He pushed one huge finger inside of me, and I cried out in dismay.

I was noticeably dry, and so it hurt, but the dryness had one small saving grace; it seemed to take him out of his strange spell.

He reared back, staring at me. “What, you don’t want this?”

I shook my head emphatically. “No, no, no,” I whispered in a chant.

“Then what the fuck did you come here for?” he roared, backing away from me.

“To talk.”

“So you’re telling me no?”

“At the moment I am. I can’t handle you like this.”

“Oh, you can’t? You think you’re the only piece of ass around here?” He lurched away.

I quickly stood and tried to right my clothes. Tristan had disappeared around the corner, and I wasn’t at all sad about it. I needed to get away from him and fast, and stay away until he was himself again.

He came back while I was still standing propped against the counter, holding the front of my dress together and wondering what on earth I was going to do. I couldn’t stand the thought of just leaving with nothing settled, and I felt too shaken to walk across the room, let alone drive home.

He was holding the picture of the two of us on our wedding day, the one that hung above his bed

He thrust it at me.

I took it, using it to cover my top half.

“Take it. I don’t want to look at it anymore. It obviously didn’t mean a damn thing to you, anyway.” He stumbled away.

Dean startled a yelp out of me when he spoke to me closely from behind. “Come here, Danika, come have a seat on the couch. I cleared a spot for you.” His tone was uncharacteristically gentle, which I didn’t trust, but I followed him into the living room. I did need to sit down.

I sat down on the vacated couch, clutching our wedding photo in front of me, and staring off into space. I was shaking, head to toe.

Dean crouched down in front of me, his brow furrowed, as though he was concerned. Who was this man? Another stranger. “Let me get you some juice. I think it will help. You look like you’re in shock. You could use a little sugar, I think.”

I nodded, feeling too numb to even try to figure out why he was acting this way. His words were noticeably slurred, so I knew he was drunk, but I’d seen him drunk plenty of times, and he’d never been this nice.

He left just as Tristan came into the room, two groupies in tow. I knew that they were groupies by the trashy way they were dressed, and the vacant look in both of their eyes.

I shook my head slowly, just wanting the night to end.

“Look how easy I replaced you!” he shouted. He was so drunk that he was swaying in place. He threw an arm around each woman. “Twice!”

I blinked back tears. “What is wrong with you?” I asked him, my voice trembling.

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with me?! Did you forget? You divorced me.”

Dean came back into the room, not saying a word, just setting a glass of orange juice down in front of me on the coffee table. He shot me one swift, drunkenly sympathetic smile before he disappeared away again.

I would remember the round shape of the glass, the exact shade of orange that juice was. I’d remember that that glass was full nearly to the brim.

“Oh, is that who you want?” Tristan shouted, his malevolent gaze swinging to Dean’s retreating back. “Wouldn’t that be fucking precious, you and douchebag Dean.”

I took a long drink from that memorable glass of orange juice, feeling almost too weak to lift it to my mouth. It tasted bad, a touch bitter, but I attributed that to the bad taste already in my mouth.

He lifted his arms, and shooed the groupies towards the hallway. “Go wait in my room, replacements. I’ll be right there.”

They went, and I took another long drink. It was hard to even look at him just then, but I did it.

Our drama, or Dean, had cleared this room completely. It was the closest I thought we’d get to being alone.

I looked up at him and whispered quietly, “I’m pregnant.”

He blinked, just blinked, and didn’t say a word, just staring at me. I had no idea if he heard me.

“How could you do that, Danika? How could you just send Jerry here with those divorce papers without even giving me a chance to talk to you?”

“I sent Jerry with those papers and a letter. I told you I’d meet with you, if you wanted to try to work things out. Didn’t you read the letter? All you had to do was go to rehab, Tristan, but instead you just signed those papers. We both made this mess. You can’t put it all on me.”

He threw his arms in the air, the muscles in his chest and stomach working with the motion. That had set him off. “A letter? Bullshit! There was no fucking letter!”

I shook my head, again and again. Was he just so out of it that he didn’t remember?

“There was,” I whispered, feeling woozy suddenly. I shook my head, but that just made the feeling worse.

Carefully, I set the orange juice down.

I would remember that it was half-full exactly as I studied it. I didn’t touch it again.

Something was wrong with me.

“Tristan, I don’t feel well. I don’t think I’m okay to drive. I need to lie down.”

“Dean, will you fucking take her home?” he shouted. He pointed at me, his mouth shaped into a snarl. “You divorced me. Did you forget?” he said, yet again. “You got yourself stranded? Not my problem.”

I just kept shaking my head.

Tristan turned to the wall, punched it three times, leaving a gaping hole, then stumbled from the room.

