Page 15 of If You Go
The bastards who did this don’t know me. Don’t know us.
This shop isn’t just walls and ink and neon. It’s blood. It’s family. And if they think they can scare me back into silence—they’re dead wrong.
Without any real answers, I agree to go home with Josh. He has been my safe place for quite a while now. But I haven’t told him. Not yet. I can’t. I don’t want to ruin what we have now. Stolen glances, soft touches in the dark. Something is there, but I’m too afraid to go forward with it. And I know he is too, or else he would have said something by now.
Josh grabs my hand, leading me out to the Evo. This is Brenden’s favorite car, and I know he loves me if he let Josh drive it. He is reckless, not careless. But he is willing to push the boundaries on anything and everything.
“We will get this sorted, June,” he says to me as we trudge over broken pieces of my home.
“I know.” It’s all I manage to say. Because what else can I say? I really would like a drink. “Just take me home, Josh.”
He nods at me, and opens my door so I can settle into the supple leather seats. I buckle my seat before he gets to his door and fire off a text to Hazel, see what the fuck is going on over there. She tells me what the car looked like. I know Surry loved that car, and how big of a shock it would be to find it that way. Especially in a place that was supposed to be so guarded. We agree to check in later, Surry’s dad is just getting there now.
Josh puts the Evo in drive, and we take off at lightening speed toward the apartment to hunker down, and wait for this to be over.
The ride back is quiet at first. Josh doesn’t push, doesn’t prod—just keeps his hands steady on the wheel of the Lotus Evora, the engine purring low as we cut through the wet pacific north west streets. The car smells like leather and faintly like him—cedar, smoke, and something warmer I can’t place. My nerves finally start to ease, like the hum of the engine is pulling me out of my head.
I glance sideways at him. His jaw is tight, his knuckles flexing against the wheel, the dashboard lights cutting harsh shadows over his face. He’s thinking—always thinking—but he doesn’t spill it. Josh carries it, lets it eat at him until it shows in the set of his shoulders, the sharpness of his gaze.
By the time we pull into the garage, the silence has shifted from heavy to… comfortable. Familiar, even. He kills the engine, and for a moment we just sit there listening to the tick of cooling metal and the steady rhythm of our breaths. Then, without a word, he’s out of the car and around to my side, opening the door. He is always like that. Always a gentleman, even when his whole body looks like a storm barely held in check.
Inside, the tension thins. He tosses his keys on the counter, shrugs out of his jacket, and disappears down the hall. When he comes back, he’s holding a plain black T-shirt, worn soft from too many washes. He doesn’t make some joke or ask if I need it—just hands it over, his eyes holding mine for one beat too long. Like he knows I’ll take it. Like he knows I’ll wear it.
I slip it on in his bedroom, the hem brushing my thighs, the fabric warm from his hands. It smells like him, too, and for asecond I have to press my pointer fingers to my temples, steady myself. It’s ridiculous—how something so simple, so small, can feel like more than it is.
When I walk back out, he’s already on the couch, remote in hand, scrolling through channels like he’s trying to find anything that won’t remind us of blood, fire, or loss. When he lands on some half-forgotten sitcom rerun, he doesn’t look at me, just pats the spot beside him.
I curl into his side without hesitation. His arm comes around me automatically, solid and protective, pulling me close. I’m tucked in under his arm, his hand resting at the junction between my thigh as ass. The laugh track fills the silence, but neither of us are really paying attention. My head rests against his chest, rising and falling with each steady breath. His thumb traces idle, absent circles on my thigh, and I don’t think he even notices he’s doing it.
For the first time since I walked into the wreckage of my shop, I feel like I can breathe. Like maybe we’ll be okay, if only for tonight. That’s the dangerous part, though—how safe he makes me feel. Safety like this is a luxury. It lures you in, makes you forget the world outside is made up of teeth and claws.
So I close my eyes, let the sound of his heartbeat and the warmth of his arm around me be enough. Just for now.
CHAPTER SIX
“HAVE YOUR FILL, boys. I won’t need her for long.”
The video echoes across the room, the voice a dagger to my chest. Even from where I sit, the sound is clear enough—too clear. The sick laughter, the muffled cries, the breaking of another woman’s spirit. I can hear the sound of skin slapping. My father and his men stand near the TV, faces grim, eyes narrowed, the glow of the screen painting their features in harsh blue light. I should look away. I should plug my ears. But it’s too late—the memories already claw their way up from the pit I keep them buried in.
*Seven months after marrying Gavin.*
The stick shakes in my hand. One line. Not pregnant. Again.
The door crashes open. His shadow fills the bathroom. My breath freezes.
His hand clamps around my throat before I can hide the test. I choke, nails digging at his wrist, but he just laughs—low, cruel. “Seven months and nothing. Can’t even give me a son.”
My back slams against the sink. His fingers squeeze until my vision spots. He yanks me down by the hair, dragging me to my knees on the cold tile. His pants unzip. “Get me hard,” he snarls, shoving himself into my mouth before I can even breathe. My jaw aches, my gag reflex kicks, but he doesn’t care. Drool runs down my chin, my eyes water. I do it anyway, sloppy, desperate, because if I don’t—
“Useless.” His fist knots in my hair, ripping me back to my feet. My scalp burns. He pulls me behind him, my feet barely staying under me until we reach the bed. Then I’m thrown onto the bed, face smashing into the duvet. My lungs seize, no air. He shoves down on my back of my head, pushing my face into the mattress harder and harder, until all I taste is fabric and salt and panic. I hear the sound of my underwear tearing, the cotton cutting into my skin before it gives way. The pain when he forces himself inside me is white-hot, blinding. I can’t scream. I can’t breathe.
“Good for nothing whore.” He spits out. I am thrashing, trying to snag any air I can. “Only job you've got is giving me an heir. My heir. You hear me? That’s your only fuckin’ purpose.” If I could breathe, I would be crying.
The creaking mattress mocks my silent sobs within the coils. My chest burns, my body shakes, and somewhere far away I hear myself breaking. Every thrust, every word, every second is a brand seared into me. And when he finally leaves my body, when he pulls out and leaves me collapsed and gasping, I don’t feel relief. Just emptiness. Just shame. Just silence.
That poor girl. She’s me on that fateful night when I finally escaped. Eleven years ago, I was her. Pinned down. Passedaround. Screaming into the floor until my throat was raw, and no one came. My stomach lurches. I grip the edge of the couch until my knuckles ache, the urge to vomit clawing up my throat and my body retches.
Maybe I should just give myself back to him. Hand myself over, let him do whatever the hell he wants, as long as it stops here. As long as he doesn’t touch Selene, or Alisha, or Hazel, or June. As long as he doesn’t look at my mother with that smile again. I could end this. I could.
