Page 16 of Piston

His voice rings out from my memories, but I try to block it and walk to my car, not allowing my “husband” to ruin this day like always. I’ll hear his words, and my heart will ache, bringing me down, and I won’t allow that today.

I’ve spent the past two years of our marriage going through the motions, all while I’ll see him once a month, giving him my body, and I hate myself for doing it, all because I can’t see him with someone else.

Pathetic right?

I unintentionally gave my heart to him, a heart I always thought was closed off; I mean, I didn’t even feel pain when I caught Chris with the step-monster, yet the thought of seeing Piston with someone else….

I shake my head as I throw my bag in the passenger seat and climb into my car. My interview is now in my rearview, and Piston is fully on my mind—as usual.

Damn man….

When I told him I was pregnant, the coldness with which he looked at me will forever haunt me.

It takes two to make a baby, yet he blamed me instantly; I could see it in his eyes, even though he never voiced it.

He immediately stated we were to marry, and I was going to be his old lady, and he didn’t even give me a chance to decline.

Marriage was never in the cards for me. I’ve seen what a man or woman could do just to get their spouse’s attention—heck, Iwas victimized by it all my life, and yet, Piston forced me into it, threatening to take full custody of the baby if I didn’t.

I actually tried to punch him in the face, but Acid grabbed hold of me while Piston looked on, shocked at my reaction because, sure, every girlwants the patch, right?

Acid had to calm me down before I killed his brother, explaining club laws. If I didn’t marry Piston, then the club would have lawyered up—something about women purposely trying to use children against the brothers to get their way, and Steal can’t change them, not even for Piston.

My left wrist catches my attention as I turn the wheel down Hildon Street toward Hildon Elementary, and my eyes tear up, but I will them away, guilt hitting hard, even after two years.

After a few weeks of marriage to Piston, I went to the clubhouse, and in front of everyone, I lied and claimed my positive test was false, that I wasn’t pregnant. He called me patch chaser, a money-grubbing whore, and said he hated me and wished he never met me—screamed it, actually, in my face.

Things have been uneasy since then. He’s unwilling to speak about it, so I keep my mouth shut, silently hurting, hating that I’m in this mess when all I was doing was trying to protect him….

I groan as I open the driver’s door, my feet killing me.

I’m tired, hungry and very cranky, and quite honestly pissed. Piston is still acting like I planted this baby inside me, even after a few weeks to cool off which, unfortunately for me, he has not.

God, he forced me to marry him without my best friend in attendance. Piston wore his normal jeans and tee, while I was in my waitress uniform.

He didn’t care, said it was nothing to romanticize about, and that he didn’t want this, and I’d forced him into it.

Yeah, like I wanted a baby before finishing college when I have no idea how to even be a mom because I never had one growing up, but he doesn’t know that, does he? Because we decided to keep our relationship strictly sex, no emotions, no talking about the past or the future….

Jackass. If only he sucked in bed.

Shaking my head, I grab my bag and climb out of my car, locking the door, ready for a nice hot shower or something warm because the landlord hasn’t fixed the boiler yet.

Piston bought an apartment, but I refuse to use it. I’ll go there once a month, the agreed-upon date to see him, but that’s it. I also cut up the bank card he gave me.

I don’t want anything from him, just like I didn’t want his cut, even if I fell for him.

Just as I take a step away from my car, someone grips my hair tightly from behind, and I scream loudly as I’m yanked back, and my back hits my car door, knocking the wind out of me. I come face to face with deep green eyes that I recognize but only older.

The man grins, showing his dirty teeth. “I take it you recognize your old man’s father, huh?” he sneers, his breath rancid.

I try not to gag as I notice a knife covered in blood stitched on the left peck of the black leather jacket, the name, The Killers, underneath it. My blood runs cold.

He tilts his head and grips my coat, pulling me forward, then slamming me hard against my car again, then again—four more times, making me scream, my back aching. I cough when he shoves me hard one last time, and panic about my unborn child hits me.

Oh God….

“Listen here, bitch. I won’t say this more than once. I heard about my son making you his old lady. I want you to get all the information on his security details for the club, and I want them by tomorrow. If not, then I’ll slice that pretty little neck open,” he says with the biggest grin.

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