Page 97 of The Trust We Broke
He puts his palm to my cheek. “Good.”
As we turn to walk down the corridor, two club girls eye us suspiciously. I’ll face them later, but for now, I need the bathroom and to lie down for a few minutes until the spins stop. They aren’t caused by an injury, but from hyper breathing through the whole “needle” thing.
Grudge’s room is casually messy. While the bed is made with rumpled navy bedding, clothes sit piled on an armchair, rendering it useless. There are stacks of papers and mail on the desk, and several of the pens are missing their lids that sit in a pile on the corner.
There is a large window that has bars on the inside, not the outside. They sit wider than the timber frame. Someone would have to take the whole building down to get rid of them.
But the room is clean, and lying down on covers that smell like Grudge, for a few minutes, helps ground me back in the moment.
The immediate terror dissipates as I remind myself just how safe I am within the walls of the clubhouse.
But Grudge is still out in the ambulance, likely worrying about me, and trying to get Greer to rush through whatever she’s doing to come see me.
I sit up, and, thankfully, the world has stopped spinning. I shuffle to the edge of the bed and catch myself in the mirror above his desk.
My hair is a mess, and I pull out the small twig nobody thought to tell me was in there. There is mascara beneath my eyes, and I give it a rough swipe with my fingers. If my aesthetician could see me, she’d probably ream me out for being so harsh with the gentle skin beneath my eye.
I stand, sniff, straighten my jeans and sweater, and tug my boots back on. If I want to convince Grudge to let me be a part of the solution, it’s crucial I show him I’m fine after being shook up.
After a quick minute in the bathroom, I ready myself to step back outside.
When I open the door, the hallway is quiet, but the volume increases as I approach the bar. The two girls who were eyeing me earlier have their backs to the bar.
“I’m his favorite, you know,” one of them says as I pass by.
I wasn’t joking when I told Grudge I’d seen plenty ofSons of Anarchyepisodes. Club girls think they rule the clubhouse, but the truth is, they don’t.
“Really?” I say, putting a big smile on my face. I offer my hand to shake hers, and, surprised by the action, she takes it. “I’m Lucy.”
“Isla,” she says. “And Karlie.”
“Were you his favorite too?” I ask Karlie.
She smirks. “I fucked him a lot more than once. So, yeah, you could say I was a favorite.”
I see Isla’s eyes narrow slightly.
I nod as if I’m mulling something over. “Well, here’s the deal: Touch him again, and I’ll kill you.”
I’m not sure where the threat comes from. In my head, I was going to make a much more polite request. Maybe it’s the fact I just put a knife through a grown man’s hand.
Isla stands up straight and moves into my space. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“You might have been his favorite, but I had him first, because I’m his favorite ex-wife.”
Her mouth opens. I’m not sure if it’s my words or if she didn’t know he’d been married, once. “What?” she asks.
“You heard. I’m his favorite ex-wife.”
Bandaged hands slide around my stomach. “Wife.” Grudge places a kiss to my neck. “You’re my favorite wife. I’m working on the ‘ex’ part. So, girls, upset her, do anything that makes her leave, and I’ll throw you out of this clubhouse so fast, you’ll bounce. Am I clear?”
“As crystal,” Isla says, but she looks like she’s about to cry.
The two of them head back down the corridor, and I’m left looking at our reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
“Wife, huh?” I ask.
Grudge turns me around. “Not today. But eventually. Yes. You want a different title?”
