It’s the sixth message I’ve sent. I just want to know that he’s safe and he’s fine. I’m halfway to not even caring what he’s doing. At least if he’s on a pussy bender, I can be pissed at him and end this. But he’d be safe and I’d know he was safe, and I wouldn’t be freaking the hell out over his safety. We talked a few days ago for all of two minutes. He said he was taking care of some bad shit and would be out of town for a few days, but I needed to talk to him. Karma is one mean bitch, and I have this coming to me.
After the night he crawled into my bed and made love to me—because there’s no mistaking that’s what it was—and I’d realized we hadn’t used a condom, I began thinking back to the other times we’d had sex. I could only remember us using a condom twice, and now I’m not even sure about that first time. I had every intention of getting Plan B at the pharmacy, but the fifty dollar price tag was too much for my bank account to take, and after I’d flipped out on Duke, I couldn’t bring myself to ask him for the money.
I’ve always tried to be diligent about my birth control pills, but usually rely on condoms just in case because my schedule is so hectic that I never seem to be able to take the pill at the same time every day. Lost Girls fuck up all the time. It’s the nature of the lifestyle—you get fucked up and then fuck. We should probably get some kind of group rate at Planned Parenthood or something.
I call his cell, but he doesn’t answer. It goes to his voice mail on the first ring, so his phone is off, and the mailbox is full. Shoving the useless goddamn device back in my purse, I look out the windshield of my car and blow out a heavy breath. Starting the car up, I pull out of the parking lot of the restaurant I met Darren and drive home at a snail’s pace. Dinner ran later than I wanted it to. He had little information on my dad and spent way too long talking about how we were in high school. I tried to gently guide him back on topic, but it was hard. As much as I want to believe the club is taking care of my dad, I can’t be sure. When I mentioned his parole being denied, Duke didn’t say shit about it. It was like he didn’t care. So, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to hear what Darren had to say—well, it could hurt—but helping my dad is worth the risk. Or it was.
Because now that it’s been a week since I’ve seen Duke and every good intention I had for the last week completely fell apart, I’ve slipped into a hole that I don’t think I can get out of. Aside from waiting for Duke to let me know he’s okay, I’ve been waiting on my period that’s two weeks late. And like a fool, I’ve yet to give up hope that either are going to show up sometime soon. But because I’m a pessimist, I picked up a test at the store after work last night. I’ve just been too scared to take it yet.
Pulling up to the house, I push all of my fears aside. Right there in front of the garage is Duke’s bike. He hasn’t been home this early in weeks, so this is unexpected. Good, but unexpected. Despite the potential major life-changing problem I’m avoiding, things have been really good between us. It’s probably that really good that’s led me to where I am now. We’ve been reckless a number of times, and the times I try to be on top of things, Duke only half complies. One time he even took the condom off halfway through, but my mind had been so jumbled by that time, and he felt so good and so bare, and him wanting to be that close to me made me a fucking idiot. And I didn’t make him stop.
I put the car in park and cut it off. Without thinking about it, my hand finds its way to my stomach and I let my head fall against the back of the seat. I can’t feel anything but my flat stomach. Not that I expect to feel something. Shit. My brain is so totally messed up over this crap that I barely know if I’m coming or going anymore.
Feeling like a moron, I crawl out of my car and walk up to the house. The front door is unlocked, which is abnormal. After that night, weeks ago, when Duke surprised me in the middle of the night by coming in and making love to me, he had Jeremy make him a copy of the house key. Inside, the house is dead silent and pitch black. I hold tight to my keys just in case something’s wrong, and I close the door as quietly behind me as I can. Slowly, I walk past the living room and the kitchen and down the hallway to my bedroom. The door is closed, which makes sense if Duke’s home. And he is. His bike is outside. My imagination is just running wild.
Opening the door to the room, I find yet another darkened space. A hulking figure sits at the foot of the bed, hunched over and perfectly still. My nerves calm at the sight. I can’t make him out in the darkness, not really anyway, but I can sense that it’s him. And who else would be in the house, anyway? I flip on the light and still at the sight.
Wearing his black boots and a pair of blue jeans with a black tee shirt, and his blond hair is falling in his face, Duke looks up. His elbows rest on his knees. When his eyes meet mine, they’re pained and red with irritation from being touched too much. He’s covered in motor oil and a thin sheen of sweat, but that’s not what makes my heart lurch.
Streaks of blood are smeared over his cheeks and up and down his arms, on his shirt and his jeans, and even in his hair.