Page 51 of Promiscuous Lies

“I’m Dutton.”

Shit. They were never meant to meet. I’ve always been cautious about who Bentley meets. He definitely doesn’t need to meet the guy I’m fucking, or just fucked once. My mind runs through a million different ways to get out of this situation.

“That’s a weird name,” Bentley says. I somewhat hide the bat behind my back, more so for Bentley’s sake.

“And what’s your name?” Dutton asks him, and though I imagine it’s difficult for him to break away from his cool demeanor, I can tell he’s trying to be slightly gentler, as if he’s unsure how to handle himself around a child.

“Bentley,” Bentley tells him, holding out his hand.

“Dutton,” I say. Bending down to Bentley, I whisper to him, “Go back to the table and finish your dinner while Mommy talksto her friend, okay?” He drops his hand but nods before he offers Dutton a wave and runs off.

When I’m sure he’s gone, I stand, only to find Dutton watching me. Stepping outside the door, I leave it ajar behind me and position myself in front of it, still with the bat in hand, blocking the view into my home.

“That’s new.” He nods in the direction of where Bentley went.

He’s changed into a gray suit, and the gash on his cheek still looks red and angry. Though he’s clean and freshly shaven, he looks tired, and I can’t help but think I’m the cause. A pang of guilt ripples through me. I was so caught off guard in the graveyard, and my emotions were at an all-time high. I’d never been one to run, much to my detriment, but this time, I did, and I blame it on the emotional roller coaster of visiting my parents’ graves for the first time in years.

“Why are you here?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I wanted to check up on you and make sure you’re okay,” he says earnestly, and his sincerity rattles me. This is all kinds of fucked-up. When I glance at his big hands, I notice the busted knuckles and a speck of blood on his gold ring.

I sigh. “You have blood on your ring.”

He raises his hand to check it himself and swears. He tries to remove the ring, but it’s stuck.

“Here.” I step forward to grab his hand, removing the tea towel over my shoulder. I rest the bat beside the door, then wipe the ring with the towel. I feel guilty because the only reason the blood is there is because of me.

“Did you kill him?” I ask quietly. I can’t even look at him; the guilt is too much. I hate that he followed me. But had he not, who knows what might’ve happened?

“You asked me not to, so I didn’t.”

I freeze for a moment before I continue cleaning the ring, and then I look up at him, still holding his hand. I never thought Dutton Taylor would do anything because I asked him to.

“I would’ve preferred carving a message into his chest and then leaving his body on the doorstep of the Boston Delinquents to make a point to never come after you again.”

My mouth opens and then closes again. There’s so much to unpack in that one statement. What a fucked-up knight in shining armor indeed.

“Who even talks like that?” I ask, dropping his hand and stepping back to put distance between us because I never trust myself in his proximity.

“Don’t act like you don’t know who I am, Posie. You knew exactly who you were letting between your legs.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. Yes, I knew he was connected to the mafia. But to come to my home, where my son sleeps, with blood on him…

That I will not accept.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.

I don’t know how to express my feelings because I still haven’t entirely processed it. Dutton is a monster in his own right. I’d never seen him snap like that, never seen that violent side of him. But in that moment, amongst the ugliness, I knew immediately that I wassafe.And yet, I know I should step away from him; magnetism be damned, because I should be scared by a powerful man like him.

But how do I express any of that? I want to be mad at him for following me, but I’m grateful he did. I want to thank him for last night and how he brought me to life for the first time in what felt like years, but I also want to reprimand him for assuming he can arrive at my doorstep whenever he wants.

My gaze lands back on the cut on his cheek, and guilt floods me once again. So, I settle on a simple apology. “I’m sorry aboutyour cheek,” I say, grateful he didn’t follow me all the way home after the incident. I didn’t want to explain to Amy or my son why a man on a motorcycle was on my doorstep, splattered with blood.

I’d closed that chapter of my life.

At least, I thought I had.

“Why were you in Boston? Are you a part of that motorcycle club?” he questions, all his softness now gone.

---