Chapter Eight

Cutter

 

 

 

 

What the hell just happened?

Jasmine is married to that fucker?

Of all the things I’ve been through, all the moments I’ve wanted to put a bullet in an asshole, this right here tops them all.

I don’t know Jasmine that well. Hell, I hardly know her at all. She’s only been working for me for a couple of days; barely enough time for me to get so much as a hello from her.

But I can feel it. This little tug in my chest whenever she walks into a room. It’s a strange sensation. Not something I’ve ever felt before, so I can’t quite place what it is yet. Working alongside her, even for this short time, I know I can’t go back to not having her around. I have a crazy need to be near her all the time. The feeling that I need to protect her from everything and anything.

Christ, she gave herself a papercut this morning and I had to sit on my hands to keep from putting her finger into my mouth, making the blood go away, cleaning it from her perfect skin.

I saw the look Melanie shot me when I stood between Jasmine and that asshole. Shocked as shit. Sure, I wasn’t a man to stand by, but even she noticed the difference this time. The difference between the want and the need. I don’t know when it happened, I don’t know why it happened. All I know is that Jasmine stopped being a want and became a need at some point today, and the feeling both scares and excites me.

When Melanie came rushing in and interrupted my time alone with Jasmine, I’d been annoyed—angry, even. Then I found out the dickhead from before was back. I hadn’t wanted to leave Jasmine, but I had to look out for my girls. They were family to me, and family always comes first.

I slam the door shut, flicking the lock over and turning off the lights at the front. Until I have this shit under control, the club is closed. Order is something I thrive on. Something I need. It’s why being in an MC suits me. Everyone has their place and their responsibility. When things get out of control, that’s when mistakes are made and everything goes to shit.

There are obvious signs of a scuffle. Chairs are scattered everywhere, light bouncing off the broken glass all over the carpet. I pick up the bigger pieces and toss them in the bin behind the bar. “Melanie,” I call out. She appears from the cellar, her eyes red, her makeup running down her cheeks. If I hadn’t already punched that fucker in the face, I’d do it again for making one of my girls cry.

I’m not typically hands-on with the girls. It gives off the wrong impression. But seeing her shaking, I know what I need to do. I pull her close, feeling her shoulders shake when I rest my chin on her head. “I want the brothers informed that this asshole is banned from the club permanently. He isn’t to step one fucking foot within fifty feet of this building.”

She pulls back and wipes at her eyes, nodding in answer. “Fifty feet. Got it.”

If I ever saw that guy again, I was going to tear him a new asshole. My girls should feel safe at work. It’s something I pride myself on; something I promise them when they start here. A lot of them come from bad places. Dancing might not be for everyone, but it’s a good way for them to earn money to support their families. If they don’t feel safe here, they’ll leave. And I’ll be damned if I’m the reason they end up back on the streets. I take a deep breath, squeezing the bridge of my nose before meeting her gaze. “Are you okay?”

She swallows hard, squares her shoulders, and meets my gaze. “Yes. Now go see to Jasmine. She needs you.” With each step toward my office, the desperation to make sure Jasmine is okay grows thicker and stronger. Adrenaline is pumping through my body and I take a few deep breaths before I walk in so I don’t scare her. I know she’ll be shaken and scared, and she’ll need someone to lean on.

I want to be that person for her.

I should have kicked her husband’s ass worse than I did. In the heat of the moment, I just wanted her away from him, somewhere safe. He needs to know she’s off limits from now on. I will protect her from him, no matter what I need to do. Maybe that isn’t my place, but I can’t control myself. I need her to be safe. I’m a domineering asshole at the best of times: possessive and controlling, sometimes even sadistic, if the timing is right. But one thing I will never do is abuse a woman.

Anxiety twists my gut. I don't know Jasmine's story, but the way she backed away from him doesn’t lead me to think he brings her flowers or kisses her good-night.

I push down on the handle. “Jasmine, are you—”

My eyes scan the empty room.

“Fuck.” I turn and bump into Torch.

“What the hell happened? Melanie is all freaked out. She told us some guy was permanently banned, and told Trace that you said to make sure everyone knows.”

I look down the hall but there’s no sign of Tracie. She must be with Melanie. My hand drags through my hair. I don’t have time to stand and shoot the shit. I need to find her. “It’s Jasmine.”

“Who?” His eyes narrow as the name registers. “Your assistant?”

“Her husband is the asshole who was in here a few days ago, the one that got rough with Melanie.”

“Shit. What happened today?” He leans against the wall next to him.

“I told the fucker not to come back. Told him, Torch. What does the dumb fuck do? Shows up here, shooting his mouth off. Melanie came and got me. Jasmine came out of the office I’m guessing to see what all the yelling was about. Should have seen her. Color dropped right out of her face. I thought she was going to drop on the spot.” I remember her face as she saw him, the fear that filled her eyes. The way that he gripped her arm and she winced at the contact. That wasn’t the first time he’s put his hands on her, but if I have anything to do with it, it’ll be the last. “He hurts her. I know he does. I need to get out of here and find her. Can you keep an eye on the club for tonight?”

While I’ve been talking, Torch’s shoulders have squared. He’s no longer leaning on the wall. His fists clench at his sides. He’s ready for whatever needs to be done. “Need company?”

“No, I got this. I need a car though, or a truck. I don’t know that taking my bike right now would work.”

“No problem.” He reaches in his pocket and fishes out a key. “Take Tracie’s car, I’ll give her a ride home and have one of the prospects take your bike to your place.”

“Thanks, brother.”

“Anytime.” He claps me on the back and walks back toward the front of the building.

My desk is still covered in paper but I manage to find Jasmine’s application with her address on it and run through the club to the car.

