins something with the rope.
He’s so good with kids; it makes my ovaries ache.
I guess it makes sense, considering he’s an uncle.
It’s so nice to spend time around people who don’t act like my boys are a nuisance.
I know they’re rowdy, and I don’t miss the judgmental looks from people in the grocery store when they get a little loud or smack each other over the head with a box of snacks.
I do my best to discipline them, but adjusting to single-mom life after being with an abuser who constantly raised his voice and spanked them, even when I didn’t think it was necessary, has made me wary of being too hard on them.
They’re just kids. I want them to feel the freedom to play and have fun and not be constantly told to be quieter and stop horsing around.
And I have no idea how he’s disciplining them when I’m not there. I try not to think about it because according to the state of Texas, it’s none of my business.
Stop. You’re going to spiral. You cannot spiral right now.
I shake my head and focus on the scene in front of me. Duke’s back is just as sexy as his front, all grooves and dips of golden skin with a few scars I’m sure he got from growing up on this ranch with his wild siblings.
“All right, guys, it’s getting late. We need to head home.”
By some miracle, they actually listen and start walking toward me. Duke stands, slowly winding up the rope as his eyes find mine.
“You going to be okay, driving back? We’ve got plenty of beds here.”
My stomach clenches. I feel myself shaking my head. Staying here is the most idiotic idea I’ve ever heard.
There’s a one hundred percent chance that I would cave if I knew that body was on the other side of the wall and my kids were safely sleeping.
I know he wants me. He’s made it crystal fucking clear that all I have to do is say the word. Apparently, not even having a husband was enough to stop him before.
And I’m fragile right now—way too fragile—and sad and lonely to resist him. I’d be on my knees, unbuckling his belt in point-five seconds flat.
“That’s okay. We’ll be fine,” I manage.
He nods, flashing me that panty-melting smirk he wears often.
“All right, good night then, darlin’.”
ONE YEAR EARLIER
“Please, please just lower your voice. You’re scaring them.” I try to keep my tone even.
I probably shouldn’t use the word scaring right now or mention the boys. But when Matt gets this way, with his eyes glittering in a way that makes me wonder if it’s him looking back or some demon from the underbelly of the earth, my only instinct is to de-escalate the situation.
“Oh, right, I’m the crazy one. I’m the asshole all of a sudden. You know, if you weren’t such a slut all the time, none of this would be happening. Maybe you should’ve considered this situation being something the boys shouldn’t see before you invited the landscaper into the house and fucked him.”
I jerk back from him when he snatches my forearm and squeezes it.
“If you weren’t such a shitty mom, you would put them first. You’re a selfish bitch, Dallas. You and I both know it. Maybe I’ll just slam your head against this wall, see if that gets it through to you.”
My hands are trembling. He knows I didn’t fuck the landscaper. At least, I think he knows that. Sometimes, I wonder if his accusations are pure delusion or if he actually believes them.
I tried to remain calm when the guy came to the door and asked if we had any yard work that needed to be done.
I knew Matt would see him there on the security camera feed while he was at work.
I calmly talked to him, being careful not to flirt or be too friendly as I explained to him that we didn’t have any work for him to do.
“Matt, I really need you to hear me. I didn’t invite that guy over here. I didn’t let him in the house. He was just looking for work.”
He shakes his head, squeezing my wrist tighter.
“I really wish I could believe you. You’re just too big of a whore for me to actually do that.
And it sucks for me because I try to be a good husband, you know?
I work all day long, only for my wife to be at home in the house I pay for, fucking strangers in my bed. ”
I’ve all but given up on trying to figure out why he thinks that’s what I do while he’s at work. I have two toddlers to take care of, as well as the housecleaning, the laundry, and the small garden out back. I don’t know when I’d even find time to start an affair.
Also, thanks to him, I despise sex. Having to do it with him is more than enough for me.
Dawson comes up to us with a bag of Goldfish. He hands it to me. “Mommy, snack.”
“Not right now, baby. We’re having dinner soon.”
Matt doesn’t release me. Dawson, blissfully oblivious to the tight tension between his parents, runs off to keep playing in the living room. Our house is open concept, so the kitchen is in the same room. The quartz island separates the two rooms.
I’m growing more desperate the longer he holds me here. His threats of violence are usually just that—threats he doesn’t follow through with.
But what if? What if, one day, he gets tired of only making threats?
“Let me prove it to you. You’re the only one for me. I can make you feel good right now.”
He shakes his head, but I can see the spark of interest in his eyes. Sex is usually my last-ditch effort to calm him down. It’s the only tried-and-true method I’ve found to get him to stop when he’s on a tirade like this before things start shattering against the walls.
He lets go of my wrist, reaching for the plate of hot spaghetti on the counter I just served for him. I hold my breath as he picks it up.
I watch in frozen terror as he launches it through the air, my body jolting when it sails past my head and smashes into the refrigerator.
Blood-red sauce splatters like a bomb going off.
I flinch away from him and numbly walk toward our bedroom.
I’m prepared to use myself as a human shield to protect my babies if I need to, but leading him away from them seems like a better move right now.
He follows me, stopping me before I get too far and pressing me up against the back door. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
A numbness spreads through my limbs until I can no longer feel anything, not even the terror.
My voice drops to a husky whisper, the sound of desperation and survival instincts. “I told you, I want to make you feel good.”
