Page 93 of Promiscuous Lies

Eli spoke with Striker the moment it was revealed that Bobbi was an abusive motherfucker. Striker decided to turn a blind eye to what we had planned for him. Apparently, much has changed in the last year since Striker took over the club, and those who held old values were still being flushed out. The two goons who decided to follow Bobbi were simply caught in the crossfire, and by default, we’d clean up the mess.

Though Striker did confess that if word got out we finished them, there might be backlash in the form of other club members coming for us. I can’t disagree with it, considering I’d do the same.

Once I’ve decided what I want to carve, I take a deep breath and begin. Bobbi whimpers at the first light touch of the cool blade to his skin. And when I apply pressure, piercing his skin and making the initial slice, he screams in earnest.

He wails in agony and tries to see what I’m doing as I carve her name into his skin. When I’m done, I shoot him a satisfied smirk.

“H-how c-could you,” he stammers, tears running down his face.

“How could you hit her, not once but twice?” I growl. I step back and head to the sink, tossing my knife into it. “Don’t worry, it won’t be there for long. I’ll peel it off shortly. I just wanted you to remember what put you in this situation to begin with.”

It is time to have fun with my prey.

I’ll take my time ruining him because there is no amount of torture I could inflict on him to ever make amends for the hell he put my woman through all these years.

CHAPTER 49

Posie

Before I pick up Bentley, I make sure I have layers of makeup on, and I wear dark sunglasses so there is no speculation about what’s happening with me at home. I’m not sure how I would answer any questions regarding the bruising on my face. How do you explain that your ex-boyfriend threatened you and hit you, and the person you’re currently… sleeping with plans to kill him?

Bentley draws and paints most of the afternoon as I wander around the house, cleaning things just to keep myself busy because I don’t know what else to do. A part of me wants to know what Dutton is doing to Bobbi, while the other part is scared to find out the answer.

Just as the sun sets, there’s a knock on my door. I take a deep breath before I answer it. I’m not going to lie; I assumed it would be Dutton. But when I pull open the door, it’s an older version of him staring back at me.

Dawson smiles at me, then his gaze flicks from my eyes to my jaw and then back again.

He doesn’t look thrilled at what he sees. He has that same hard line on his forehead that Dutton sometimes gets when he’s angry or contemplating something.

“Dutton asked us to stop by,” he says.

“You didn’t have to come,” I tell him, just as Honey, who I didn’t see, comes up beside him with a bag of food.

“Hello, Posie. I hope it’s okay if we join you for dinner. We brought food.” She holds up the bag, and Bentley runs out, spotting Dawson. Dawson scoops him into his arms as Bentley starts telling him about his day. I hold the door open for them, welcoming the distraction. I know they’re here to ensure we’re safe, which fills me with so much love and gratitude that I don’t even know how to process it.

I feel like I’m not so alone. Going forward, I already know I don’t have to fight my battles alone.

Once again, I feel like part of a family.

Honey says something, but I don’t hear her at first. Then, it registers that she is asking where the kitchen is. I wave my hand in that general direction, and as she passes me, she grabs my hand and gives it a small squeeze.

Dawson’s already sitting on the living room floor, where Bentley shows him how to paint something. And I notice that my anxiety eases now that they’re here. I guess this is what it’s like to have support from people who love you.

I don’t even have to question whether they accept Bentley and me because they have from the moment they meet us. My sense of self-preservation and fear prevented me from seeing that.

I follow Honey into the kitchen, where I find her searching through cabinets for plates. I point to where they are.

“So, I bake. It’s what I enjoy and what I do when I’m stressed,” she says as she pulls out a tray of cupcakes. “How are you holding up? And please don’t tell me everything’s okay. I know what it’s like to be a mother and worry about my child.”

That’s exactly what I was going to tell her, but a lump forms in my throat, and instead, I choke out, “I’m sorry.” Her eyeswiden, and she puts the tray down. I’m startled when she wraps me in her arms. I awkwardly hug her back, whispering, “I’ve caused a lot of trouble for you all.”

“You haven’t caused any trouble for us,” she says, leaning back so I’m forced to look at her. I laugh at myself as I wipe my eyes. “Have you forgotten that our family’s middle name is trouble?”

“But you didn’t have to do any of this for me. I know what it might cost your family.”

“It costs us nothing. We look after our own, no matter what,” she says adamantly. “Posie, you have my gratitude.”

“What?” What did I do to deserve that from her?

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