AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“How has everyone’s week been? Is there anything you’d like to discuss?” our dark-haired, lean, pencil-skirt-wearing, group therapist asks from her seat beside me on Loretta’s hideous, well-kept 1970s autumn-colored, wood-trimmed velour couch. If you’re old enough to know, you know the one I’m talking about—wheelbarrow and trees. Odd texture. A sofa someone in your family likely had growing up. Only this one is in Loretta’s sitting room. A space she’s designed to look like the ’70s came for a visit and puked all over the space. Wood-paneled walls, orange shag carpeting, geometric printed curtains, with plants on every surface, including a few hanging from the ceiling. It’s a trip. Literally. I’d hate to be high in this place. Not that I’ve lit up since college. But I’m willing to bet this is Blimp’s favorite room.
We’re here for our weekly therapy session. Five weeks ago, Big, ordered we attend these together at Loretta’s house since it’s next to Jade’s and easily protected. Jennifer’s our therapist. She’s about as nice as you’d expect and has experience with women who’ve been sexually assaulted.
Jade hates her.
Loretta’s indifferent.
I’m ready for the next five weeks to be over with, so I don’t have to deep dive talk about my feelings anymore. Trust me when I say, I appreciate therapy. I also appreciate what this woman is trying to do. But it’s apparent to the three of us, her experience with rape victims doesn’t include kidnapping, murder, or motorcycle clubs. The first thing we covered was Niki’s death. That I didn’t find out about until a few days after I was living on the compound.
The following week, we had her wake along with Runner’s. A two in one, if you could call it that. It felt like more of a party, with drunken antics and club whores, than a celebration of life. It was nothing more than a reason for men in leather to screw whatever available pussy they could get their paws on. Gunz and Adam both stayed for the bash as I, and most of the women, left the men to their devices. I wanted no part in it. Neither did they.
Especially when a van load of young, topless women wearing short, schoolgirl skirts rolled in carrying six-packs of beer. I heard one of the brothers say this would have been Runner’s wet dream. Another said Niki would have loved it. I can officially say I’ve never attended a wake that resembled anything of the sort. Nor would I want to attend another like it again.
A single look at the topless women draping themselves all over Gunz, my son, and the taken brothers, I thought I was gonna be sick. Two days later, I began searching for apartments. Every one of them I’ve called to get a showing has bailed. Said they had no vacancies, or I wasn’t approved. Except for the one I’m viewing this afternoon, thanks to Bink and her influence.
I wish I could say the past six weeks have been a glorious, life-altering cuddle fest with a particular sexy biker. Sadly, the honeymoon bubble has exploded, and along with it, my childish fantasies of romance and belonging. Each day that goes by, it’s more apparent I need space, as does Gunz. Sure, we still sleep in the same bed. Still eat at the same dinner table with our son each night, trading off cooking duties. We spend time with his granddaughter, Harley, the most adorable one-year-old on the planet.
But we don’t touch anymore.
The forehead kisses and hand-holding have left the building.
He’s gone.
The night of Niki and Runner’s wake, the man I knew disappeared, and in his place is this new zombie of a person I don’t recognize. He smiles little, works a lot, and comes home drunk more times than not. It’s early to work, dinner, then disappear into the clubhouse. By midnight, he’s crawling into bed, reeking of alcohol. I’ve asked him what’s wrong repeatedly. I’ve tried to figure out why things have changed. All I can deduce is he doesn’t want me there anymore, but he doesn’t have the courage to ask me to leave. Even if that’s not why, he still won’t tell me what’s going on.
So, I’m taking matters into my own hands, for both our sakes and my sanity. Because if I have to attend these therapy sessions to deal with my own traumaandlive with him like I have been, I won’t survive another week, let alone a month.
Seated on an overstuffed brown chair, Jade plays on her phone, paying Jennifer no mind. The fierce, tatted-up, curvaceous beauty I call friend has little patience for these visits. She’ll sit, say a handful of words, and disappear back into her phone for the rest of our hour. Today, she’s wearing a black-and-white polka dot dress, black chucks, and a beanie.
True to her eclectic tastes, our hostess, Loretta, is rockin’ a new wig to cover her still mostly bald head. Well, she’s decided to keep hers that way. Easier to wear wigs, she says—now that she’s bought a dozen different kinds in assorted colors and styles. Today’s is long, sleek, and black—akin to Cher’s hair. It pairs well with her leopard-print shorts and slouchy, off-the-shoulder tank.
I wish I could say I look as good as any of these women, but my lack of sleep, abundance of stress, and boredom, has caught up with me. Holey jeans, a band shirt, and flip-flops. No frills. Only mascara. Not even a hat. I’m starting to embrace the baldness in my own way. This quarter-inch hair is the starting point to doing just that.
When none of us reply to her questions, Jennifer cuffs both hands over her knees, an irritated tell, and tries a different tactic. “Have any of you begun exploring sex again, like we’ve discussed?”
Eyes rolling to the heavens, Jade snorts, and Loretta does as she always does when sex is the topic of conversation. She overshares. Tuning her out, because I don’t wanna hear about her and Blimp’s sexual exploits, I join Jade in playing on my phone. It’s a gift from the sisters. A new, secure line, with all the modern advancements—the latest iPhone.
A couple of weeks ago, Jennifer asked about our sex lives during one of our sessions and encouraged us to take baby steps to see how we feel about sex now, in the wake of our trauma. She said it’s perfectly normal to explore our boundaries and triggers. The thing is, Jade is celibate. Has been for ages. I might as well be labeled the same. I haven’t had consensual sex in forever. With the current state of my life and hers, neither of us are going to be exploring our boundaries and triggers anytime soon. This leaves Loretta, who has jumped feet first into the deep end with her man—fucking like rabbits.
This isn’t helpful.
Or healing.
It’s an hour out of my week, spent talking to women I already talk to daily, about shit we already talk about, if that makes sense. Except it’s with a therapist who, no doubt, reports her findings back to Big. We are under no illusion there is any sort of confidentiality here.
My phone vibrates with a text through our collective sister thread.
Jade: If I gotta listen to Loretta talk about her sucking Blimp’s dick one more time, I might scream.
Me: She’s your best friend.
Jade: I know.
As if on cue, Loretta sweeps her hair over her shoulder and starts talking about blow jobs, using graphic hand gestures, and making slurping noises.
Refusing to encourage her behavior, I stifle a laugh. Jade does the same as she looks up at me, arches her brow in a see-I-told-you way, and returns to texting.
Me: I think this is so Jen will report back to Big.
