“If I kissed you right now, would you kiss me back?”
“Never,” I rasp, leaning back as far as I can go.
“Lie,” he singsongs like he’s having the most fun ever.
Another shot shoved toward me.
My vision blurs slightly, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Question after question.
“Did you dress up for me at the Lounge?”
“Did you ever think about what we could’ve been?”
“Do you want to fuck me?”
Every answer I give—denying, refusing, desperate—he calls a lie.
Every denial earns another shot.
I start refusing to drink, but he just lifts the glass and holds it to my mouth again.
“You know the rules,” he says each time, a little more frayed around the edges.
“You wanna leave, Violet? Gotta play fair.”
I’m not sure how long we play.
Long enough for the battered clock on the wall to blink from 7:10... to 7:30... to almost 8.
Long enough for my head to buzz like a broken radio, the floor seeming to lurch under my feet every time I shift.
Long enough that fear sours in my stomach, mixing with the liquor.
Another question. Another accusation. Another forced shot.
At some point, he moves closer, close enough that I feel his breath on my face.
He strokes a fingertip down my cheek again.
“You always had a soft spot for me,” he whispers.
“No,” I slur, “you made it all up.”
His expression shatters—rage bleeding through the cracks.
“Don’t lie to me,” he snarls.
When I try to push off the couch, he grabs my arm and hauls me to my feet.
I stumble, my balance completely shot.
“Let’s go somewhere more private,” he mutters, pulling me toward the hallway.
The walls sway. My stomach churns.
The bedroom looms ahead like a dark abyss.
