Looking down, his face softens, and he takes a step back. Screaming, he slams his fist into the exposed brick just once before pulling back and flopping himself onto the bed. He wipes his now bloody knuckles on his jeans and flexes his hand. With his elbows on his knees, he puts his face in his hands. I want to go to him, and comfort him, but I don’t. All of this frustration he feels needs to happen. He has to feel how much it hurt me to see that shit, how much it’s going to continue to fuck with my mind, and what that means for us. So instead, I stand here and watch as he freaks out.
It starts with the tapping of his foot, and then migrates to the shaking of his leg eventually becomes the scrubbing of his face with his hands. Outside in the forecourt he was losing his shit, but in here, he’s unraveling. When he gets a hold of himself, he stares up at me, elbows still on his knees, and says, “I fucked up.”
“Yeah, you did,” I say, but the words have no real venom to them. He lifts an arm for me to go to him, but I don’t. Keeping my eyes trained on his, I shake my head. He drops his arm and says nothing. He just stares at me. One of us has to give in, and since I know damn well it’s not going to be him, I go first.
“We both fucked up, but that was not okay,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Yeah,” he says and stands to his full height. He comes to me and places his hands on my hips. “Past is the past.”
“No, that’s a fucking cop out,” I say. I’m not screaming and I’m not whispering. I’m neither livid nor afraid; I just feel kind of dead inside. “What you did was wrong.”
“Tried to call you, got no answer. Last I heard from you, you told me I’d never touch you again.”
“Since when do you listen to what I want or what I say? It’s awful convenient for you to start now.”
“I was pissed, okay? That shit you pulled pissed me off, and I fucked up, did something I regret,” he says, giving my hips a squeeze. “You shouldn’t have seen that shit.”
“Say it,” I demand and take a step backward. He pulls me back to him, and even though we’re quasi-fighting—I’m not sure this counts as fighting since nobody is screaming and no punches are being thrownI like being in his arms. It feels right and safe.
“Say you’re sorry,” I say again. His jaw tenses, and he stands stone still. I stand resolved even though I doubt this is going to end well. Forsaken don’t apologize, and they don’t beg. The silence in the room eats me alive while I wait for words he’s determined never to say.
“You have to trust me,” he says. “You gotta trust that from here on out I’m gonna do right by you.”
“I can’t,” I say. Trusting him isn’t that simple, not after what I saw. Leaning down, he kisses the shell of my ear and basks my neck in his warm breath.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m really fucking sorry that you had to see that shit.” I almost feel the victory of getting him to say he’s sorry, but it doesn’t happen.
“I don’t want you to be sorry that I saw it. I want you to be sorry that you did it,” I whisper. Letting my head fall against the crook of his neck, I close my eyes and breathe him in. Everything about him and this situation is painful. From the first time I saw him and he looked right through me, to the years he spent sleeping around and bragging about every Brenda and Amy and Mandie he hooked up with, to us finally hooking up, to every fight, and every soft moment. It just hurts. And I don’t think relationships are supposed to be this hard or this painful, so I give up.
“And that’s why I can’t trust you,” I say and pull back. The disappointment tears at my open wounds and sends me reeling for something—anything—to make me feel better. He fights me, trying to keep a grip on my hips, but I shove him off while whispering the word no until it’s the only thing I understand about what’s going on.
Finally, he steps back and slowly shakes his head. “Don’t do this,” he says in a pained voice.
“This only works one way,” I say, feeding him his own club’s bullshit lines. “We have to respect each other, and I don’t respect you enough to be your woman.” I move around him, but don’t get very far. He reaches out and grabs my wrist. I don’t look back when I beg, “Please, just let me go.”
I asked for it, but still my stomach sinks when he drops my hand and doesn’t protest anymore as I walk out of the door. I walk quickly down the hall and into the main room. A crowd at the bar catches my eye. In the center is Jeremy and he wears a solemn expression on his face. Around him is Ryan, Grady, Chief, Diesel, and Wyatt. All their heads rise when I stop in the center of the room and turn toward them. Diesel lifts his chin in silent question and I just shake my head in response. Every emotion I’ve been keeping at bay wells in my chest, but I fight it back.