Tears seeped slowly from my eyes as I lay back against couch and let my lids drift slowly closed. I just couldn’t keep them open for another second.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

DANIKA

I started slightly as I felt a hand on my arm.

“Come on, Danika. I’ll take you home.”

It was Dean’s voice, and I opened my eyes, but I didn’t quite process what he said.

He helped me sit up, and then stand, and then I was leaning on him as he led me out of the apartment. I blinked, trying to clear the strange cloud that had come over my mind.

“What’s going on?” I mumbled, struggling not to let my eyes close again.

“I’m just giving you a ride. Shh, now, you’ll be home in no time, and you can talk to Tristan in the morning, or whenever he sobers up. He’s a maniac tonight.”

He supported most of my weight as we made our way very slowly, very carefully, down the steps.

“Why are you being so nice tonight?” I asked him, letting my eyes fall closed after he’d helped me, very gently, into the passenger seat of his car.

He didn’t answer, in fact he barely looked at me again as he set my large wedding picture into my lap and shut the door. I hadn’t even realized that he was carrying it.

I hugged it to my chest and closed my eyes.

The car began to drive, and I struggled to stay awake, as I felt a cold touch on my leg. I couldn’t tell what it was at first, but I knew that it was wrong.

With effort, I opened my eyes.

Dean’s cold hand was on my thigh.

“What are you doing?” I whispered hoarsely, trying to shift away.

His hand lifted, going back to the steering wheel. “Shh, go back to sleep. You’re fine. I’ll have you home in no time.” His tone was still soothing.

It was only then that I realized this nice version of Dean was far scarier than the unfiltered prick I was used to, but I was just so drowsy, and my eyes drifted closed again.

I had a thought that made me fight to stay awake, and I opened my eyes again. “You shouldn’t be driving,” I pointed out. “You’re drunk.”

He laughed. “And high as a kite. We’ve been chasing speedballs with shots of vodka, in honor of our dearly departed Jared. But don’t you worry about it. I drive better drunk, so you’re in good hands. Now go back to sleep.”

I wanted to argue with him, because of course everything he said was asinine, but the effort it took to open my mouth and speak was just too much for me, and I couldn’t get the words out.

His icy fingers moved to grip my leg again, this time higher, and I protested as loudly as I could. He shoved his hand higher, briefly fingering the edge of my panties, before he pulled away again.

“I know well what’s under there. You don’t even want to imagine how many times I’ve seen you and Tristan together. I love your tight little body. You’re just my favorite kind of girl. I like them tiny and curvy, with snug little pussies. I won’t be the fit you’re used to. Tristan is a beast. So don’t worry, you’ll probably barely notice a thing in the morning. And I heard you say you’re pregnant, so you don’t have to worry about that either.

“You’re sick,” I told him. “I wouldn’t let you touch me if you were the last man on the planet.” I was happy that I’d gotten such a long sentence out. I was so lethargic, that little spark had felt like an accomplishment.

He gripped my thigh again. I glared at his sideways smile.

“I really wish you’d finished the glass. I like you better when you’re not talking.”

“What are you thinking? Tristan is going to kill you, literally kill you, for this.”

“Maybe if he knew. Are you gonna tell him? You realize he’ll be disgusted if he finds out. He may kill me, but he’ll also never touch you again.”

“I don’t care. I don’t care. I’ll tell him so he’ll kill you. I’ll tell everyone. You won’t get away with this.”

“That’s if you remember. I have a feeling that your memory is going to be a bit fuzzy tomorrow, but feel free to speak up tomorrow, if I’m wrong.” As he spoke, he inched his hand higher, and higher, rubbing and kneading at the skin of my inner thigh.

I kept telling him to stop, but he didn’t listen, shoving his fingers inside my panties, touching where he had no right.

I hadn’t remembered the frame of my photo being so heavy, but it was now, so heavy that I could only manage to pitch it forward, so that it covered my lap, the top edge digging into my abdomen, but at least it blocked my thighs from his roving hand.

He didn’t seem to mind, his hand then going to the open neckline of my dress, and roaming freely over my chest.

“Stop touching me,” I told him, sounding more drowsy than angry, even though inside I was so angry that I was surprised that my rage alone wasn’t enough to give me some strength.

“Hmm, I don’t think I will. How about you go back to sleep? As I said, I like you so much better quiet.”

“I hate you,” I whispered, raising one hand up to try in vain to cover my chest. There was too much skin exposed, and his hand was so much stronger than my own.

“What are you planning to do?” I said in as loud of a voice as I could manage. “And why? Why would you do this?”

He laughed, and it was the usual Dean again. The nice act was long gone.

“You really want me to tell you? Okay, if you insist. It’s not like you’ll remember any of it. I’ll talk dirty to you, if that’s what does it for you.”