Текст книги "Indisputable"
Автор книги: A. M. Wilson
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
CHAPTER TEN
Mr. Ryan
I waited until the end of sixth period before I called Mr. Stephenson about Tatum’s absences. After her breakdown on Wednesday, I can’t help but feel like something might be wrong in her personal life, and she needs somebody to reach out to her. I’m trying to respect her, since she clearly isn’t fond of me, and I know he mentioned being a confidant for her in the past.
He and I chatted for a while after I brought him up to speed, mostly about sports and how my first week went, and I decided to stay late to grade some papers after we ended the call. I feel more comfortable working here than I would back at my lonely townhouse. There’s also a slight chance Melissa might show up to try to talk to me about our relationship-that-never-was, so maybe I’m also staying late to hide out. Cowardly, yes, but I don’t care so long as it saves me a headache.
At quarter past four, I decide it’s time to pack up and blow off some steam at the gym. Trey and I made plans to lift at five and afterwards get some beers in the next town over.
Grabbing my briefcase, I step out into the dark hallway, locking my classroom door. As I turn to the right towards the doors leading to the teacher’s parking lot, I hear a blood curdling scream from behind me.
My heart lurches into my throat and I drop my briefcase, sprinting down the hall towards the sound. Rounding the corner to the stairwell, I’m stunned momentarily as I stumble upon Tatum, pinned against the wall as someone assaults her.
Tatum! No. Fuck no.
My assessment takes but a second.
My eyes zoom in on the hand around her neck, the way her eyes are round as half dollars as she struggles to take a breath, her face red and mottled with tears streaming down her cheeks, the pricks hand shoved beneath her pants, and my blood fucking boils. White hot rage entwines itself within my veins and before I can think I find myself hurtling towards her attacker. Grasping him by the back of his shirt, I thrust him against the opposite wall.
“What the fuck?” he yells.
Before I can check if she’s okay, I rush over to where the prick lays, nursing his bruised skull and kick him in the gut twice in quick succession, feeling intense pleasure at the grunts he’s emitting. My black Oxford’s send him tipping over the concrete steps, tumbling and rolling to the bottom where he lies motionless, cupping the back of his head. I’m about to descend on him once again, all thought and consequence lost to the flood of emotions rushing through me, when a small whimper from behind me pulls me back from the brink of absolute rage.
“My God, Tatum,” I rush over to where she’s slumped down against the wall, her arms crossed around her middle as if she’s trying to physically hold herself together. Tears stream unchecked down her cheeks, but she avoids meeting my eyes.
“Look at me,” I request, carefully crouching down in front of her. Trying to survey her for damage.
She shakes her head no, burying herself further into her arms.
“Let’s get you to my classroom. I’ll call the police,” I tell her, approaching her slowly, not wanting to touch her without her permission. My heart continues to drum a rapid rhythm in my chest, and I try to take a deep breath to calm myself down. The sound of my panting probably isn’t comforting her.
“No! You can’t do that, please don’t,” she cries out as I draw my cell phone from my pocket.
“Shh, Tatum, it’s alright. They’ll help you. You might need a doctor.” I have 9-1-1 dialed, when she suddenly stretches forward, batting the phone from my hand with an astonishing amount of power for how feeble she looks right now.
“Please, no!” She shrieks before fresh sobs wrack her body. I’m at a loss. The school is empty, and I can’t get her to listen to me. She needs help, but I can tell she’s terrified.
“Listen to me. You need to report this. You need to talk to the police. I need to report this.”
“I won’t talk! Just let me go, please Mr. Ryan, I’m begging you. Don’t make me do this!” God, her voice is hoarse and terrified, and it crawls inside me to the nucleus of my being.
My moral obligation is warring with my sudden need to protect her. Some unfamiliar urge has taken over, but seeing what I just witnessed has me wanting to do whatever this girl asks of me. And I relent. I could lose my job over this, but keeping her safe is suddenly much more important. I’ll analyze that thought later.
“Okay, I won’t,” I try to soothe her in a calm, gentle voice. Finally she looks at me, and while staring into her deep watery hazel eyes, something breaks inside of me. I’ve never seen a vulnerability at this level before.
“You won’t?”
“No. At least not right now. What can I do for you? Do you need to go to the hospital?” I ask, because I don’t know what to do.
“Take me home. I just want to go home,” she sobs.
“Here, let me help you,” I offer, extending my arms toward her.
She nods her head and I wrap them around her, encasing her as if I can keep her safe in my grip. And I can. Nothing will touch her while she’s in my arms, at least not in the physical sense. Emotionally, she must be in a world of pain and the thought constricts my heart. She burrows her head into my chest, slinging her arms around me to cling to me while her tears soak my shirt. I’m shocked only a moment before I bring my hand to the back of her head, stroking and smoothing her hair soothingly. Anger detonates like a firework when I feel a large knot hiding beneath the heavy fall of her hair.
A few minutes pass before her sobs begin to quiet to soft gulps of air and small hiccups. As the storm passes, I remember her attacker lying at the bottom of the stairs. I need to take care of him. I loosen my arms around her, which has the desired effect. She lifts her head from my chest to stare into my eyes, and if it isn’t the most heartbreaking sight I’ve ever seen. Of their own accord, my hands slip to cup her cheeks, my thumbs stroking the tears from beneath her swollen hazel eyes.
“I need to do something about him. I’m going to stand you right here, and I’m going to check on him. Don’t move. I promise I’ll be right down there and then I’ll come back for you, Sweetheart.” I can see the fear in her eyes, but I can also see her resolve. Brave girl.
