Chapter One

Jasmine

 

 

 

 

I look up at the man in front of me and can’t control the huge smile on my face.

The pastor looks down at me. “Do you, Jasmine Burke, take Dylan Hunter to be your husband?”

“I do.” I’m on cloud nine as I look at the man I love.

“I now pronounce, for the very first time, Mr. and Mrs. Hunter.”

Our family and friends cheer as we join hands and walk down the altar steps. I’m so happy, it feels like I’m almost floating down the aisle, our photographer following us down the large church steps, her camera clicking in sync with my heels. The limo waits to take us to our reception hall. The driver opens the door for me. “Thank you so much.”

I climb into the car and slide over so Dylan can sit next to me. Once the door closes, I relax against the back of the seat. “I can’t believe we’re married.”

I turn to him, smiling, but his eyes are narrowed.

What could I have done?

“Even on our wedding day you can’t hold yourself back from flirting with random men?”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. Before I can respond to him, he’s on top of me, pressing me into the hard leather. “You’re gonna give yourself to me right now and you will be loud enough so that asshole can hear who you belong to.”

I jump from the sound of the alarm.

Today is the day. Everything hinges on this interview. I need to get this job and contribute to the family.

I get up quickly.

By the time Dylan's alarm goes off, I’ve already showered—quietly—and dressed, and breakfast is sizzling away in the pan. The overhead fan is on so the room doesn’t smell too fatty. Dylan doesn’t like it when I smell like fried food. A chill runs up my spine when the floorboards overhead creak and my eyes dart to the table: knife to the right of the fork, coffee—not too much milk—at two o'clock.

I pop the bread in the toaster and turn the sausage. Dylan only eats the premium brand sausage and I need to make sure that the pan doesn’t turn the white of the eggs brown. I try to think about what I might be asked and prepare answers. I have almost no work experience and no education after high school.

When I hear footsteps coming down the stairs, I thank God that my timing is right. With everything neatly on the plate I walk into the dining room and place the dish down. A few seconds later Dylan comes stalking into the room. I smile at him. “Good morning.”

“Hasn’t been a good morning since I met you,” he says, the sneer tugging at his lips, curling it. “Not in the mood to choke on the slop you call food today.” He doesn’t stop, just continues walking into the kitchen. I hear the fridge open, then the slam of the screen door to the porch.

This morning, just like many before, I push down the growl of my stomach as I scrape the meal into the bin, making sure to rinse the dish before it goes into the dishwasher. Tears prick the back of my eyes. Why do I always get it wrong?

Upstairs, I look at the clothes Dylan has laid on the bed. They’re old but not worn looking. I haven’t had much call for fancy clothes over the last few years. Pulling them on I pray that whoever is interviewing me doesn’t notice the way the blouse swamps me, or the way the skirt hangs loose around my waist. The belt I’m using to hold it up rubs against my hip, making me wince. It’s been three days but I still ache. I look into the mirror and practice my smile. I need to make a good impression. I need to make Dylan happy.

My fingers shake as I gently apply foundation to my gray skin. It’s years old and beginning to dry out but I use it sparingly, knowing it won’t be replaced. What do I need to wear makeup for? I don’t need to impress other people. I dab the pad over my cheeks and behind my ears, paying special attention to the yellowing skin. I’m lucky it’s faded.

After giving myself one last glance in the mirror, I slip my feet into the heels I wore at our wedding, the only ones I own, and square my shoulders. “Hi,” I say to no one. “I’m Jasmine. It’s very nice to meet you.”

I walk down the stairs and freeze when I see Dylan sitting in the living room. my shaky hands smooth my blouse while my eyes focus on the floor. “Can I have the keys to the car?”

He glances at me before getting up and handing me the car keys. “Hopefully whoever you’re meeting is blind.” He reaches up, fisting his hand in my hair, squeezing. My scalp burns. “Don’t fuck this up.” He releases me, shoving me backward before turning his back and walking away.

I run my hands through my hair, trying to fix it. I fight back the tears and tell myself that I can handle this. I take a deep breath. I’m getting out of the house, interviewing for a job. Anxiety shoots through my body like lightning bolts, threatening to make me collapse any minute. The tiny dots dancing in front of my eyes make me scared that I might pass out, when my heads swims with a dizziness that makes me feel like my feet aren’t touching the ground.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into. What exactly I hoped to do at Ambrosia was a mystery. The ad I answered hadn’t given much away, simply saying that it was an assistant position, and the outside of the building is simple. Nothing about it would catch your eye if you were passing it.

