“Nice to see you,” he repeats through gritted teeth, getting in close to my face so I can smell the acrid stench of neat bourbon on his breath, that warm smile twisting into a grimace as his sleezy gaze bounces down over my cleavage, the patch of scars hidden by my cardigan there now on show. I fumble with the material as I hurry to secure another button on my dress, the memory of the cowboy’s fingers caressing my skin there making me shudder. I’m confused, the bliss I felt in the closet melting into the same well of emotions where I’m currently bubblingwith fear for what this man plans to do with me. Bobby reaches out to push a curl of my hair over my shoulder at the same moment a cool breeze dances across my collarbone, and I tighten my arms around my waist.The urge to vomit as he eye fucks me without permission roils in my gut, and if he wasn’t holding me upright, I’d be bent in half over the flowerbeds expelling the contents of my stomach.
“I have to…to go,” I say, shucking off his hold and turning to head back on the path up to the house where the music has increased, the thumping boom of a classic garage tune pumping out of speakers as the wood panel sides shake. But his grip around my arm tightens, and my body concedes its escape attempt as I twist into the pull as pain flares around my oddly positioned elbow.
“I said it was nice to see you, and you can’t say thank you—that feels rude. No?”
I want to tell him to fuck his gratitude and run in the opposite direction, but my legs refuse to do as they are told while he continues his hold of me. Pain is a great motivator it seems.
“Why don’t you go and talk to your girlfriend? You remember her, right? Stick up her arse and a counter worth of Sephora on her face.” I laugh caustically, trying a different tactic as the heaviness swamping my senses begins to lift the longer we stand here out in the fresh air. This fucker is on the football team, getting the drop on him in my current state is unlikely, so running my mouth feels like the next best option. Pissing off a guy who looks ready to combust wouldn’t normally be a good idea, but I’m hoping the alcohol he’s ingested, that has him swayingon his feet, will give me the edge. I just need to get him to let go of my arm.
“Now why would I want what she offers every day, when I can take what I want from a good little slut like you?”
“I don’t fuck losers,” I practically spit in his face when I rise on my tiptoes and huff out my chest. Smiling as his eyes twitch in response to my statement. I’ve fucked many losers, but he doesn’t have to know that.
He soon wipes the smile off my face when he hits me with a backhand to my cheek. Hard enough that the world seems to spin 360 degrees on its axis, my brain tumbling around and knocking against my skull.
My vision is blurry as I sway, still trying to make sense of what has just happened. Did he hit me with his hand or a weapon? I’ve had my fair share of smacks to the face with a myriad of objects, but the slice of pain that warms my cheek as the tinge of iron fills my nose, I know it can’t just be his hand. Holding it up proudly, seeming to know the question I’m pondering, I see the glittering rings adorning his fat fingers. Each gawdy addition signifying an accomplishment this fucknut has managed to excel in.
Even stupid people can chase a ball up a field.
Son of a well-to-do town mayor, have a ring. Varsity captain of his football team, have a ring. One hundred days of sexual predators anonymous cleared—I don’t know if that is what the third ring with the ruby stone is for, but it wouldn’t surprise me where this guy is concerned. He seems the type to celebrate something so disgusting. I haven’t been listening as he has been waxing lyrical about whatever threat he thinks I need to hear, urging me tocomply like his good slut and spread my legs for him. I’d rather cut my legs off at the knee and have hockey sticks for prosthetics than open them willingly for this guy. If he wants it that badly, he’ll have to take it by force, because even incapacitated as I am, I won’t give up without a fight.
This fucker’s gonna learn the hard way.
I’m a biter.
Two more seconds to bask in my defiance, I’m hit with another backhand across my face, and my resolve wains. My limbs suddenly too weak to hold my weight as a heaviness descends throughout my body.
The boom of the music fades, and the fairy lights strung above us begin to twinkle as though they are short-circuiting. My knees buckle, and I see the moment he realises I’m about to pass out. Using his considerably larger body, he pins me to the side of the house, slapping my face a few times as he drags me back from the edge of darkness.
“Not done with you yet. You can take more than that.” He chuckles gruffly as he grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls me close, my neck angled awkwardly as his lips brush my stinging cheek likely dented with the imprint of his ring-clad knuckles. I hiss at the pain.
Fuck that hurts.
His warm breath spiked with cheap liquor roils my belly and makes me heave again. It’s too much, and yet I know there is more to come. Bobby didn’t spike my drink and follow me out here to convince me to go on a date with him; he concocted this entire plan so he could take what he wants and discard me like the rest of his victims—I’ve heard the rumours, I know exactly who Bobby Masters is.
He grips my chin forcefully, pinching the skin until my jaw aches.
“I tried to be nice. I tried to play fair. But you’re just like all the others.”
Refusing to go down without leaving my own mark, I twist my face against his hold and snap at the tip of his fingers.
I wonder where he will present those god-awful rings to the world when he only has two fingers still attached, because if he puts them near my mouth again, I’m chomping down, and I ain’t letting go until someone prises me off him. I’ll leave him the middle ones—even a douche like him needs to be able to express his right to flip someone off—maybe he’ll think of me and the moment I gnawed on him like a chew toy every time he does.
“I’ve heard you like it rough and, baby, I’m all kinds of rough.”
I chuckle wildly at his comment around the mouthful of bloody saliva as it drips down over my chin.
Lightning fast, he grabs for my throat, and my eyes fly open wide. I glug for air as he squeezes hard and doesn’t let up. Depressing his nails into the hollow of my neck as though he’s trying to rip out my windpipe. My eyes bulge, and my lungs burn. Clawing at his arms is useless as the sweatshirt he’s wearing bunches in my fists, his hand around my throat locked in and refusing to budge. He tears at my dress, the stitching ripping as the material of the skirt gapes from the bodice, his fingers delving in and jolting back when he feels my scarred skin across my hip.
“All. Torn. Up. Who hurt you, sweetheart?”
I try to wriggle free, hating how his touch makes me feel dirty as I hold onto secrets he has no right to. Pinning me in place, he tugs at my strap, breaking it easily, watching as the material falls and exposes my cleavage. Running his dirty fingernail over the patch of scarred skin, I can’t help but shudder at the connection, a sad whimper wheezing out of me.
“Please. Ple…please…” I beg, my voice small and fragmented, any bravado from a moment ago melting away as panic takes hold. He laughs as I struggle some more. Preening when I snivel and mewl like a tortured kitten left for dead on the side of the road.
There isn’t an ounce of compassion in his hollow black eyes, but the twist of his grimace is enough to let me know he’s enjoying himself. I grind the tips of my boots into the wet dirt, trying to find my footing, he shifts me up so I’m floating in mid air. My hands get sloppy, pawing at him tiredly as the last of my energy goes into keeping myself awake.
Suitably weakened, I hear the metal clang of his belt buckle as he hurriedly unfastens himself with the hand not locked around my sore throat. I welcome the sweet release of unconsciousness now, but he holds me loose enough that just enough oxygen filters into my lungs as my brain fights to stay alert.
