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Then there were the muscles.
Holy hell.
They damn near ripped apart the fabric of the black tee he was wearing underneath the leather vest. His chest was broad, pecs defined underneath the fabric. The skin that was exposed was covered in tattoos. Absolutely covered. Right to his fingers.
He was imposing. With his muscles, his stature, the beard and the vest, I knew that signified him belonging to some kind of motorcycle gang. Given my history, I should’ve turned around and ran when such a man approached me in a quiet gas station.
But if there was anything I’d learned, it was the look of cruelty in a man’s eyes. The absence of something.
This man’s eyes were warm, melty. They made my stomach flip in a way that I hadn’t thought was possible, reminded me that I was a woman. One with independent desires and needs.
“Hey, darlin’, haven’t seen you around before,” he drawled, his voice deep and throaty.
I had to blink and glance behind me to ensure it was me who this muscled bad boy was addressing.
There was no one behind me.
He grinned and sauntered closer. Not close enough to be threatening or make me uncomfortable, but to show he was addressing me. That he was interested in me.
“I’d remember if I’d seen you before,” he continued, eyes running up and down my body slowly.
Again, this somehow managed to not be leery or sleazy. As absurd as it sounded, he was checking me out… respectfully? In a way that seemed like a compliment.
I had not gotten dressed this morning with any kind of male gaze in mind. Getting dressed had started out to be quite a challenge at first, especially since I’d thrown out the outfit I’d left in.
The outfit I’d escaped in.
I’d started with cheap sweats from Walmart. Shapeless. I had wanted to hide, wanted to be swallowed by cheap polyester, wanted to look as different from myself as I possibly could. I wanted to melt into the background so people didn’t look at me twice.
It took me two weeks to discard those thoughts and the sweats. To remember that I had loved clothes. That I liked showing off my body in the days that came before Preston.
God, it felt like I imagined those days when I thought on it. I could barely remember a life when I wasn’t under Preston’s thumb. Mostly because when I wasn’t under his thumb, I was under my mother’s. And I couldn’t inspect my childhood too closely. Not now, while I was hanging on by a thread.
But what I did remember was flipping through Cosmos, creeping into my mom’s closet when she wasn’t home. I hadn’t had the means or time to explore my style in my teens. I’d had to wear whatever I could afford with my part-time job, then when I started dating Preston, he’d mentioned that he liked me in dresses. Quickly, I started dressing like his mother, going shopping with her, adopting their taste.
The mere thought that I hadn’t really had the opportunity to truly dress myself my entire life was utterly horrifying. At first, a hot wave of shame had overcome me, and I found it hard to breathe, to stand up.
But then I’d taken a breath. Cleared my mind—those yoga classes had worked for something at least—and told myself that I couldn’t change the past. But I had a modest amount of money and the opportunity to start to explore who I was. What kind of style I liked.
By the time I found myself in Garnett, New Mexico, I had gained ten pounds—I was still unlearning a lot of behaviors from my former life and the beauty standards thrust upon me, but I was pretty sure I could do with gaining at least ten more.
My body’s natural curves were coming back, my hips becoming fuller, my thighs more shapely. My breasts were still full and high because Preston had arranged for me to get them ‘fixed’ after I stopped breastfeeding Violet. He’d been disgusted at the way they’d sagged and emptied. He’d also been disgusted at the stretch marks which served as evidence I’d brought our daughter into the world, but thankfully, there was no type of surgery for that. Unfortunately, I didn’t get many, and he wasn’t disgusted enough to stop touching me.
I suited the extra pounds, I discovered. My face was fuller, cheeks rosier. I didn’t look so gaunt and hopeless.
I also found I liked dressing for this figure. Tight jeans, strappy tanks, Converse. Cowboy boots. Nothing with a heel too high. I’d worn enough pairs of grossly overpriced footwear for three lifetimes.
But I liked feeling sexy. Slutty and trashy, Preston likely would’ve called it.
I’d dyed my hair midnight black, its natural color without all of the highlights. I didn’t have the confidence or inclination to get it cut or styled. I wanted to grow it long, well past the middle of my back.
At the gas station, I was wearing ripped jeans. I felt a little too old for them, since my daughter wore a pair extremely similar, but I’d loved the way they’d fit my body like a glove, and they were comfortable as hell. I’d slipped on some flat sandals and a tank top sans bra in order to go and grab my beers.
My hair was in curls touching my shoulders, and I had on makeup because I couldn’t unlearn almost a whole lifetime of behavior. I’d never left the house without makeup in the time before. Not to go to Pilates, not even when I’d forgotten milk for a cake I was baking. I’d had an appearance to uphold.
But me wearing it now wasn’t about that. I liked wearing it. Liked feeling pretty in my own way. And the look I was wearing was completely different than the expensive, subtle and feminine makeup I’d perfected over the years.
I’d discovered I loved a ‘smoky eye’ with dark liner smudged around my eyes. It made me look younger, a little edgier than I really was.