But as I step through the heavy doors, it’s an entirely different story.

My heels sink into the carpet, catching on the thick pile. I stumble and throw out a hand, connecting with the clod marble of what appears to be a hostess station. I wait a moment for my eyes to adjust, the dark red walls absorbing all the natural light, making me entirely reliant on the low light coming from the wall sconces. My mouth drops as I scan the room and my eyes land on a platform in the center of the room. But it isn’t the platform that has my heart racing or the blood rushing to my cheeks. It’s the pole that sits upon it, bolted to the floor and ceiling.

It’s a strip club?

Uneasiness fills me. Everything inside me is telling me to turn around and leave. There is a clank of glass on glass and I glance over and see a thin girl behind the bar, the sheet of blonde that is her hair peppered with bright red streaks. Her shirt shows a bit of her stomach and I can’t help but stare. As if feeling my eyes on her, she looks up from what she’s doing and cocks her head to the side. She follows my gaze down to her shirt and smiles. She looks like everything I want to be.

Unashamed.

Unabashed.

She looks free.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m here for an interview?” My voice is so quiet I wonder for a minute if she hears me.

“Have a seat, I’ll go grab him.” She walks out from behind the bar and disappears down the hallway, my eyes are glued to the way her hips sway as she stalks away from me. She carries herself with such confidence. I am almost hypnotized by her.

I sit down on one of the chairs. My legs are shaking, my knees bouncing up and down as I wring my hands. I cannot stay still. I feel like I’m on fire, the cold leather of the seat a stark contrast to my flushed skin. Too nervous to stay in one spot, I stand and pace back and forth between the cocktail tables centered around the platform.

I should walk out. Dylan would be furious if he knew. But he gave me a deadline to find a job and that deadline expires tomorrow. His theory is that since I cost him his job that I needed to get one and take care of him. I’ve been looking all over for somewhere that will pay me enough to be able to support us, but I haven’t found a thing.

It’s been two months since he lost his job. Two months since the worst beating of my life. He lost control that night, not caring about where or how hard he hit me. Since then he’s been more careful, the beatings confined to places that you can’t easily see; after all, I can’t go to job interviews bruised.

Too many questions.

I’ve never been in a strip club before. I have no idea how it all works, an uneasiness flows through me at the thought that I might have to learn. But the thought of what might happen if I go home without a job . . .

That’s far worse.

I hear footsteps approaching and then stop. Slowly I turn to find the most gorgeous man I have ever seen standing in front of me. He towers over me, casting a dark shadow that leaves me cold but not afraid, with a strong intimidating frame, his hair is medium length A stray lock of hair hung over his forehead and although my fingers twitched at my sides, wanting to push it back so that his hair would be perfect, its unruly and rugged appearance fit exactly with the rest of him. The last thing I notice are his eyes: a deep chocolate brown, and like they can see right into my soul. He is dressed in a leather vest with a white T-shirt underneath. His jeans are a darker wash, and on his feet are black boots.

My face reddens in embarrassment as I realize he has noticed me examining him.

“Hello.”

I attempt a smile, not knowing what else to do. “I’m—I’m here . . . for the . . .” I chew my bottom lip, hating how juvenile and immature I sound. He raises an eyebrow and I realize I still haven’t uttered a full sentence.

“For the job. I’m here to interview for the personal assistant job,” I say softly, embarrassed at the way I have portrayed myself. If he’s the one interviewing me, he’ll never hire someone who can’t even talk. I lower my head, wishing the ground would just swallow me whole.

“What’s your name?”

I don’t answer him. The only thing I want to do right now is turn around and leave. Then I remember leaving means going home and facing Dylan’s wrath and my lower lip begins to tremble.

A rough, calloused finger touches the skin under my chin, raising my head so I am looking at him. I jump at the contact and take a step away from him.

“What’s your name?” he asks again, frowning.

“Jasmine Burke.”

He stares at me, leaving me to squirm under his gaze, before he finally says, “Follow me, Jasmine.” He turns before I can respond and I find myself almost running to keep up with his long strides.

