Atone (The Disciples 2)

Looking around the dark room, I wonder what time it is. My hand drifts below as I consider masturbating, but I’m throbbing already, and it’s probably a bad idea.

Tossing off the sheets, I make my way to the kitchen and start a pot of coffee. I grab my purse from the counter and plug in the phone. After opening the curtains, I fluff a couple of throw pillows on the couch and head to the bathroom. I’m kind of a neat freak and maybe a little OCD, meaning I like things a certain way.

Flipping on the light, I lean over the sink to take a good look at myself in the mirror.

My lips are swollen and red; my eyes are bright. My left cheek is pink and has a slight rash from his stubble. Leaning back, I pull my hair down and smile, then close my eyes, chastising myself. What am I doing?

I’m filled with happiness and excitement, and I have no reason to be.

He wasn’t very nice.

He doesn’t want a relationship and he’s fucked up.

Oh, and he’s part of an MC club with bad guys who want revenge.

I step into the shower. The hot water helps my sore muscles and aching vagina. Closing my eyes, I let the water caress me. All dramatics aside, I’m crazy about him. He lights me on fire, makes me alive. He’s exciting, and even his pain makes me think my love can fix him.

Fuck it—I might as well own it. I’ve been in love with David since I was a teenager. And I refuse to be embarrassed or think that there is something wrong with me because I’m into whatever nasty things he does.

This man excites me, and maybe, just maybe, I will try anal with him. Reaching for the vanilla shower gel, I have to face the facts. David is tragic, he feels unworthy, and since I have never been through half of his shit, I can’t relate.

Tabatha’s death will never leave him. Never. This is where I wish he would let me in, so I can at least be of some support. I barely knew her, but I would have loved her even if she wasn’t mine. She was a beautiful baby girl and what happened is beyond awful.

I turn off the shower and grab a fluffy pink towel. Shit, is that my phone ringing?

For one insane second, I want to run to the kitchen and see if he’s the caller. But that would require having given him my number, so I brush my teeth and slather on some moisturizer when it starts again.

Dread slithers down me as I grab a black thong and bolt into the kitchen. I always worry about my mom. She’s not street savvy—not that I am, but for the most part, I try to make sensible decisions. She on the other hand…

As soon as I rip the charger off my phone, it starts vibrating and ringing again. CINDY’S CELL scrolls across my screen.

“Hello?” I walk back to the bedroom and straight into my closet, grabbing a yellow summer dress. After all, I had incredible sex and I’m not in the mood for black today. “Hold on.” I put the phone down to slip it on. “What’s up?”

“Thank God. I need you.” Cindy sounds out of breath and she’s yelling.

“Why are you yelling?” I yell back, then lower my voice as I grab some lace-up sandals.

“I’m in so much pain. I think I need the hospital. But I don’t have insurance.”

“Wait, what?” She’s definitely crying. “Cindy…” All I hear is her whimpering and talking to someone about pain.

“Cindy.” I raise my voice over hers. “Call 911, or can I come get you?”

“I’m taking an Uber to your apartment right now,” she screams into the phone. “I’m almost there.”

“What the hell? You took an Uber to me and didn’t go to urgent care or the hosp—” I move the phone to my other shoulder as I step into the bathroom and grab some lip gloss. “Okay, stay calm and I’ll come downstairs right now.”

“Good,” she wails. “I’m in really bad pain. I’ve had this before and I need the hospital.”

“Just getting my bag and I’ll take you.” I sound like I’m talking to a child. “I’m hanging up. See you in a minute.”

What the fuck?

How do I get myself into these situations? And why am I her new best friend? Racing around like an idiot, I grab a banana and glance at my coffee pot steaming with liquid goodness.

Good thing I’m in heels. I open the top cabinet and grab an old to-go cup, fill it up, and reach for my bag and sunglasses. I hate drinking out of to-go cups. For some reason, it always tastes different, but it’s better than nothing.

Tossing the bag over my shoulder, I put the banana inside it and try not to spill coffee on my dress as I lock the door. A horn honks. I glare at the idiot then feel bad because it’s the Uber driver. He’s obviously nervous and waves his arms frantically as though I can’t see him. The car is a mere twenty feet away.