Page 69 of Love What's Left
Gabriel shifts and puts one foot in front of mine, slightly blocking me from the other man.
Rege grins, undeterred. “Did Gabe ever tell you about the time those girls followed him to Cabo and got into a fistfight with each other over which one got to s—?”
“You didn’t introduce your friend,” McRae says, cutting him off.
Rege glances behind him, then throws his arm around the blonde’s shoulders and guides her forward. “This is Mindy. Mindy, say hello to Gabriel and Sydney McRae.”
The womanextends a hand and gives me a little grimace. “Melody. Melody Herbert. Mindy is a nickname Rege likes to use. Nice to meet you.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Melody,” I say.
As we each shake, Rege takes another swig from his beer. “I’ve got theWandering Souldocked here. Brayden and Thomas brought a few girls each. Come on out. It’ll be like old times. I’ve got top-shelf tequila you’re going to love.”
The pancake that was so delicious moments ago churns in my stomach. I may have grown up in a different world, but some things are universal. No man with friends like this ever respects the woman he’s with, let alone puts a woman or child first.
I turn to get a better view of my husband. I married him. I wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t earned my trust. He can’t be someone who would try to drag me out to something like this or send me home alone with security so he can party on a yacht with these guys and a bunch of women. He can’t actuallylikethis man.
McRae shakes his head and smiles amiably. “Thanks for the invitation, but it’s not my scene. You guys have fun.”
Sheer relief threatens to turn my knees to jelly.
Rege smacks him on the shoulder. “Get the fuck out of here. You’re not still doing that teetotaller bullshit?”
“Calling it bullshit is just one reason why it’s been so many years since we’ve hung out together.”
Rege scans him head to toe with a look of disgust. “You’ve been through hell, and now you can’t even spend a weekend with your friends to recharge? She’s got you whipped, bro. You need to unwind.” He indicates my crossbody bag. “Is she carrying your balls in there?”
“They’d never fit in that little thing. I did hear something about you a few years ago. You do know if you dried out a little, you could probably manage to hold on to a relationship and an erection. Whiskey dick is reversible, little buddy,” McRae says.
Melody’s eyes widen and a spurt of laughter escapes before she stifles it.
Rege shoots her a glare. “You think that’s funny?”
Of course. A man bigger than he is embarrasses him, and instead of responding to the insult, he turns on someone he perceives as weaker.
Melody shakes her head and gives him innocent eyes. “We all know it isn’t true. That’s why it’s funny, baby.”
He grunts in approval. When Rege looks away from her to face us, she lifts her finger and thumb in a pinching motion and mouths, “It’s a little bit true.”
I sputter as I try, but fail, to control my laugh.
Rege sneers at me. “Shut your mouth. Or I’ll shut it for you, bitch.”
I push my way closer. “Try it. I’ll punch you in that tiny dick, then slam the edge of my delicious plate of pancakes into your throat while you’re crying and gagging on the concrete.” I speak slowly, so the adrenaline doesn’t short-circuit my brain-to-mouth connection.
Then, I give him the smile I once used to psych out our opposing teams. Half feral and ready for anything they could bring. Technically, I haven’t built back the strength to pour from a half-gallon jug without using two hands, but he doesn’t know that.
“I’ll hold him for you,” my husband says.
I freeze. At some point during this exchange, not only did McRae move forward to stand beside me, my “minion” stepped over the wall and into Rege’s space. These men never would’ve allowed him to make contact with me.
I attended eight different schools by my senior year and met people like Rege at every one. I changed my grammar, my accent, and my vocabulary to fit in. I shoved down my Appalachian roots and hid them away until that person was nothing but a memory. Then, they had a problem with my athleticism. My supposed lack of femininity. My clothes or that I didn’t have parents. Too smart. Too ugly, but “what did you do to make my boyfriend stare at you?”
Every new foster placement had moments where I had to earn my place there. I’ve closed my eyes and willed myself to disappear in a futile attempt to go unnoticed, and I’ve fought for survival, always evaluating the threat and choosing which tactic would get me furthest with my self-respect intact—faking a tough outer shell when my insides were soft as room-temperature butter.
I forgot that this isn’t the same.My lifeis different. For the first time in my memory, I don’t have to earn a thing. I’m not temporary or replaceable to my husband. If I can’t stand up for myself, he’ll fight for me. Beside me.I’m not alone.
“You’re the best h-husband who ever lived.” I choke on the lump in my throat.