We walk down the hallway the girl from earlier had disappeared down and my eyes dart around, trying to take in my surroundings but feeling completely overwhelmed by everything. He comes to a stop at the end of the hallway. Unlocking the door he opens it and steps to the side to allow me in first.

This one has the same color scheme as the main room.

The office has a softer look with tan walls. The couch across from me looks comfortable and my aching feet from the heels I never wear are begging me to sit on it. The room seems to be organized to perfection, except for the desk that has papers strewn all over it. “Please sit down,” he says as he stands behind the desk. It surprises me that he doesn’t sit down as his tall frame almost towers over me.

I sit down in the black leather chair across from him, clasping my hands in my lap.

“Tell me about yourself.” His eyes focus on me and I squirm under his gaze. Although the same brown color as Dylan’s, for some reason his seem softer, despite the scrutiny.

I clear my throat. “I’m a really hard worker. I learn things really quickly.” I bite back a groan. I sound like an idiot.

“How much do you know about the position?”

I beg my voice to be stronger than I feel inside. I swallow once to wet my throat before explaining that I don’t know anything about the job, beyond the very brief description given in the advertisement.

He smiles before pacing behind the desk. “Have you ever been to a strip club before, Jasmine?”

I shake my head.

He chuckles, walking around the desk until he is right next to me, leaning back to sit against the desk, legs crossed at the ankles, eyes on me. “What makes you think that you are qualified for this position then? You seem uncomfortable just being in my office, what will you do when the club is full of dancers and customers?”

I take a breath, trying to calm my nerves. “I’m hard working and extremely efficient. I’m also a quick learner. I need this job and am willing to do whatever you ask of me.” Judging by the intrigued look on his face, I may regret that last statement.

“I don’t know why, but I may be willing to take a chance on you. The position pays twelve dollars an hour, and the shifts depend on the schedule and what I need done. Rosters are done a week in advance. You will have one day to show me if you can handle this environment. Report here tomorrow morning at nine.”

I smile and nod my head. I stand and offer my hand. “Thank you, Mr. . . . I’m sorry, I don’t think I got your name.”

He walks forward and stops within inches of me, hands by his side. “That’s because I didn’t give it to you. The name is Cutter.” Having him this close to me makes my heart speed up in a way it hasn’t before. My breathing picks up just a bit and I hope that it goes unnoticed by him. I can’t help but wonder if the reaction is nerves, or something more.

I nod my head and turn to leave, but as I open the door, I face him one more time.

“Thank you.”

When I close the door, I breathe a sigh of relief. I finally got a job. Before the deadline. Dylan is going to be so . . .

The realization then hits me that there is no way I can go home and tell Dylan where I am working. As the panic swells inside me and my face flushes red, I decide to tell him I’m working in a busy restaurant that needs someone to organize their files. At least I’ll be bringing in money now. Maybe that will give me some reprieve from the nightmare I am living with.

 

***

 

I walk up the steps to my house, saying a silent prayer that Dylan is sober and in a good mood. Ever since he lost his job at the hospital, he’s been drinking almost every night. Booze and his anger problems don’t mix very well, which makes my situation a lot harder.

Dylan and I were high school sweethearts—he was a senior when I was a freshman. Young love, puppy love, blinders, you name it, where Dylan is concerned I have it.

In the beginning, I was young, naïve. I didn’t see the signs. Then time went on and I couldn’t help but let the words he would say bleed into my very soul. I mean, really, who would want me besides him? I’m not educated. My body isn’t ideal. I can barely make edible food, and I can’t please him in the bedroom.

The first time he hit me I was stunned. I was ashamed. In the end, it became easier to make up an accident to everyone else than look in the mirror at myself. After time I just began to isolate myself, no one could ask questions if I wasn’t around. I mean, if I left, where would that leave Dylan? Where would it leave me? Seven years together and I still can’t answer what might happen if there wasn’t a Jasmine and Dylan.

He’s the other half of me.

Our identities are entwined.

I used to find excuses for his actions; convince myself it wouldn’t happen again. But it always happened again, and by the time I realized how bad it was, I couldn’t leave.

Before I knew what happened, I had unknowingly pushed away anyone who ever cared about me. When the choice was Dylan or them, I always chose him. He was my priority. I just wanted to make him happy.

