Page 4 of Wounded Wing

I manage to pull away from Louisiana‘s finest, speeding back up the stairs as fast as my heels allow me. I turn towards the ladies’ locker room, ready to put this entire night behind me.

A plume of overwhelming fragrance chokes me as I push open the door to the employee locker room. The fluorescent lights burn as my eyes adjust after having been used to the club’s low light for hours. Whispers from the other dancers float around the room while everyone prepares to leave for the night.

She’s lucky that she’s Mister Lennon’s wife.

She doesn’t deserve to have Le Papillon’s brand.

It seems our clients weren’t the only ones watching the show tonight. Not that it’s any surprise; many of the girls who work here know all too well how I am with Atticus. Guilt eats at me every night, questioning if these girls choose to be here like me or if they’ve been conditioned, paid for, and trained by my husband.

Mrs. Lennon may be my name on these streets, but in this gilded cage, I’m just another pretty butterfly with wounded wings.

I heard that Mae was sleeping around and that’s why her ass is covered in bruises tonight.

Murmurs of confirmation echo around the room, oblivious to my presence. I shake my head while I step towards my locker, letting out an indignant scoff. I immediately shuck off any remnants of guilt or sympathy as the girls gasp in faux horror. Their chatter ceases as everyone realizes I’ve been in the room during their gossip session.

“Is it true? The rumors, I mean,” asks Stevie, the busty blonde whose locker sits next to mine.

Rolling my eyes, I give her my best, ‘what the fuck do you think?’ face.

I won’t even try to deny the accusation. It wasn’t the first time I fucked someone other than my husband, it was however, the first time I insinuated Atticus' couldn’t perform to standard. I told him as much when he finally decided to return home smelling like a distillery while carrying another woman’s thong in his pocket. If he can indulge someone else for whatever fucked up reasons, turnabout is fair game in my book.

A low whistle sounds from her pink painted lips before she flashes me an irritatingly, perfect smile, “Ya know what? Good for you, girl. Don’t let your husband keep you from finding some good dick.”

“Uh–thank you?” I laugh, appreciating her sex positive outlook.

Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she gently pats my arm before hauling a Barbie-pink gym tote out from her locker.

“If it’s any consolation, the new girls are just jealous. They don’t know the shit we know, Mae. Not yet, anyway,” she sighs.

Flipping her middle finger up, Stevie bids everyone a goodnight, leaving me to sit in an uncomfortable silence while the remaining dancers filter out after her.

My hand slides across my lace-covered breast, I caress the brand that gave me purpose when I begged for death. Marked for eternity by the Devil, my warden. He should have chewed me up and spit me back out. Instead, he chose to breathe his toxic version of life back into me.

It’s not the life I wanted for myself, but I’ve come to accept it all the same. I had to. I promisedhimthe day he was laid to rest that I’d fix my mistakes. Even if he wasn’t here to see ‘em.

Chapter three

The midnight humidity clingsto my skin as I wander out from Le Papillon. Atticus thankfully stayed behind, probably licking his wounds from earlier or licking someone else. Whichever suits me just fine. It’s not like I’m in any hurry to be alone with him again while my ass and ego are still freshly bruised. My charcoal-black Western boots scrape across the asphalt as I walk to the furthest curb. I toss my hand in the air, hailing the next cab back to our penthouse.

Vibration in my skater-dress pocket catches me off guard as a dingy, yellow taxi rolls up next to me. I reach for the device as I slideinto the backseat.Unknown Callerflashes across the screen. I barely have the time to acknowledge the call, let alone answer it, before the screen goes dark. Frowning, I move to pocket the cellular device as it buzzes again, flashingRestricted Numberinstead.

My heart races as I mentally comb through every potential contact. It wouldn’t be Liam or his school. Couldn’t be one of Atticus’ people.

That’s it. I have no one else to call.

Pathetic.

Swallowing the knot of grief gathering in my throat, my finger swipes harshly across the decline icon letting the call go to voicemail. If it’s important enough, they’ll leave a message. Sighing, I slump against the tattered taxi seat. I didn’t need another reminder that I’m alone in this life.

Exactly the way he wants me to be.

By the time I pay and exit the musty yellow cab, I have three unanswered calls. Unease swirls in the pit of my stomach momentarily before I push the anxiety from my mind. This isn’t the first time someone from the past has come back to haunt me. Knowing my luck, or lack thereof, it’s Mrs. Fremont calling me again.

It’s getting closer to the anniversary.

I haven’t spoken a word to that woman in nearly a decade. Though, that hasn't stopped her from calling me multiple times a year. Still, I have nothing to say to her – not after the last call I received.

“You are disgusting, Mae Broussard! I’m ashamed to say I even know you. You married that man, a stranger no less, for what? Money? I thought you loved my son! It's your damn fault he ain’t here no mo’. Don’tcha dare come crawling back ‘round here to your ma and pa when this ‘ol plan ya cooked goes to hell in a handbasket!”

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