“This fucking idiot just told us he thinks you’re hot. And I know you have a thing for him,” Lance said. “You two have fun.”
I knew the second I looked at Blake’s face what his intentions were. I also knew that they wouldn’t be any fun for me.
I scrambled toward my nightstand, trying to get any of the tools my father insisted I keep on me: knife, pepper spray, extendable baton.
But Blake was faster.
Almost like he knew what I was going for. Almost like Lance could have told him.
I barely got my fingers around the tube of pepper spray when his hand was on my wrist, squeezing so hard it felt like my bones crushed to dust.
He pried the bottle away and it clattered to the floor as he pushed me backward, pinning my legs against the bed.
I’d had a lot of sparring practice in my day, but this was the first genuinely violent experience I had where I didn’t know that I was going to be okay, that it was all a game of sorts.
This wasn’t a game.
And my body seemed to forget all its training as my heart banged against my ribcage, as my throat went tight, and my legs went rubbery.
“I’ve been wanting this for so long,” Blake said as his one hand continued to hold my wrist and the other went to the backof my neck, holding me still as his lips came down on mine. Hard. Bruising. Demanding things I didn’t want to give.
Something in me snapped then, using my training to break his grip on my wrist, then pinching my fingers around his throat until his mouth opened and closed like a fish and his other hand released me.
I turned and ran toward the door.
My hand went to the knob, but it wouldn’t turn. Because someone was holding it.
“Open the fucking door!” I screamed, pounding on it with one hand, then grabbing the knob with both and trying to force it open.
To no avail.
And then Blake’s hands were at my waist, dragging me backward and turning me so fast to toss me down on the bed that the whole world blurred.
His hands were gripping, grabbing, scraping.
It didn’t matter how much I hit, writhed, scratched, slapped. He was stronger. And his sick desires made him doubly so. He was planning on taking what he wanted no matter how many times I lashed out, no matter how many times I said no.
Then, like an angry god, my father’s voice hollered so loud I swear the room shook.
“What thefuck!”
Then he was rushing across the room, grabbing Blake by the back of the neck and dragging him off me.
I was vaguely aware of the sounds of bones hitting flesh as I righted myself, curled up tightly on my side, and dragged the blankets over my head.
Because despite it all, I’d be damned if I let Lance see me cry. But there was nothing I could do to stop it as my mind raced.
With the almosts.
The what-ifs.
The “my first time being close with a guy wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“I’ll kill you. Do you fucking hear me?” my father screamed. “You so much as walk down this block again, and I will slit your fucking throat. Do you hear me?”
There was a garbled answer, then a shuffle of feet.
The door slammed hard.
