Chapter Seven

Jasmine

 

 

 

 

The whites of the woman’s eyes are clearly visible, the shake in her voice belying her confident stance. I know fear when I see it, and I can tell that whoever he is, he’s definitely not someone who should be here. Cutter’s face hardens and I can see the effect that this man has on him.

“Thanks, Melanie.” He turns to me and his expression softens. “Jasmine, I’ll be back. You can just continue what you’ve been doing.”

I nod.

He follows her out of the room and although my mind should be on the invoices in front of me, I sit here with questions I know I have no right to ask. Who is this guy? And why does Melanie seem afraid of him? What has he done to make Cutter so mad?

I hear raised voices and even though I know it’s wrong, I get up and walk out into the hallway. The voices are still muffled as I approach the main floor of the club and I’m about to round the corner when I pause. This is a bad idea. Cutter told me to carry on what I was doing. Okay, he didn’t explicitly say to stay in the office, but it was implied. Will he fire me for being nosy?

A shrill scream echoes through the building and my curiosity wins out, but a few steps onto the main floor and I’m frozen in place.

No.

This cannot be happening.

As three sets of eyes land on me, I wish I’d stayed in the office. Back where it was safe, especially as one set of eyes looks as if they might kill me.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Dylan’s voice is half a yell and half a growl and my eyes immediately drop to the floor. “This is where you got a job?” His heavy boots thud against the carpet. His hand comes up to grab my chin, bringing my eyes to his.

Melanie backs away as Cutter turns to me. “You two know each other?”

He looks back and forth between us and as I watch the wheels turn in his head, making the connection, his jaw sets in place, his fists flexing at his sides. I chance a step back. It’s a bold move and not one I would have made without an audience.

“She’s my fucking wife. And she no longer works here.” Dylan steps toward me again and the warning look in his eyes tells me I better not move away from him. He grabs my arm above the elbow, his fingers digging in. I wince. Dylan moves quickly between the tables, not caring that I can barely keep up as he pulls me toward the door. But when I look up Cutter is already there, blocking the exit.

“Let—her—go.”

His stance is tall and domineering and he is more intimidating than I have ever seen him before. His shoulders are hard and his voice is more commanding and definite than I have ever heard it before. I feel like I should be scared of this side of him, but I’m not. I feel strangely safe.

Dylan releases my arm and squares up to Cutter. If the situation had been different. I probably would have laughed. Dylan’s head barely reaches Cutter’s chin, and my boss’s broad chest and strong shoulders cast a shadow over my husband.

“She is my wife. My property. You will not tell me what I can and cannot do with her!” Dylan alternates between banging his chest with his fist and pointing a finger at the center of Cutter’s chest, his nostrils flaring, the telltale red flush creeping from his collar and through his face. Not waiting for a response, he grabs my arm even harder this time and looks back to Cutter as if he is expecting him to move.

Cutter takes a step toward us, reducing the gap to mere centimeters.

“That is exactly why I kicked your sorry ass out of my fucking club. You think you’re a man because you can boss a woman around? Does controlling them make you feel tough? You’re fucking pathetic. Now I’ll give you one last chance to let her go before I rip your arm out of its fucking socket.”

I can see that his patience is running thin and if I’m honest his demeanor right now scares me. I don’t know him too well, but Cutter doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy with a lot of patience. The twitch of his jaw, the way his brows are low over eyes so dark I can barely see his irises, are all signs that this is a man not used to being disobeyed. My hand comes to rest on Dylan’s elbow. “Please,” I say, because as much as my husband terrifies me, I don’t want the situation to get any worse.

Dylan’s lip curls. “Listen, you dumbass motherfucker—”

Before he can say anything else Cutter’s fist connects with Dylan’s face, sending him crashing to the floor, momentum taking me with him. My head hits the carpet, but as I begin to scramble to my feet, I feel strong arms under my armpits, hauling me up. Dylan staggers to his feet, clutching at his cheek, and lunges toward me. Like so many times before, my arms come up to cover my face, but before Dylan can do anything, Cutter moves me behind him with one arm, using the other to give Dylan a shove. My husband is so disorientated from the earlier punch that he falls to the floor like a drunk.