For the last seven years, I’ve had someone controlling me. I haven’t made a decision as basic as picking out my own clothes since I met him. If I were on my own, I don’t know if I would be able to survive. He has made me incapable of making my own decisions, and I think he knows that. I’m so dependent on him that life without him seems impossible.

I open the door and hear the TV. He must be in the living room. I walk in and see him sitting in his chair, a half empty beer in his hand. Two empty bottles sit on the table in front of him.

Great.

I walk quietly inside trying not to make too much noise, steady my breath and then clear my throat. “Hi, I have some exciting news.”

He doesn’t even look away from the TV. “You found a way to not be a complete waste of time and space?”

His words hurt just as much as his hands sometimes, because I know they’re true. I am worthless and stupid. He’s right when he tells me I’m nothing. “I found a job today.”

“Well, congratu-fucking-lations. Can you go find some food and do what you think is cooking? I’m so hungry that even the slop you serve me sounds fucking appetizing.”

I walk out of the room and into the kitchen. I’ve read tons of cookbooks over the years and tried my best, but my efforts are never any good. I bread some chicken, then fry it up, and steam some vegetables, setting out one plate, a knife, and a fork. His water sits at two o’clock to his plate. I don’t ever eat the meals I cook for him. Since I don’t contribute to the house in any way, I have no right to eat the food that he pays for. I take out my loaf of bread and make my usual peanut butter and jelly, then go into the other room to do my nightly workout.

Gaining weight is unacceptable. If I expect Dylan to take care of me then I need to make sure that I keep myself presentable for him. It’s my job to keep him happy, clean the house, and make sure that everything he needs is done, because that’s what wives do.

By the time I’ve run on the treadmill, cleaned up after myself, and showered, it’s almost ten o’clock. I’m so exhausted, I can barely keep my eyes open.

When I walk into the bedroom to get dressed, Dylan is sitting on the bed waiting for me. I can smell the beer on his breath. It’s hard to not scrunch my nose from the stench but I manage it.

Years of practice.

As I round the bed, keeping a tight hold on the towel wrapped around my body, I see the look in his eye and know there’s no point in me getting dressed. I walk over to him, he grabs my wrist, his fingers biting into my flesh as I hold back a wince. He yanks me to him and the back of my head connects with the headboard. He stands and pushes me onto the bed with a carnal look in his eyes.

I zone out during sex. It’s not enjoyable for me, and if you listen to Dylan, it’s not that great for him, either. It’s easier to not be in the present, to escape to a world where the man above me cherishes me, where he kisses me softly and his hands caress me. Sometimes, if I think hard enough, I can remember what gentle feels like. He used to be gentle, in the beginning.

Soft kisses.

Ghosting fingertips.

Featherlight touches.

He made me feel special. It’s what made me fall so hard for him.

Without a word, he thrusts himself inside me and I bite my lip, a cry catching in my throat. He pumps in and out of me and I grasp the sheets in my hands, so dry that each thrust feels like sandpaper and I know the burn will linger long into the night. Long after he has rolled off me and fallen asleep, oblivious to the shaking figure curled up on the opposite side of the bed.

His hand clasps my throat and I gasp. He squeezes, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “I want to hear you, bitch. You have to at least be able to do this shit for me.”

The edges of my vision start to curl in and blood rushes through my ears. When I start to moan and writhe against him he releases my throat, but I can still feel the imprint of his fingers, the burn of his touch. I keep up the sounds of pleasure until he finishes inside me. I’ve never had an orgasm, mainly because Dylan has no concern for my pleasure, but I understand that it’s not something I deserve so I concentrate all my efforts on making sure he enjoys himself. It’s what good wives do.

He leaves the room briefly and I hurry to tug on my clothes. He doesn’t like to see me naked if we’re not having sex. He says it makes him sick. I look down at my stomach, at the small bump in the skin that refuses to disappear and mentally add another ten minutes to my run tomorrow.

The toilet flushes and the lights go out. I pull the blanket up over my body and stay still. Dylan won’t be able to sleep if I toss and turn and he needs his rest. Staring up at the ceiling as his snores echo off the four walls of the room, I try to fall asleep even as my mind is racing. Tomorrow is my first day working with Cutter and I want to make a good impression.

I pray I don’t screw it up.