He didn’t move like a virgin.
I mean, it’s not like I’d actually know, but I’m fairly certain no virgin could move like that, have magic fingers like he did, or last that long.
Either way, I don’t believe him.
He’s hidden so much from me. Now that I know his other side, all those missing nights make sense.
I should be angrier about it, not just upset, but the more I think about it, the more I realize he never really lied to me about it. He simply kept it a secret. Which might be better, but it doesn’t stop it from hurting any less.
My selfish side is glad he never told me what he was doing all those nights, because I wouldn’t have slept, too busy worrying myself sick about him. But the tired part of me is too exhausted to give a shit about anything that happened over three years ago. The broken part of my heart doesn’t seem to feel much anymore, so used to having shattered bits break more each day.
Mickey parallel parks on the street of an industrial area. There are a few cars around, but apart from it being ten o’clock at night, nothing is setting off my alarm bells. Or maybe my fight-or-flight senses are fried because sleeping inside a car is incredibly unpleasant, and I’m very much ready for bed.
Mickey kills the engine, then turns to cup my face. “Remember your promise, okay?”
All I can do is nod.
Don’t talk. Don’t look. Don’t scream. Stay by Damien, even though he looks like he could kill me with his bare hands. A man who looks like he carries a gun.
Click.
I can still hear the sound of the safety turning off as if it were happening again.
I’m not ready to die.
Mickey kisses my forehead before grabbing the bag from the back seat. He flicks off a text to God knows who and tugs me beneath his arm as we walk down the poorly lit street. He’s rigid, but there’s almost a bounce in his step and a slight smirk on his lips, like he’s excited.
What the hell is going to happen, and where on earth are we going? What if we’re going to a strip club or something? Or like an underground lair with a bunch of naked ladies? I don’t think I’d survive. Not because I’d stick out, or because I’ve grown up feeling men’s leering gazes, but I’m self-aware enough to know that I’m a damn jealous person.
I’m heating up enough at the thought of half-naked women looking at Mickey, or worse, of Roman looking at half-naked women… it wouldn’t be envy or jealousy I’d be feeling, it would be unbridled fury.
My heart works double time when we get to what looks like an abandoned warehouse, not exactly screaming strip club. But there was a brothel on the same street as Greg and Millie’s house, so who knows.
The streets in the vicinity are deserted except for the singular burly man standing next to an entrance off to the side of the warehouse. The place where he’s standing is illuminated by a single droplight. Shouting and music spill through the gaps in the door, growing louder the closer we get. Is it a club?
Damien steps out of the warehouse. “They’re with me.”
The bouncer puts a hand on Roman’s chest when we step toward the door. “Security check.”
An annoyed grunt leaves Roman’s throat, but he reluctantly peels himself away from me, lifting his arms from his sides. Jaw tight, brows low, lips curled, his disdain toward the man’s pat down is a living, breathing entity.
The bouncer checks the bag next, then turns to me.
“Don’t fucking touch her,” Roman warns.
Unfazed, the bouncer continues moving toward me, only to stop two feet away. “No check, no entry,” he says simply. There’s nothing untoward about how he looks at me, but it doesn’t stop my nerve endings from screaming.
“Touch her, and I’ll—”
“That isn’t necessary.” My new babysitter comes to my rescue at the same time I say, “It’s fine.”
I hope Mickey sees the plea in my eyes. I want to get this over with so I can crawl into bed and pretend my life is normal. “We need the money. It’s okay. Let him.”
There’s no mistaking the internal war unfolding behind Mickey’s steely eyes. “Do it.” The resignation is loud and clear in his voice, and I send him a silent thank you.
The bouncer is a lot more delicate with me than he was with Roman, which I put down to the fact that I’m a woman and I look like a grunge child in pigtails, wearing Mickey’s bleach-dyed hoodie.
He doesn’t hesitate to usher me through the doors, shooting the bouncer a scathing look. Damien’s I-don’t-give-a-shit demeanor isn’t adding to my comfort in the slightest when all I can hear is yelling.