Page 69 of Existential

“You know he admitted in our meeting that the only reason you’re here is because he used you for his own benefit. He just needed you to deliver that message, sweetheart, and now that didn’t work out, you’re free game.”

“Get your hand off me.”

“Or what?”

“I scream.” Fuck knows if that’d help, but about now I’m down to try anything.

“Go ahead. Bitches scream all the time around here. It’s nothing new.”

I glance over his shoulder and find King watching us with interest. At last! I plead to him with my eyes to intervene, pushing my hands in my lap to stop Digits’ creeping one. My quickened heart eases as King rises from the stool he’d occupied and crosses over to where I sit.

“Everything okay here?”

“Just catchin’ up with Dagne,” Digits says in a sickly sweet tone unlike the way he’d just spoken to me. He wraps his arm behind me around my shoulders and pulls me in. “Ain’t that right?”

“I need to hang out some washing.” I pull free of his hold, thankful for the intervention.

King catches my elbow as I pass him, halting my exit. “When you’re finished up in the laundry, I need the glassware in my office changed over for clean ones. Could you do that?”

“Sure.”

He gives me the smallest nod, releasing my elbow so I can leave. I beeline it straight to the laundry, managing to hold off the tears until I reach the confines of the skinny room.

This whole deal is my teenage years all over again. The manipulation, being made to feel the perpetrator when I’m the victim, and double guessing myself, wondering if I’m in fact at fault, is the reason I left home. What is it about me that calls to these fucked up people? Do I have a goddamn sign on my head that flashes “Use her. She’s no good for anything else?” What the hell?

I slam the wet clothes into the basket, aware that it’s now night outside, but so what? Five minutes pegging soggy denim to a line might be all I need to get my shit together and face this asshole head on. It can dry in the morning.

The night air has the desired effect, and by the time I’ve successfully hung the washing—a feat given my short stature—my mindset has done a one-eighty. I should have punched the asshole in the junk; I’m sure that’s not unusual around here either. I could have gouged his arm with my nails until he took his hands off me. I could have slapped the bully.

Why is it I always cave under pressure when it comes to men?

The questions cycle through my mind as I set the empty basket back in the laundry room, and then hook around to the kitchen to collect clean tumblers for King’s office. Sonya sits on the counter beside where her old man, Vince, makes them both a cup of coffee. She’s laughing at something he said, carefree and relaxed—everything I want to be. Whatever she sees in that guy, it makes her happy, and I’m glad for her.

“Hey, Dag. You want one? I can get Vinnie here to make another for you.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I freeze, as though Sonya will somehow know who it is, what’s going on, just from looking at me. Chill, Dagne.

“I’ll pass. Thank you.”

Her man turns to check me out, his expression hard and, if I’m honest here, damn well scary. He’s tall, dark, and massively intimidating with his bodybuilder’s physique. Whatever she saw in him that made her fall in love, it’s something he seems to reserve just for her.

I collect the stack of glassware and bid them both goodnight as I head through to King’s office. My heart is in my throat, the glasses clinking incessantly thanks to my shaky hands. I hesitate as I round the last corner where the hallway opens out to the common room. A few of the men still linger near the bar, and I search each face, hoping like hell I’m not going to find Digits.

Safe.

Slightly reassured, I make my way across the vast space to King’s door, which sits open. I step inside, releasing the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

“Set them down on the cabinet here.”

I scramble to catch the stack with my free hand, startled by King standing out of view in the corner by the door.

“Can’t say I usually have that effect on people.” He chuckles, dropping a file onto his desk.

I place the glassware on a tray beside his assortment of liquor and search for the dirty ones. “Where are the glasses you want cleaned?”

“Ain’t any,” he states matter of fact as he takes a seat. “Just wanted an excuse to get you in here without Digits cottoning on.”

“Oh.” I linger beside the filing cabinet, my fingers resting on the edge.