Page 2 of Filthy Hot

In fact, I didn’t know a lot of things.

I didn’t need to know them. I was just a kid.

And so, hearing the news of my father’s infidelities again, just a few short months after what I would assume was a pretty fucking traumatic incident, sent her fragile self over the edge.

Had I known, I wouldn’t have said shit. I would have kept that secret until the day I died, not to protect my father in any way but to keep my mother.

I loved her.

There were many nights of lying in bed, alone in my house, when I wished it were him and not her who was dead. A lot of fucking nights. Hell, I’m not going to lie. I still think that sometimes. But now that I’m older, I try not to let myself think about either of them often, especially her, because it makes me sad, and I don’t like that shit at all.

But today, in this moment by myself, I allow it—at least for a minute or two.

When the sun begins to set, I turn my back to the lake and make my way toward my bike. I shove all the thoughts of my parents, of my past, back down to the depths of my soul. I’ve felt sorry for myself long enough, and now it’s time to go back to my club and take care of business.

Work never ends when you’re the secretary of an MC, especially one as busy as the Dark Horse MC. They’re my family. I’ve known some of them my entire life. They are my brothers. And even though my dad hates me and blames me for my mother’s death, they never have—they never would.

KYLE

Shovingthe key deep into my pocket, I reach for the front door handle, gently turn it, and tug it open. I try not to make a single sound. If I do, my life could be over. I’ve never needed to be as quiet as I am right now.

He’s asleep.

He’s found me again.

But if he thinks I’m going to take it, that I’m just going to accept whatever he has planned for me, he’s got another thing coming.

I don’t know if it’s the booze he drank, maybe it’s the drugs he took, or what, but he was too exhausted to beat the shit out of me after he found me today, which is the only plus I have going on right now.

It doesn’t make me less scared—I am, indeed, scared shitless.

Taking one step outside, I feel the warm sun beat down on me. It’s sweltering. Summer in Louisiana is not for the weak, and I think there might be a storm brewing because it’s beyond humid.

I don’t run.

Because if I do, someone is bound to stop me to ask me if I’m okay, and I can’t risk that. So, fighting every instinct in my body, I force myself to walk. Keeping my head down, I shove my hand in my pocket and walk down the street.

My car is parked about ten blocks away. I didn’t park it there on purpose. It’s wherehemade me stop after he was waiting for me in the back seat. He sat up, held a knife to my throat, and made me park the car. Then he forced me to walk beside him the ten blocks to a motel where he’d been staying.

But I can’t stay here. I won’t stay here. With what little money I have in my belt bag, I am driving until I run out. I’ve been on the run for so long, I don’t know how else to live, but I refuse to be with him. I refuse to give up.

Because I refuse to be Xavier Reyes’ punching bag for one moment longer. I’ve already been that since I was sixteen years old. After ten years, I was certain he was never going to change. He’d been getting worse with each passing year.

I’ve been on the run from him for four years, and I can attest that he is indeed never going to change. He is who he is, whatever that may be, but I want absolutely no part in it at all whatsoever.

Xavier is two years older than me. He was eighteen to my sixteen when we met. I thought he was beautiful, and he was until he showed me his true self. I forgave him over and over, and I made excuses for him for a whole decade.

But the fact of the matter is that he’s on drugs, he’s an alcoholic, and he’s abusive. He’s everything that I was running away from in my childhood home.

He hasn’t gotten better.

Every apology and every promise was as empty as his bank accounts. He spent years using and abusing me a million different ways. It’s me who's been working for all these years. It’s me who was paying the rent.

It’s me who was the constant.

And it’s me who can’t take it anymore.

No more fractured wrists, no more cracked ribs, no more black eyes, no more bruises. I haven’t been living. I’ve been surviving, and when I decided I was done, I left.

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