Cutter turns to me, his eyes searching my face. For what, I don’t know. He lifts a hand and I flinch. Then I see it. I see the pity that floods his gaze. The exact reason why I keep what happens in my home a secret. I don’t want people to think badly of Dylan.

To know that I’m weak.

That I’m incapable of keeping my husband happy.

Slowly, his eyes on mine, he lifts his hand to my face, his fingers curling around my jaw in a feather light touch. I blink, hiding my tears behind my eyelids. He moves my face first left, and then right, his fingers moving from my jaw up to my temple and then back down again. I open my eyes, feeling a traitorous tear escape down my cheek. His gentle touch is calming. He nods once at me and I want to believe what his eyes promise me.

Everything is going to be all right.

Dylan grunts and Cutter grabs my hand and moves us through the club, back toward the hallway that I stupidly chose to come out of. I follow him, looking back over my shoulder to see Dylan’s eyes on us.

“Get your fucking hands off my wife.” And then he’s moving through the chairs, tossing anything in his way to the side. Glasses fall to the floor, shattering. As he gets closer I see the veins in his neck bulging.

Cutter looks back. “Jasmine, go back to the office.”

“But—”

“Jasmine, everything will be fine. Just go.” His voice is so calm and it’s almost like I can feel it moving through my body. I want to protest, but the need to be away from Dylan is overwhelming. I look down the hallway then back at Dylan.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Dylan shouts. As my feet start to move, he explodes. “I swear to fucking God, if you walk away you’ll regret it.”

Cutter looks at me and it’s almost like his gaze forces me to take another step.

“Jasmine!”

Another step.

“Get back here, you bitch!”

I run the last few feet into the office, slamming the door behind me. There’s still an empty seat on the couch where I was before but I can’t bring myself to sit down. I start to pace back and forth. Different scenarios run through my mind.

What have I done?

How could I have listened to Cutter?

I should have just done what Dylan told me.

What if he kicks me out? Where will I go? I have nothing of my own: no money, no clothes. Everything I have is his. How could I have turned on him like that?

It’s too hot in here. Sweat pools in the center of my back. With trembling fingers, I undo the top two buttons of my shirt, moving over to the pedestal fan in the corner. But the longer I stay in this room, the longer I side against Dylan, the harder it is to breathe. My hands drag through my hair as my world comes crashing down around me.

I need to go home. I need to try to explain to him that I don’t do what he thinks I do here. I need him to forgive me.

I grab my purse and fling open the door, running down the hallway, straight into Tracie. My purse falls to the floor, the contents spewing out. I drop to my knees and begin snatching up random items, not caring how they go back in. “Jasmine.” She grips my arms, pulling me up like it requires no effort. The woman can’t be more than five-foot, yet her gaze makes me feel tiny. “Are you—”

“I have to go.” I’m fully aware that I sound crazy, and with my shirt open and my hair falling down around my shoulders, I must look it, too. “Please, I can’t . . .” My mouth is dry and I can’t get the words out. “Please,” I beg.

Tracie chews on her bottom lip. I haven’t had much to do with her but she doesn’t strike me as the indecisive type. “Come,” she says, turning and walking down the hall, pushing through a side door before we reach the bar. “This way.” She leads me out through the kitchen, weaving her way past chrome shelving and stacked up boxes until we reach the back wall and she pushes hard on a heavy door marked “Deliveries.” She pokes her head out, looking left and right, before pulling me behind her. She races along the side of the building, rounding the corner, where the smell of the day-old dumpsters clings to our nostrils, and down an alley until we’re at the front of the building. I look at the car park. My white Honda sits alone in the corner. I look again. No sign of Dylan’s truck.

I start to run when Tracie catches my elbow. “Jasmine, I—” She doesn’t finish her sentence. I know what she’s thinking, though.

What must she have done to make her husband so mad?

