He reaches out to me, linking our fingers, and I swing our joined hands between us the whole way home. My driveway is empty, and when I let us both inside I call out, but there's no answer.
"Looks like we're all alone." Dylan tosses his bag to the floor, mine with it.
When the front door closes behind me, my head follows and I hear the hollow thud as my skull connects with the solid oak.
I yelp, blinking rapidly, shaking my head, my hands finding their way to the back of my head, half expecting to find a cut or lump, but there's nothing.
And then Dylan is in my face, teeth clenched, spit flying from his mouth and landing on my face as he screams at me. "Don't you ever fucking turn your back on me again. You are mine. You listen to me." His hand smacks against the door, just an inch from my face and I jump. "Understand?"
Dylan won't forgive me for walking away from him. I know this from experience. That first slap, the first time his fist connected with my face, back in eleventh grade, that was the worst. Hands that had only moments previously been so gentle, holding mine, our fingers entwined as we walked home from school, suddenly became weapons. I hadn't expected him to be that strong, and that was back when things were new; exciting. He had been so apologetic after that. He said he just couldn't handle seeing them look at me the way they were. I believed him. I avoided them all after that, until soon it was just Dylan and me. He'd gone easy on me then, putting my actions down to a lapse in judgment. But he'd taught me to know better. I should've known better. My breath catches in my throat. I've tried so hard to be a good wife. How could I ruin everything by making a mistake like this again?
My legs shake as I press the gas pedal, driving slower than I normally would. Sometimes all Dylan needs is some time to cool off. Yes, I think to myself, that's all he needs. Everything will be fine. But even as I try to convince myself that this is true, blood rushes through my ears, drowning out the sound of the radio. I'm not sure if I have ever seen him that mad.
I park the car-push gently, bump it closed with my hip-and approach the front door. My hand is barely on the handle when it opens.
Dylan stands there, his gaze cold and lifeless. "Get the fuck in here."
"Dylan, I-"
He grabs my wrist a tugs me up the step. My shins hit the concrete and I stumble into the house, Dylan slams the door behind me.
The click of the door is almost deafening.
Chapter Eight
Cutter
What the hell just happened?
Jasmine is married to that fucker?
Of all the things I've been through, all the moments I've wanted to put a bullet in an asshole, this right here tops them all.
I don't know Jasmine that well. Hell, I hardly know her at all. She's only been working for me for a couple of days; barely enough time for me to get so much as a hello from her.
But I can feel it. This little tug in my chest whenever she walks into a room. It's a strange sensation. Not something I've ever felt before, so I can't quite place what it is yet. Working alongside her, even for this short time, I know I can't go back to not having her around. I have a crazy need to be near her all the time. The feeling that I need to protect her from everything and anything.
Christ, she gave herself a papercut this morning and I had to sit on my hands to keep from putting her finger into my mouth, making the blood go away, cleaning it from her perfect skin.
I saw the look Melanie shot me when I stood between Jasmine and that asshole. Shocked as shit. Sure, I wasn't a man to stand by, but even she noticed the difference this time. The difference between the want and the need. I don't know when it happened, I don't know why it happened. All I know is that Jasmine stopped being a want and became a need at some point today, and the feeling both scares and excites me.
When Melanie came rushing in and interrupted my time alone with Jasmine, I'd been annoyed-angry, even. Then I found out the dickhead from before was back. I hadn't wanted to leave Jasmine, but I had to look out for my girls. They were family to me, and family always comes first.
I slam the door shut, flicking the lock over and turning off the lights at the front. Until I have this shit under control, the club is closed. Order is something I thrive on. Something I need. It's why being in an MC suits me. Everyone has their place and their responsibility. When things get out of control, that's when mistakes are made and everything goes to shit.
There are obvious signs of a scuffle. Chairs are scattered everywhere, light bouncing off the broken glass all over the carpet. I pick up the bigger pieces and toss them in the bin behind the bar. "Melanie," I call out. She appears from the cellar, her eyes red, her makeup running down her cheeks. If I hadn't already punched that fucker in the face, I'd do it again for making one of my girls cry.