“What?” I said, flinching back. “That’s what you think I’m saying? Really? Because what I hear is that I want to spend more time with you, and you said maybe it’s not working between us. So if it’s not working for you to spend more time with me, then maybe Ishouldfind someone else to fuck.”
Holy crap, what did I just say? I didn’t mean that.
I was just upset and hurt and angry and God, all I wanted was to have dinner with my family. My mother knew I was dating someone, and I was sick of the all the questions.
He was up in an instant, lunging across the table, hands at my throat.
My hands were at his chest, pushing as hard I could, but he was too strong. My back was slammed against the wall, his huge forearm wedged under my chin, shoved hard against my windpipe. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t steal the slightest bit of air, my chest burned with fire. I felt my veins popping and pulsing through my temples.
I balled my hands into fists and pounded on his chest, but the punches came too weak. My eyes watered. My vision doubled, tripled, blackened along the edges. I tried to scream, mouth open wide, eyes bulging from my sockets. I went for his eyes, tried to scratch them, tried to scramble away, but he pressed his arm into me harder and my hands and arms went numb. They prickled with thousands of pins and needles that rushed up to my shoulders and down to my toes.
Fireworks of pain and light exploded into the side of my face, making the world tilt and reel around me. I couldn’t think straight to figure out what happened. My thoughts fogged over for a moment.This wasn’t really happening. We were just eating dinner, weren’t we?
Then, he let me go.
My legs instantly gave out. My arms flailed, all on their own, trying to gain purchase on whatever was close by to stop me from falling. They knocked along the edge of the kitchen table, sending our half-eaten dinner across the room. Dishes and wine glasses shattered around me as my body crumpled, folding over, crumbling down hard.
The cold, tiled floor was as unforgiving as the tiny sharp pieces of glass I landed on, which ripped through the palms of my hands and the bare skin of my legs. Tears and snot ran down my face, and I gasped and coughed.
My head felt wobbly, my heart throbbed wildly, loud enough that I thought he heard it. I wanted him to hear it—I wanted him to hear it as it broke.
He took a few steps back, I saw him bump his back against the counter, like he hadn’t known where to stop. Behind him, outside the window, beautiful white flakes of snow drifted softly down, the moon just a dim glow below the clouds.
I tried to speak, but my throat felt like fire, burning its way down, destroying the rest of my important organs. My vision blurred with tears as I inhaled harder and swallowed, swallowed, swallowed, trying to drown out the flames.
I blinked, and he stepped forward, hands out to reach for me.
Automatically my hands lifted, blocking my face, my throat, and my chest. My leg kicked out, warning him against a repeat performance. I didn’t fully understand what happened, yet. My entire body was trembling from sheer shock.
“Brooke? Oh God, look what you made me do…” his words trailed off into whispers as he pressed the back of his hand over his lips. He was just as stunned as I was.
Then, he was mumbling words I couldn’t understand, in between sobs and shame-filled looks. He bent down beside me, and slid his hands under my arms and behind my knees. He tried to pull me up, but I kicked out with my legs and grabbed the stem of a broken wine glass, and pointed the sharp edge of it to his face. I tried to move, tried to climb up on my knees, but the kitchen spun and a wave of nausea rolled through my stomach and up my esophagus. White-hot pain blasted through my throat as I keeled forward and vomited all over his brand new shoes.
I spat and spat as long strands of thick saliva dripped from my lips. He scrambled back to the counter, grabbing a fistful of napkins, and held them out for me to take. He spoke words I didn’t hear, too deafened by the pain and anger that blazed across my skin.
How could he?
All I did was fall in love with him.
I kicked at his knees and shakily climbed to my feet, still holding the sharp stemware between both of our bodies. “Get out,” I croaked, slicing the glass through the air.
“Brooke, please,” he begged, stepping closer. “I’m sorry, you know I would never—”
“Yet, you did,” I snapped, pushing past him, leading the way with a slicing motion. I ran to my bedroom, slamming my door. I didn’t bother to lock it.Let the fucker come in, I thought. I kept my holster on the nightstand, and I’d just gotten a sudden urge to have target practice with certain parts of his body.
My gun was aimed at the door instantly, finger just to the right of the trigger.
But he never tried to get in that night. I did hear him sweeping up the glass, though, and the loud roar of the vacuum. It was followed by the sound of the front door slamming closed, and his footfalls on the stairs, leaving. I didn’t open my bedroom door or re-holster my firearm until I saw his car drive away through the snow covered streets as I peeked out the window.
I rushed to the front door and locked the bolt. Leaning my forehead against the cold metal of the lock, I let out a shaky breath. I pulled my hand up to my neck, laying my palm to my skin; it felt swollen and hot.I’m okay, I thought. “He’s gone and I’m okay,” I sobbed out loud, as I ran into the bathroom, stumbling dizzily.
“But you’re not okay,” the girl in the reflection cried back. There was a red welt across my throat and a fresh purplish red bruise blooming rapidly around my red-rimmed eye. “You’re not okay at all.”