 

***

 

I get more than a few honks and threats as I weave through the traffic, changing lanes at a moment’s notice, running lights, not even bothering to take notice of the speed limit. The closer I get to Jasmine’s address, the harder my heart pounds. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I know this guy; know his M.O. I’ve taught plenty of these guys a damn lesson about putting their hands on women. I grew up with that shit. I would never want what was done to my mom to be done to anyone else. It isn’t right.

You just don’t do that shit.

People like Dylan, the ones who pick on those smaller than them, or people who are insecure, just to get their rocks off, fucking disgust me. And then those victims blame themselves.

It all starts to click. Jasmine’s mannerisms, the things I couldn’t figure out are clear as day now. I knew they looked familiar.

Jasmine is my mom.

“No!” My fist slams against the steering wheel.

Get control.

I breathe out. “She needs me.” She doesn’t know it yet, but she does.

I don’t know where I thought she lived. Part of me expected it to be a rundown part of town. Call it misguided preconception. Tidy houses line the streets. A couple of people are walking their dogs. The fences and gardens are all well maintained. There’s even a small park with children playing on swings. The area is just . . . nice. If only her neighbors knew exactly what went on behind closed doors.

Do I even know?

The car slows as I look for her house number. I spot her car in the driveway and cut the engine, rolling into a space on the street. If he’s inside, I don’t want to give him the heads up. I watch the windows from the car. There’s no movement and I really hope he stayed out to cool off.

I jog up to their house. I wonder how she’ll react when she sees me. Will she be relieved, or will she turn me away? If there is one thing I learned from my mother, it’s that abuse can and will completely brainwash a person.

No.

God, I have no right being here, but I keep walking, controlling my every move. There are concrete steps up to a screen door. I reach out and press on the handle.

Locked.

Oh, hell no.

I bang my fist against the screen. It rattles in its frame, but I don’t care. If Jasmine is home, she’s going to know I’m here. “Jasmine,” I call, moving down the side to look through the kitchen window.

Nothing. The worktops are free of clutter. Cookbooks are lined up neatly on a shelf. There’s a bowl of lemons and oranges on the table—shit I’ve only ever seen on the television. It looks like a show home.

I move back to the door and see movement from the house next door. I spin around, a pair of weathered eyes stare back at me. The old woman mouths something quickly, then disappears behind the curtain.

Odd.

I rattle the screen again. Still nothing. I press my ear to the metal and hear a crash from somewhere inside. My stomach drops.

My legs carry me to the front garden, where I look for something—anything—to break the lock. My foot catches on a large rock and I grab it and race back to the door, hammering down on the handle until my shoulders burn and the cheap metal crumples and the door swings open.

“Please. Dylan. I’m sorry.” Jasmine’s small voice reverberates through me.

There’s a laugh and goose bumps break out over my body, my shirt clinging to the cold sweat that coats my skin. “You’re sorry. I saw the way you were looking at him,” Dylan snarls. His voice is deep and cold. “Did you fuck him? Is that why you’re working there? You want to be a whore? A little slut? I’ll fucking show you how to be a good whore.”

I take the stairs two at a time, pausing when I reach the second floor and see a trail of blood leading to a closed door. I should have had Torch come with me.

“Please. Stop.” Jasmine’s cries are more desperate now.

I follow their voices and charge into the room.

Jasmine looks up at me from the floor, her chin pushed into the thick pile of the carpet. Her lower lip is split, her eyes red and swollen. The left one has almost entirely closed up and a large purple welt covers her temple. By tomorrow I’m sure that they will turn black and blue. Her clothes hang off of her in pieces. But what gets me, what royally pisses me off and makes me want to kill the fucker, is seeing Dylan connected to her body.

His thrusts are hard, his grunts forcing cries from her tiny body. While he gets off on torturing Jasmine, she begs him to stop.

It is as if all my thoughts gnarl together as the need to protect her floods my bloodstream, an insatiable craving twisting my insides as I lunge forward to keep this monster away from the girl with the haunted brown eyes. I knock him to his back and slam my fist into his face, hearing the crunch of his nose under my hand. His head hits the wall behind him and his eyes roll back. My fists connect with his face, over and over again. I’m like a man possessed. Blood spatters on my clothes. My knuckles split but the pain almost feels good. I can’t control myself as the way he was hurting her replays in my mind again and again. My vision fades in and out until all I see is black

“Cutter!”

My eyes snap open, landing on the sweetest image I have ever seen. Although Jasmine looks as rough as I feel, she is beautiful, in every sense of the word. Tears run down her cheeks as she reaches out to touch me but pulls back, her teeth grazing over her bottom lip. She winces, her tongue peeking out to gently glide over the split in the skin.

“Jasmine.” My voice sounds hoarse—strange. I’m exhausted, each lungful of air burning me. My shoulders and arms are like lead weights and my clothes stick to my skin, making it hard to move. A trickle of sweat runs down my temple and drops to the floor. I go to grab her hand when a sound from beside us stops me.

Dylan lies curled up in a fetal position, his breathing raspy and uneven, like he’s gargling with water. Except it’s not water in his mouth.

I throw open the closet and rifle through until my hands land on what I’m searching for. The heavy blanket hangs off Jasmine’s shoulders and I tug it tightly around her, lifting her into my arms and carrying her out of that room before he has a chance to wake up.

I take the stairs gently, careful not to jolt her body too much. She doesn’t say anything, her eyelids fluttering closed. Her small body curls into mine, her fingers gripping my shirt, holding on for dear life.

I’m here.

No more pain.

You’re mine now, Jasmine.

I’ll make you see that.