Desertion

“Who do you belong to?” he asks, setting my heart on fire.

“You,” I answer, giving him what he wants.

“And this tight little pussy?” He continues to deliver his questions with a roll of his hips, each one pushing me back into my own personal Jesse fog.

“You.”

“Damn fucking straight.” His grin turns wicked, possessive.

“Ahhhh!” I close my eyes when his thumb finds my clit, working it harder.

“Look at me, sweetheart. Need to see it.” I open my eyes and watch a wild look wash over his face. My orgasm claws at me, begging me to let go, but I hold on to it, waiting for the moment. “Fuck, sooo good. So fucking good.” He repeats, each confession burns a memory into my soul.

“Jesse.” I’m unable to hold on any longer.

“I have you, baby, always,” he encourages, and it’s all I need to tip me over. My hands move from over my head, breaking his order and up into his hair. Spreading my fingers wide, I pull hard enough to push him over the edge. He loses his composure, a pained shout erupts from him, and then he’s falling apart.

“Fuckkkkk!” He pumps his hips over and over, and I become undone. Body slick with sweat, he lowers himself to me. We stay like this for what feels like hours, days, hell, weeks could have passed for all I knew. When our breathing returns to normal, he rolls off me, takes care of the condom, and then comes back to bed.

I turn over and without a word, he pulls me to his front, then tucks me under his arm in a protective hold.

Yeah, I was okay with him trying.

“What’s going to happen to Danger?” I ask after a moment. When we got back to the clubhouse, Jesse left me and went straight to Nix and Beau. No doubt filling them in on the shit Danger just put himself in.

“You don’t need to worry about the fucker, Bell. In fact don’t even say that bastard’s name in my bed.”

“You’re not going to kill him, are you?” I push, needing to know. I’ve come to learn Jesse and his club are the good guys, but I still wouldn’t put it past them.

He laughs to himself, before pulling me tighter against him.

“The weasel isn’t worth the bullet. He’ll get what’s coming to him. We just have to let it play out.” The statement is cryptic so I don’t bother pushing it anymore.

“Just don’t get arrested. We’ve already established you won’t be able to handle prison.” I joke remembering our first date.

“I know I’m too fucking good-looking.” He laughs as my phone beeps from the bedside table. Reaching over I quickly check it then place it on silent.

“Your mom?”

“Yeah, she’s worried. But I told her I’m fine. I’ll deal with her tomorrow.” I close my eyes not letting my parents and their needs dictate to me anymore.

“They’re going to think I’m a bad influence.” He chuckles, the sound rumbling against my back.

“Please, they’ve met Lissy.”

“Shit, you’re right.” He laughs harder. “You should have seen your mom’s face when she opened the door.”

“Oh, God. Was it bad?” I hide my face, trying not to think about Mom and Jesse meeting.

“Nah, she was fine.” His chuckle doesn’t make me believe him, but I don’t push.

“They’re good people, Jesse. Just dealing the best way they know how.” I defend them knowing I’m probably not making it easier on them.

“I hear you, baby. I know all too well the things we do to survive.” He holds me tighter. “Just promise me, find out who you are, Bell. Not who they want you to be.” I let his words wash over me, and for the first time, I realize I don’t really know what I want anymore. I’ve become lost in their grief and my need to make everything better.

I’m not going to do that anymore.

Twenty-Nine JESSE

When I was seven years old, I had this toy car, a Christmas present from my parents. It was my most prized toy because it belonged wholly to me. Not a hand-me-down from Jackson or a toy I had to share with Jay. It was just mine. I would play with this car every day, searching for new surfaces to glide it along, often annoying my mom by using household items to set up my very own racetrack. One afternoon, just like any other day, I sat and played with this car. My dad had been home for a few minutes. Like always, he grunted his hello and took a seat in his favorite chair in front of the TV. My mom was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Jackson was off playing with the kids on our street and Jay was asleep in his crib. Even though I was seven years old, I still remember the events of that day. I remember the house shaking from the force of my dad’s footsteps as he came for me. The quiver in my mom’s cries as he grabbed me around the neck and threw me to the floor for the noise I had been making. The kick to my stomach and the burning that came with it.

At an early age, I knew what my father was capable of. We lived in a strict and structured household. When we failed to deliver to his standards, it wasn’t uncommon to get slapped or receive a rough hand around the back of your neck.

But that day was different.

“Can’t you just shut the fuck up for once, you little fucking shit.” His rage coiled above me, his fists opening and closing at his sides. The kick to my stomach had winded me, but instead of crying out, I remember struggling for a breath.

“John, please.” Mom cried in the corner, but didn’t come to my defense.