“Thank you,” I whisper, leaving her alone as I run for my car. My shoe falls off but I don’t stop to get it, the gravel digging into the soles of my feet making me cry out. Tears run unchecked down my cheeks and I dig frantically through my purse for my keys, my shaking hands dropping them twice before I manage to get in, tossing my purse across the passenger side and peeling out of the car park.

The way that Cutter stood in front of me, trying to protect me. Will Dylan think I chose Cutter over him?

My heart races and my stomach twists as I think about lying to him about where I work. What will my punishment be?

A car horn blares and I swerve back onto my side of the road. Dylan won’t forgive the fact that I walked away from him. It’s the first time I have done it in five years.

The feel of his fingers linked with mine is amazing. We’ve only been dating a month but I think I’m really falling for Dylan. He is so sweet and caring. He waits for me after class and carries my bag. He makes me feel like the most important girl in the world.

Someone calls my name. I hold up a hand to stop Dylan talking and turn to see Nate from math class. “Jasmine, come here. I have to ask you something.”

I try to let go of Dylan’s hand but he grips tighter. It’s a little uncomfortable.

“Stay.”

I laugh at him. “Don’t be silly, he just needs to ask me something. I’ll be right back.”

I walk toward Nate and his friends, but Dylan keeps a hold on my hand. I spin and blow him a kiss, tugging my fingers away and jogging over to Nate.

“Hey, when did Mrs. Norman say the exam was? I was half asleep today and I need to get my shit together.” Nate hikes his backpack up on his shoulder and his bangs flop over his face.

“She said next Friday.” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, but there’s no breeze. A weird sensation creeps over me. I can feel Dylan watching.

“Thanks, see you in class.” Nate flicks me a wave and nods back at Dylan before nudging his friends and walking toward the sports field. Dash laughs at him and ruffles his hair and I smile, turning to walk back to Dylan.

He reaches out to me, linking our fingers, and I swing our joined hands between us the whole way home. My driveway is empty, and when I let us both inside I call out, but there’s no answer.

"Looks like we're all alone." Dylan tosses his bag to the floor, mine with it.

When the front door closes behind me, my head follows and I hear the hollow thud as my skull connects with the solid oak.

I yelp, blinking rapidly, shaking my head, my hands finding their way to the back of my head, half expecting to find a cut or lump, but there’s nothing.

And then Dylan is in my face, teeth clenched, spit flying from his mouth and landing on my face as he screams at me. "Don't you ever fucking turn your back on me again. You are mine. You listen to me." His hand smacks against the door, just an inch from my face and I jump. "Understand?"

Dylan won’t forgive me for walking away from him. I know this from experience. That first slap, the first time his fist connected with my face, back in eleventh grade, that was the worst. Hands that had only moments previously been so gentle, holding mine, our fingers entwined as we walked home from school, suddenly became weapons. I hadn’t expected him to be that strong, and that was back when things were new; exciting. He had been so apologetic after that. He said he just couldn’t handle seeing them look at me the way they were. I believed him. I avoided them all after that, until soon it was just Dylan and me. He’d gone easy on me then, putting my actions down to a lapse in judgment. But he’d taught me to know better. I should’ve known better. My breath catches in my throat. I’ve tried so hard to be a good wife. How could I ruin everything by making a mistake like this again?

My legs shake as I press the gas pedal, driving slower than I normally would. Sometimes all Dylan needs is some time to cool off. Yes, I think to myself, that’s all he needs. Everything will be fine. But even as I try to convince myself that this is true, blood rushes through my ears, drowning out the sound of the radio. I’m not sure if I have ever seen him that mad.

I park the car—push gently, bump it closed with my hip—and approach the front door. My hand is barely on the handle when it opens.

Dylan stands there, his gaze cold and lifeless. “Get the fuck in here.”

“Dylan, I—”

He grabs my wrist a tugs me up the step. My shins hit the concrete and I stumble into the house, Dylan slams the door behind me.

The click of the door is almost deafening.