I hold up my hands and make my voice work. “No, thank you,” I say pathetically. I don’t even know what I’m refusing exactly, since he didn’t actually offer me anything. Other than the weed, that is, and he managed to get that into my body anyway.
Steven’s grin is still sloppy, but it is also decidedly menacing, and a shudder runs down my spine as he drops the joint on the floor and backs me into the corner. I push at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.
“Stop it,” I tell him, clear and firm.
“Come on, sexy. March doesn’t have to know…” And then his lips attack.
I try to turn away—to pull back—but Steven’s mouth chases my every move, his hips pinning mine to the wall to prevent my escape. His hands take liberties that make my blood freeze in my veins, touching parts of me that know they belong only to David—that only want David.
No, leave me alone!
“Stop!” I demand, but Steven swallows down my protests, grabbing me around my wrists when I go from shoving to hitting. “Please!”
His touch burns my skin in an entirely different way than David’s does, every one of Steven’s forceful kisses tasting like rancid pot and beer. I want to throw a real, closed-fist punch like Sammy taught me years ago, but I can’t free my hands enough to even do that.
I am truly fucking helpless, and that’s what stings most of all.
He’s just too big, and it isn’t until he stumbles again that I manage to push him away just enough to slip out from under his body. I move as fast as I can. Just as I’m at Reeve’s bedroom door, the door overhead opens again, and heavy footsteps stamp downstairs, freezing at the bottom as I make eye contact with none other than fucking Brody.
My heart flies off at warp speed, and I look between him and Steven in panic as tears fill my eyes and cascade down my cheeks.
I don’t know what to do!
I’m alone in an abandoned basement with a handsy asshole and an accused rapist, and they’re both staring at me like I owe them something.
Suddenly, all the strength I’ve built over the years seems utterly useless. What good is it when my physical strength is nothing compared to these big men who don’t seem to care what I want one way or another?
Violent terror stops my heart cold. What good will it do when there are two of them?
Brody slowly approaches, taking us in, eyes inscrutable as ever, giving nothing away. “Am I interrupting?” He seems no more or less irritable and agitated than usual. Is this his version of casual? My heart sinks into my stomach, as it rolls with terror.
Steven turns to Brody, smirking with sinister intent, mimicking Brody’s threatening steps toward me as I try to inch myself away. “No, homie,” Steven replies, “you’re right on time.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
David
I’m a mix of nerves and eagerness as I head toward the Arts Building. The feedback I got from my Playwriting professor has been encouraging, and while I don’t want to get my hopes up for something that is still such a long shot, this could mean so much for my future. Either way, this meeting is a major opportunity—and one hard to come by. As it is, they’ve had to squeeze me in after a dress rehearsal for their current performance.
With Cap en route, it makes it harder to focus, but I re-read that text from Beth calling me fucking brilliant, and I’m more than ready to nail this meeting, just like she said.
I head west on Washington, and there she is once again—Liz, outside the Stu-U, having yet another smoke. She never smoked before Brody—or missed one of our parties, for that matter. I glance at my watch, knowing I should really head straight to the Arts Building.
I jog to catch up to her instead. “Liz.”
She rolls her eyes. “Will you leave me alone?” she says, exasperated, and I hold up my palms in surrender.
“Just wanted to see how you’re doing.”
She glares at me. “No you don’t. You just want to convince me to cooperate so they can charge him.”
“That, too,” I admit.
She drops her smoke to the ground and stubs it out with her boot. “Well, you can go fuck yourself.” She turns away, but I follow, peeking again at the time and noting, with more than a little frustration, that I’m heading in the opposite fucking direction from the Arts Building.
“Liz, he should be in jail,” I tell her again.
She laughs humorlessly. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” she mutters.
