The Anti-hero (The Goode Brothers)

After Adam brushes the dirt off my dress and we’ve composed ourselves enough to return to the party, I drift away from him as we pass by the bathroom.

“I really need to clean this mess up. It’s not nearly as comfortable as you think to have sticky cum covering my thighs.”

He shoots me a displeased expression, but I laugh it off. “Don’t worry. You can put it back later,” I whisper before kissing him.

We’re still behind the biggest building, using the less obvious bathroom. It’s probably a good choice for me at this point since it won’t be easy cleaning this up discreetly with other women around.

“I’ll meet you back at the table,” I say, pushing him toward the party.

“I’ll wait for you,” he says, but I quickly shake my head.

“We can’t be seen returning together, or they’ll know our dirty little secret. Just go. I’ll be fine.”

After some contemplation, he agrees and reluctantly leaves me to enter the bathroom alone. Locking the door behind me, I grab a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and wet them under the water in the sink. Then, I not so gracefully prop my shoe up on the sink and do my best to clean the slowly drying mess along my inner thighs. The entire time, I curse his name with a smile, reliving every sexy moment in the vineyard.

After I’ve used the toilet and washed up, fixing my hair in the mirror, I smile at my reflection one last time before unlocking the bathroom door and stepping into the warm night air. This bathroom is still quite a ways away from the party, so I nearly scream when I hear footsteps along the path behind me.

I spin around with a yelp as I notice Truett Goode sauntering behind me. My blood turns ice cold when I notice the stumble in his step, signifying that he’s drunk. And I’m alone with him.

Turning back toward the party, I pick up my pace.

“Now, now,” he slurs. “Don’t be rude. I just want to talk to you.”

“Fuck you,” I mutter, walking faster.

His slow steps turn quick, and I nearly scream with fear. His fat, clammy hand wraps around my arm, stopping me and spinning me until I’m facing him. I get the urge to spit in his face when I catch a whiff of his whiskey-scented breath, but I’m too frozen in fear.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he grits out in a deep Southern drawl. “Will you stop tryin’ to run from me, dammit?”

My breath comes out with a tremble as I stare at him. Frozen in place, I wait for him to speak.

“What do you want?”

“I want to take your offer,” he replies with a twisted smile.

“My offer?” I reply in confusion.

He nearly falls over, his drunk legs struggling beneath him. He grabs my shoulder for balance, leaning against me as he recomposes himself.

With an exasperated sigh, he looks annoyed as he speaks. “You don’t remember? At the gala, you offered to stay away from my son in exchange for the deed to the club. Well…I’m ready to take your bargain.”

My lips part as I stare at him, wondering if this is some inebriated drunk talk or if he’s serious. It makes me sick to think I ever made that offer in the first place, but back then, Adam wasn’t what he is to me now.

Shoving his hand off my shoulder and holding my head up high, I spit on his suit. He stares down at it in confusion.

“Fuck you,” I mutter angrily. “I don’t give a shit about that fucking club. I hope it burns to the ground. The only one who should be leaving Adam alone is you. I’ll never leave him. Never.”

With his brows pinched inward, he crowds me. As I try to step back, he grabs at my dress, clenching the fabric in his fists and sneering in my face.

“You’re nothing but a trashy slut. You think you’re good enough for my son? You’ll never be worthy. No one will ever accept you, and once he’s grown sick of you, he’ll throw you away, just like your mother did.”

I manage a strangled sob as I try to tear myself out of his grasp, but his hold is too strong.

“Yeah, well, I’d rather be a trashy slut than a man hated by his own children. But your son loves me. And he can’t fucking stand you.”

“You little bitch,” he says, spitting in my face as he makes me stumble in my retreat.

“Let me go,” I cry out, louder this time.

His drunk weight becomes too much, and I stumble on my heels, falling to the ground with a crushing impact, his heavy frame covering me.

He’s muttering something cruel, but my mind has stopped registering his words. He’s taunting me, telling me to burn in hell, wishing me death, and all I can do is fight back.

As his hands fumble their way over my body, pinching my flesh and attempting to dig their way between my legs, my stomach turns with dread. Still, I fight, kicking my legs against his assault, trying to push him off of me. Then, I scream.

To shut me up, he clamps both hands around my throat, putting his weight on my windpipe until it feels like he’s crushing me to death. Fear and panic fill my bloodstream as my vision turns hazy and black around the edges.

All I can think is that I’m going to die. And it’s going to break Adam’s heart.

My legs turn heavy and my hands can no longer find the strength to push Truett away.

I can’t move, I can’t fight, and I can’t scream.

So, I pray.