Derek is vibrating with anger beside me.
Instead of guiding me to the back lot of the theater where I’m parked, he takes me to the back doors of the building itself and rips one of them open.
“What are we doing here?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from trembling.
“You’ll see,” he snarls, pushing me inside.
There are still a few lights on in the hallways, but ahead, the backstage area lies in total darkness.
“Where’s your costume?” he asks, confusing the hell out of me.
“P-probably gone. They’re washed after every performance.” It’s a lie, but he won’t know that.
“That’s a shame. I wanted to see you in it.”
Then you should have come to the show, I think to myself. But I know better than to utter that sentence out loud.
“Take me to the stage,” he whispers in my ear. I begin walking slowly into the darkness ahead when he says, “Did you forget I can see your location, Buttercup?”
“No,” I reply.
Derek peers around the curtain into the auditorium. The silence tells me no one is out there. The cleaning crew has finished those areas already. We won’t be interrupted.
Slowly turning back toward me, Derek unbuttons his pants.
“You’d better hope you can say your precious lines tomorrow because I plan to fuck your throat until it bleeds.”
Not here. Please don’t ruin this place for me,I beg in my mind. Pleading out loud would only make him enjoy this more.
“Get on your knees,” he demands.
“No,” I answer, defying him.
“What do you mean,no? I gave you an order, and if you don’t want to sleep in your car tonight, you’ll get on your fucking knees.Now.”
I stand frozen.
I don’t want to do this anymore.
Seeing him here, in my space, with his hand in his pants, getting hard over making me suffer, is the final straw.
“I’ll take my chances in my car,” I reply. His shadow moves toward me, and in an uncharacteristically quick motion, one hand clamps around my throat while the other cups methrough my jeans. His touch makes me want to vomit despite the layers between us.
I don’t fight back, though.
“You will give me what I want,” he says. With one hand still squeezing my throat, he moves his other hand to slide into my jeans. “Because I know you want it, too.”
How fucking delusional is he?I silently wonder.
I bat his hand away from my crotch.
“Isaidno.” It comes out as a wheeze because he’s gripping my throat so tightly.
“How long have you been sleeping with him?” Derek asks, immediately returning his hand and squeezing my dick painfully.
“I’m not,” I reply, earning a punch to the stomach for my honesty.At least he let go of my throat,I think, dragging in a lungful of air.
Derek never hits me in the face. People can see that evidence. He’ll hit me in places that would require me to take my clothes off, ensuring I never do…so it’s crazy to me that he thinks I’m sleeping with Talon. I’d bemortifiedif Talon ever saw the bruises.