PRESENT DAY
When the boys go back to their dad’s, I take the free time and clean the apartment from top to bottom.
It doesn’t take me long at all since it’s so tiny.
Once I finish scrubbing the old tub in the bathroom and water all my herbs on the windowsill over the sink, I sit down with my laptop at the table.
I have my third therapy session with my counselor, and once it’s over, I’m rewarding myself with a glass of wine and binge-watching my favorite show, The Office.
I’ve always loved plants, but ever since becoming a mom, I tend to forget to water them. Now, I have more time to spend pruning and caring for them than I ever did when I was married.
The orbiting circle on the laptop screen finally flashes to life, revealing the face of my therapist, Dr. Stone.
His full head of white hair is styled nicely, and his gingham shirt is buttoned all the way to his throat.
“Hello, Dallas. How are you doing today?”
I roll my pen back and forth between my fingers. “I’m doing okay. How are you?”
“I’m good. I’m glad you’re taking the time to see me.”
Therapy is brutal. I struggle to force myself to do it, but I know I need it after what I’ve been through. I was very hesitant to start seeing a male therapist, but I’m warming up to him every session. His eyes are kind. They don’t feel lifeless and evil.
“I, um … I just cleaned my house. The boys aren’t here, and keeping busy helps to distract me.”
He nods, leaning back in his chair. “Yes, I’m sure it does. That sounds like a constructive use of your time.”
I gnaw on my lower lip, debating how much I want to share with him today.
He told me at our first session that he would leave the pacing up to me.
My parents offered to pay for the therapy, thankfully, because I would never be able to afford it on my own.
After I told them only some of the mildest cruel things Matt had done to me, they strongly encouraged me to get counseling, clearly at a loss for how else to help me.
“I know you’re feeling nervous to open up, and that’s normal. I’m a stranger, and you’ve been through a lot. I’m only here to help with whatever it is you want to talk about today.”
I lick my lips, running a finger over the metal spiral of my notebook.
“I’m worried about my boys. I constantly—I spend a lot of time worrying. I know when he gets angry, he …” My voice trails off.
“Are you talking about Mike? What’s his name, your ex-husband?”
“Matt.”
“Right, Matt. Matt has a tendency to get angry, to have outbursts. And you’re worried for the boys in what way when they’re in his care?”
“I’m worried for their safety.”
I picture the splattered spaghetti on the fridge, reminding me so much of blood.
“And what exactly did it look like when your ex had these outbursts? What does he do, and how would you respond?”
I breathe out, adjusting my ankles and crossing them over each other.
“He … he yelled, threw things, called me a bitch.”
“And what did you do?”
I think, remembering how I only really had one way I knew to handle it. To talk him down from the terrifying cliff we were all on together.
“I would usually just … seduce him,” I finally admit, my voice wavering with the embarrassment of admitting it out loud.
His eyebrows pinch together. The look on his face isn’t judgmental or shock; it’s more like fatherly concern.
“I see. Did that work?”
I shrug. “I mean, sometimes. Sometimes, he wouldn’t do it right away, so he’d still throw things and make threats before finally having sex with me. But afterward, yeah, he’d usually not be angry anymore.”
Admitting this truth makes me feel dirty, like I’ve been wearing the same shit-covered clothes for a week straight. Telling another soul the raw, unfiltered horrors I was forced to live through for my own safety and the safety of my kids makes my skin feel like ants are crawling on me.
Dr. Stone doesn’t say anything, and I find myself filling the silence.
“I mean, he was my husband, you know? We fought a lot, and it just seemed like the easiest way to work through it. It was the only thing he really liked about me.”
The screen doesn’t move, and I wonder if he froze due to a bad connection. I wait, holding my breath and counting to ten before he finally shifts in his chair and clears his throat.
“Did you enjoy it? Being intimate with your husband in that state?”
I blow out an exhale, shaking my head.
Does that make me a bad person?
Maybe he thinks I was the one avoiding confrontation through sexual coercion, that I was the real problem and Matt deserved better, someone who didn’t make him so angry or use sex as a tool to resolve conflict.
“Dallas, you do realize that was rape, right? Your husband was raping you. It’s intimate partner sexual abuse.
You did nothing wrong. You were forced to do something horrific and traumatizing to keep yourself physically safe from someone who wanted to harm you, someone who threatened and who did harm you.
That’s not what we call consent. Has anyone ever discussed with you what sexual consent in an intimate relationship should look like? ”
My body feels disconnected from my mind, like I’m observing the conversation between two other people instead of being an active participant.
Unmistakable relief courses through me, that he isn’t blaming me. But it’s short-lived, followed by a potent dose of shame.
I shake my head. “I guess not, no. I was raised in the Church of Christ. Matt was the first person I ever had sex with.”
He nods, understanding. Calm. Patient.
“Let’s start there. It’s a very important thing to understand.
Sex, when it’s not used for mutual enjoyment and bonding between two partners, immediately becomes something unhealthy.
If one partner feels forced into it, it’s no longer consensual.
When it ceases to be consensual, it becomes assault.
This can take some time to grasp, so don’t hesitate to ask questions about it.
With a strict religious upbringing, many people can feel shameful, talking about this.
There’s no reason to feel that way, but if at any time you want to stop the conversation, don’t hesitate to let me know. ”
Understatement of the century.