“Hey,Slutton,” Patrick says. “You lost? This isn’t your neighborhood.”
Patrick is wearing a beanie, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat. I’m struck down with panic. What’s he going to do?
When we dated, Patrick could be a jerk. He’d hurt my feelings. But he never hit me. Now things are different. Hewantsto hurt me. I can feel the hatred oozing out of his skin.
“Leave me alone,” I say as if I’m not scared. But I am. He’s completely unpredictable now.
“Don’t be a bitch,” he calls. “We just need to talk.”
“Seriously, Patrick. Fuck off and die. I don’t have anything to say to you.”
He’s approaching fast, but I can’t turn my back on him. Not unless I want a boot kicking me down. I ball my hands into fists and wait. Even if I run, he’d still be able to catch me. I have to stand up to him.
Patrick pauses on the sidewalk in front of me, looking casual, almost normal. My breathing is erratic; I’m sure he can read my fear.
“Come on, Savannah,” he says, smiling. “We used to have some good times, remember?”
“No.”
“Aw.” He laughs. “You’re hurting my feelings. I used to nail you pretty good.”
I feel sick. Son of a bitch.
“Then you started getting all weird,” he continues, “stopped fooling around, spending all your time worried about your retard little brother. . . . Is it any wonder we broke up?”
My fingernails bite into the flesh of my hand. “You’re an asshole,” I say.
And before I can react, his hand darts out to grab me hard by the face, and he pulls me to him. He wraps his big arm around me, pinning my hands to my sides. He presses himself against me and brings his face close to mine, his fingers digging into my cheeks.
“Bitch,” he whispers harshly, his breath thick with the smell of peppermint gum. “You need to learn some manners.” I try to pull away, but he only holds me tighter. His fingers are hurting my face.
“Don’t cry.” Patrick leans in to lick the tear slowly off my cheek. I close my eyes at the dampness on his tongue, horrified. Vulnerable. Patrick’s hand moves lower, almost on my ass.
“Stop,” I choke out, but it’s hard to talk with how he’s holding my face.
He pulls back to grin. “Come on, baby,” he says. “Just tell me you’re sorry.” He leans forward to brush his mouth against mine. “I bet I can make you yell my name like you used to.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing he were dead. I hate him. I hate him touching me. I hate his mouth near mine. “Fuck you,” I say as clearly as I can.
He digs his fingers into the hollows of my cheeks until I think he might tear through my skin. I cry, I struggle, but I can’t get free of his grip. I can even feel him hard against me. This is turning him on.
My tears run freely now, and all I can do is wait for whatever comes next. Because I won’t apologize. I’m not sorry.
A horn beeps, startling us as a group of cheerleaders yell to Patrick from a Jetta in the street. I almost scream for help, but I know they won’t help me. Not when they all wish they were the ones getting assaulted by the football king. Patrick smiles, still clutching me, still close to my face.
“We’re not done,” he whispers, and gives me a quick peck like I’m still his girlfriend. He pats my ass before letting go and heads over to the car of girls.
He leaves me on the sidewalk, my cheeks aching, my mouth on fire. I spit on the ground and use the wrist of my jacket to wipe his saliva off my cheek. I don’t want any part of him near me.
As the car pulls away, Patrick leans out the window. “Think about what I said, Savannah.” I flip him off and he laughs.
The minute he’s out of sight, a deep sob tears from my chest. I put my palms on my knees and cry. I curse Patrick. I curse myself. And when I can breathe again, I walk back toward the school.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“How’d you get mynumber?” Cameron asks as I climb into the passenger seat of his car. My hands are still shaking even thirty minutes later, and I keep my head down.
“I used the school phone to call information,” I say. “I wasn’t sure if you were back from therapy yet. I’m sorry.”
