DOM: Chapter 17

Behind my eyelids, unwanted memories of my mother flitter past.

“Valentine, you need to give men something to look at, or else they’ll just use you and drop you.”

My twelve-year-old self looks down at the baggy T-shirt that nearly hides the jean shorts underneath. “But I don’t want men looking at me.”

“You will,” Mom scoffs. “And if you don’t start taking care of yourself now, then you’ll end up with some piece of garbage who just wants to use you.”

I pull down the hem of my shirt, hiding the shorts completely as I try to cover my exposed thighs.

Four years later, my mom says basically the same thing to me. Only this time it’s because my dress is too revealing. Because my breasts have grown bigger than hers, and she hates to see them.

And then, three years later, when the last words she ever spoke to me were punctuated by a slamming door. “You’re a selfish, greedy bitch, and you’ll eventually get what’s coming to you.”

I pry my eyes open.

I don’t really want to be in the present, but it’s better than the past.

Anything is better than the past.

I blink.

What would she think now? My mother.

Would she laugh, gleeful in the knowledge that I’ve finally been used by a man the way she always warned me I’d be? Or would she be jealous that I ended up married to a rich, powerful man?

My vision starts to clear.

The setting sun casts a glow through the SUV, and I vaguely remember Dom grabbing something out of the glove box when we left King’s house.

He didn’t rent this vehicle.

I glance around at the interior, thinking it’s exactly like the one we took to dinner in Vegas.

What did the driver call him when we were leaving my hotel? Boss?

Another level of deceit.

Ringing fills the interior of Dom’s SUV, and KV is displayed on the dashboard.

Dom presses a button on his steering wheel to answer but doesn’t say anything.

It’s quiet for a beat before King’s voice fills the car. “Bring her back.”

I stare at the letters on the screen, not sure how to feel.

Dominic lets out an acidic laugh. “Only took you three and a half hours to decide you want her.”

His words are true. And that’s why they hurt so much.

I turn my gaze out the window, willing that coldness to fill me again.

“I’ve been trying to call her,” King growls at Dom. “She’s not answering her phone.”

My lips tremble, and I hate that I don’t know whether he’s telling the truth.

“Is she with you?” King’s voice is different now. Worried?

I can feel Dom looking at me, but I don’t reply. Not to either of them.

“Dom—” King starts.

“You don’t deserve her.” Dominic ends the call.

No one deserves me.

Just like no one wants me around.

As silence once again fills the vehicle, I focus on breathing.

Inhale.

Exhale.

But the breathing doesn’t work. It doesn’t push away the awful feelings inside me.

Squeezing my hands together in my lap, I walk through the steps my therapist taught me to get back into the present.

Three things I see. Tree. Exit sign. Red pickup truck.

Three things I hear. The tires on the road. The rumble of the engine. Dominic’s exhales.

I take another slow breath.

Three body parts. I wiggle my toes. I straighten my fingers. I lift my shoulders, then let them drop.

It’s all still there. All the badness. But some of the numbness is there, too.

Staring down at my lap, I ask a question I already hate myself for. But I need to ask it all the same. “Did King have anything to do with this? With you and me?”

Dom doesn’t answer for a long heartbeat, and the first tendrils of betrayal flicker in my vision.

But then he replies. “No. It was just me.”

Dom clears his throat, and then something is being set on my thigh.

My phone.

“If you wanted to check.” He moves his hand back to the steering wheel. “See if he’s telling the truth.”

I don’t know when he took my phone, but I slowly pick it up and see the settings have been changed to do not disturb.

I wait for one painful moment as I turn off the setting, and the screen fills with notifications.

Calls from King.

Texts from King.

He’s been trying to call me since we left.

Gross guilt fills my stomach for thinking he might be a part of this.

I open the texts and scroll through them with shaking hands.

New tears, real tears, start to fall from my eyes.

Because King wasn’t lying.

But none of it scrapes away the ugly doubt clinging to my ribs. Because King is an honorable man. And he’s probably reacting this way because of familial obligation.

And I’m so fucking sick of being an obligation. A burden. The relative who doesn’t fit. The one who gets a chair at the table out of pity. Because she has nowhere else to go.

I sniff, the tears still falling.

And that’s not fair.

It’s not fair to King or Savannah or Aspen. Because maybe they are trying. But it doesn’t change the facts. And it doesn’t change history.

I wipe at my cheeks.

It’s nice that King called me.

But I’ll get myself out of this situation. Just like I’ve gotten myself out of all the ones before it.

I type a reply to King.

Delete.

Delete.

Send.

I won’t be anyone’s burden anymore.