The Fear That Divides Us (The Devil's Dust #3)(24)

“Where did the marks on your back come from?” I question, jumping forward. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the marks aren’t from the husband.

“The marks on my…” she trails off, her voice cracking. She clears her throat as if she is trying to get a hold of herself.

“The marks on my back are from Travis,” she starts, her tone emotionless; it’s as if she is reading a book aloud. “After several months, my new husband told me he was bored with our sex life. That he needed more excitement in the bedroom. I agreed. What could it hurt, ya know?” she remarks. I shrug even though she can’t see me. “Things were spectacular as we went to spanking, and sex toys. I loved it. He wanted more in-depth BDSM, and I agreed,” she explains, her tone excited, but taking an edge of grief. My dick jumps at the thought of spanking Jessica, making me rub my crotch to ease the tension.

“One night he brought home whips and handcuffs. I was down for it, excited really. When we—” she stops, the sound of her breathing through the phone making my body shutter and my dick go limp. I literally hear the pain in just her breathing. I want to tell her to stop, not to bring on the hurtful memories, but I’m selfish. I have to know. I need to know if I have any chance at helping Jessica move forward from her past.

“He got really rough,” she continues softly. “Left whelps all over my body and face from the cheap whip and my wrist broke in the handcuffs, from being placed too tightly. I kept screaming for him to ease up, that he was hurting me, but it was as if he fed off my cries of pain,” she continues, her tone laced with misery. My jaw ticks and I close my eyes. Bashing that f*cker’s head in with my boot and shooting him was too easy of an out for him.

“He told me the next day he was sorry, that he didn’t know what had come over him, that he would be more gentle next time,” she snorts. “The next time he wasn’t any better. When he was done with me, I was bleeding from the nose and down—” she stops, and I swallow heavily. I’m not sure I can handle much more of this knowing what he did to her, and I can’t bring him back from the dead to kill him all over again.

“After a few more weeks, I healed, and he wanted to go back into the whips and cuffs. I refused. I told him he became a monster when I gave him that kind of control.” She inhales a big breath. “He dragged me into our basement, slapped me around, and made me submit to him. Months of this occurred. He had upgraded to all kinds of sexual devices to use on me by then. I was not allowed to work anymore. I couldn’t with all the marks on me. I was to ask permission for pretty much everything, and call him Master. If I didn’t comply, I suffered the consequences.”

“Jesus,” I whisper, pinching the bridge of my nose. I never knew it was that bad. I knew her husband was a monster, but even monsters have more remorse than her ex-husband.

“I found out I was pregnant and I tried to run one day. What any normal person would do. I couldn’t have my child around that kind of abuse, but Travis had men waiting for me at the airport. They grabbed me and threw me in the back of a car. When they brought me back to the house, Travis pulled me out of the car by my hair, dragged me to the front porch, and handcuffed me to a large pillar. Ripping my dress off my back, he plucked a whip from the willow tree out front and thrashed it against my back so hard, it made everything I had endured before seem like a walk in the park. He made me scream that I would obey him, never leave him again, that he was my master. He would make me yell that I loved him, and in return, tell me I was unlovable, that I was incapable of having another’s love. If I refused or objected, he would lash the whip at me again,” she sobs into the phone. “That’s where the scars on my back came from,” she whispers solemnly.

“Damn, Jessica,” I mumble into the phone, images of her cuffed to a porch and being whipped flashing in my mind’s eye.

“And that Bobby, is why I am, the way I am. I see his face all the time, feel the burn of the scars on my back when I am doing something he would not have allowed,” she continues, her tone a fraction stronger than before.

“He can’t hurt you anymore, babe,” I reassure, trying to comfort her.

I have more questions, but after all that, I can’t stomach anymore. My gut twists with empathy for Jessica. She went through a life of hell with that son of a bitch, and even dead, he still haunts her.

“I didn’t tell you all this for pity. I told you so you would understand,” she explains, doing so with confidence.

“I want to help you, Jessica.” I run my hand over my face, stressed.

“How?” Her voice trembles, giving away she does want me, needs me, even if she doesn’t realize it.

“I don’t know, but I’ll figure it out,” I respond truthfully. I will figure it out, and I will help her. I took on the position when she came into the club years ago, accepting to kill her husband so she and her daughter didn’t have to live in fear, but the job isn’t finished.

***

I have no idea how to help Jessica. Not a f*cking clue. But I banged this therapist a few times some months back and she would go on and on about the people she was treating before we f*cked. I even gagged her at one time to shut her up. Maybe she can give me some insight into what I am dealing with and how to go about it.

I dial Hilary’s number, hoping it’s not too late for her to answer.