Why didn’t I listen?
Because you wanted a place at Matthewson more than you wanted to be safe.
The idea twists my gut until beads of sweat coat my forehead. I think of myself as having morals but it’s hard to overlook the way I’ve excused my teacher’s touches and innuendos. My throat narrows until a wheeze accompanies each exhalation.
This is my fault.
I should have said something.
I could have stopped this weeks ago and didn’t.
Every hair on my body stands on end. My skin sensitivity climbs the scale.
His hand moves, sliding down my back until it rests on my hip, and a terrible inertia fastens me to the spot. It’s like my head disengages, floating higher, leaving my body trapped in place.
A whine starts in my right ear, blood whooshing as the pressure inside my head increases.
“After your previous behaviour, I’m not sure you’re a good investment. I know I said I’d support your application, but I need to ensure it’s worthwhile.”
Any idea that I’m overreacting, making something out of nothing, disappears when he squeezes his hand, moulding my arse with his strong fingers.
Perhaps a month ago, his coercion would have had a stronger pull. But thanks to the introductions from Zane’s father, I now have my own contacts. Another resource I can draw on instead of being indebted to this incorrigible man who thinks a lifetime of horror is a fair swap for his limp support.
“Let me out.”
I turn, pushing against him, intending to flee the room and keep running until I’m a million miles from this place. But instead of moving away, he stays right where he is. Between me and the door.
My breaths are already shallow. Panic lurches and I can’t get any air.
“You don’t need to make a big fuss. A few minutes to show your gratitude. That’s all I need.”
I reach into my pocket, feeling the outline of my phone. But if I pull it out, he’ll just take it from my hands. He’s not going to stand there while I call someone for help.
Three presses, remember?
I feel for the side button and press it three times, unsure if it’s sent a signal or if I’ve just hit the volume control instead.
“What’re you doing?” he asks in a sharp tone. He reaches for my forearms, closing each one in a grip so tight it’s like a vice. I let go of the phone, letting him slide lower to take my hands.
“I want to go, Mr Simmons.”
“No, you don’t, honey. You think I haven’t seen the video you uploaded. The one you put everywhere; you were so desperate for me to see it.”
The idea he thought I put that online forhimmakes me nauseous. My stomach cramps, hard, bile burning the back of my throat.
He squeezes my right hand against him, forcing my palm against crotch. “You aren’t stupid enough to think I asked you here on the weekend just to paint, are you? I see you watching me in class. Every time I turn around, your eyes are glued to me.”
Because you’re my fucking teacher and I want to learn.
The words are so loud in my head, it’s like I’m shouting, but my mouth is closed, mythroatis closed. How am I meant to yell for help when the entire world swims before my eyes?
Don’t you dare faint.
The internal rebuke snaps me back to reality. I tilt my head back, opening my airways enough to haul in a breath of sweet, sweet air.
My memory supplies the feel of Zane’s hand on mine, holding it against the hard curvature of his chest as I fought panic in his mother’s studio. His muscles were warm under my palm as it moved with the steady rise and fall of his chest.
Breathe with me.
