As I turn around, I find most of the club standing in the room. Nobody is saying a word, not even Mary, who has a small smile on her face. They’re all so silent that it’s unnerving. I just want somebody to hoot or laugh, or even to get pissed. Maybe Barbara could cry or something. But they don’t.
I walk away, and the farther I get, the further it sinks in that I just totally flipped out on that chick. She’s a stupid, mouthy whore who has no business copping an attitude like she does, but that shit was intense in a way I never want to feel again. Before I realize it, I’ve walked into the hallway that leads to Duke’s room. I blink at the walls on either side of me that are covered in framed photos of the club during various decades. Boots stomping against concrete sound behind me, growing louder with every passing second. I suck in a gasp, bringing myself back round to what’s going on, and I dart the rest of the way down the hall and into Duke’s room. I’m closing the door behind me when Duke shoves it open and strides in. He shuts it behind himself and leans against it.
“That bitch is gone,” he says. The last thing I want to hear is his voice in this moment. I can hear it as clearly in my head as if it just happened—he’s lying on the couch, and there she is fucking riding him. In my brain he’s telling her to get with the program. He sounds so distant and cruel—not at all how he sounds when he’s with me. But still, there he is. He’s fucking her, and I can’t unsee it no matter how much I want to. The images morph into something different—something I haven’t seen, but now will always feel as though I did. Dawn crawls down his body and takes him into her mouth. Closing my eyes, I place my hands over my face and force myself to focus on my breathing. The image continues to slice into my brain and heart. My stomach churns, and if the imagined visual of Dawn with her mouth around Duke’s dick doesn’t wane soon, I think I’m going to be sick.
He walks forward, invading my space. And he’s all soap and leather and sweat with a hint of maple syrup and some Jagermeister. His hands wrap around my wrists. My right wrist throbs under his touch. I’ll have to look and see how bruised up it is later. I fight against his hands as they pull mine away from my face, but it’s a losing battle. Dipping his head, he gets in my face and holds me close.
“Talk to me,” he demands.
“Don’t touch me,” I say and struggle to free myself. He’s just so much stronger than I am. I don’t even know why I bother. Moving closer, his beard brushes against my cheek. The soft tickle is an unwelcome reminder of how much time we’ve spent together the last several weeks, and how familiar he has become. How permanent he is in my life now. Every bit of him—his touch, his smell, his movements—is something I have come to expect when I see him and crave when he’s absent. And that image that won’t go away gives me a good idea of what he does when he’s not with me. Dawn was right about one thing—you can’t make a wife out of a whore. I don’t know why I let myself get to this place where I thought there was an “us” and I started to rely on his presence.
“Stop!” I scream and twist in his embrace. The word comes out so strangled it sounds as if it’s physically painful to say. And I say it again and again until my words rise into frenzied screams. Duke takes a step back, letting me go. The relief I expect to come at the loss of his touch never does. When I open my eyes and stare him down, I see the confusion on his face plain as day. And everything feels like it’s fucking spinning.
“Did you fuck her?” I ask even though I already know the answer.
“Not lately,” he says. Despite how much I’ve been fighting this—us—it helps soothe my fragile heart that he’s answering me. Some guys won’t own up to their shit to their Old Ladies, not that we’re at that level yet anyway.
“Did she suck your dick?” I demand.
“Yeah,” he says. I can feel the panic and sorrow engulfing me as he gets closer. I press myself against the long table behind me to keep him at bay. Pressing his body into mine, he uses his hands to keep my face pointed at his—tipped up with my neck craned back so far it’s uncomfortable.
“You fucking bastard,” I say. My words are the only weapon I have left, and fuck him if he thinks he’s going to take that away from me, too. “You do not get your dick sucked by some whore and then crawl into my bed and expect that shit to be okay.”
“Calm the fuck down, Nicole. It was back before we became something,” he says. His chest practically rumbles with every word he speaks.
“Oh, really?”
“I’m sick of the fucking drama,” he snaps. He and I haven’t had drama in a while, so I assume he’s talking about with the club, but I react as if he’s making it personal anyway.