She nods her head once at me, wrapping her arms around herself once more. I slowly back away from her, and peer down the stairs. He’s gone. The bastard must have gotten up and ran off while I was busy comforting her. I swear, if I ever see him again, he’s fucking dead.
“Let’s go, Tatum. I’ll take you home,” I say when I walk back up to where I left her waiting. I wrap my arm around her back, turning her towards my classroom where I had dropped my briefcase.
“Where is he?” she questions, her voice hoarse from screaming and crying, her head whipping back and forth as she continues to check behind us. I need to talk her into going to a hospital. He may have damaged her voice box when he choked her.
“He’s gone.”
I see and feel her shudder against me, so I quickly add, “Don’t worry about him right now. I’m here with you. Let’s just get you home. I’ll take care of him later.” She still looks panicked so I pick up our pace, keeping myself on alert in case he’s planning on jumping us. He’d be stupid to even think about it. I’m barely controlling my anger as it is. Only the thought of not scaring Tatum any more than she already is keeps my fury locked up tight.
I retrieve my bag and we make it to my car without any sign of trouble. After tucking her in the passenger side, I climb in and start the car but pause before shifting it into drive. I don’t know which way to go.
“Where do you live?” I ask gently, trying not to startle her as she stares out the window. She drops her head to stare at her lap instead of looking me in the eyes.
“I—I don’t want to go home,” she confesses. “I’m scared he’ll find me there.”
“Aren’t your parents’ home? We can tell them what happened. I’ll help you,” I offer, but she shakes her head at me.
“I don’t have parents, I mean I have parents, a mom, but I don’t live with them, with my mom,” she stutters, her voice breaking when she says, “I’m all alone.” Fresh tears burst from her eyes, tracking down her cheeks.
“Okay, okay,” I soothe, “anyone else you can stay with?”
She shakes her head no once again.
This is a bad idea. It’s a terrible fuckin’ idea, but I offer it anyway because I don’t know how else to help. “Do you want to stay with me until we sort this out?”
“I don’t want to intrude…” she trails off, and I can tell this is hard for her. Two days ago, we couldn’t stand to be in the same room as each other. Now I’ve witnessed probably the darkest moment of her life. She needs me, even if she doesn’t want to admit it. And honestly, I need to see that she’s okay.
“Don’t even worry,” I tell her and I turn the car towards home.
She’s quiet when I lead her into my townhome and show her to the living room.
“Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink or eat?” I ask, not knowing what else to do. She simply nods her head before taking a seat on the couch.
I cross the hall into my galley kitchen, grabbing myself a beer from the fridge. I down half the contents before I begin rummaging for food. What would she like to eat? I don’t want to leave her there for long while I cook, so for now I grab a box of granola bars, a bottle of water for her, and my beer before heading back to the living room.
When I enter, Tatum is curled into a ball on my couch, sobbing quietly into her sleeves. My chest constricts tighter with each gasping breath she takes. I set my findings down on the coffee table and take a seat next to her.
“Come here,” I offer, needing to hold her, to comfort her. I’m still shaken so I can only imagine how she’s must feel.
To my surprise, she turns over, crawling into my lap and tucking her face into my shoulder. I hold her tightly, circling my arms around her as if my arms can keep her from falling apart. I wish they could; I want nothing more than to take away the hurt she’s feeling in this moment.
Time passes, and eventually, she grows quiet. The sun begins to set into a pale aquamarine sky outside my window and I know it must be getting late. As carefully as I can, I tilt her head to the side and glance down at her only to discover she fell asleep sometime after her crying stopped. Or maybe she cried herself to sleep. A hole opens in my chest above my heart as I replay the images of finding her this afternoon. The terror on her face haunts me, and seeing that asshole’s hand inside her pants? I’m suddenly filled with rage all over again, and I need to move. I gently lift her off my lap and lie her down on her side, grabbing the afghan I keep draped over the back of the sofa and cover her gently.
I stalk upstairs into my bedroom and close the door, leaving it open just a crack so I can hear her if she wakes. My hands are shaking, and I sink down onto my mattress, covering my face with them, trying to stifle the rising emotions inside of me.
I haven’t had a week this fucked up since I lost Harper, and I don’t know how to fucking handle it. I want to leave, drive down to Old Willow and drown my emotions in a couple of whiskeys. But I could never leave her alone after the day she’s had; to wake up in some strange house, and not have me here to comfort her.
Fuck! For all I know, today may also be the cherry on top of her crappy week too. She did miss the past two days of school. What was she doing there tonight? Steps away from my classroom, almost getting raped by some dirtbag. What if I hadn’t decided to leave just then? What if I was still correcting papers with my door shut and I didn’t hear her? What if he kept going and raped her or hurt her? Releasing a grunt of frustration, I allow myself to fall back onto the bed and close my eyes.
One thought leads to another. Tatum. Assaulted. Attempted rape. Death. Harper.
Images of the accident begin flashing through my mind in rapid succession. That red car coming out of nowhere, slamming into us and forcing my truck off the road. Harper screaming when we veer off the road. Harper’s body flying through the cab of my truck as we start to roll down the embankment. Harper’s screams suddenly stopping. Blood. Ugly, deep crimson trails of blood on the window, on the seat, on Harper’s face, on her legs. Her legs, lying in an awkward position. The sirens, ambulances, fire truck.
And the images stop, except for one.
The final one.
Harper.
Cold, white, still. Her delicate features motionless. Eyes closed and mouth unsmiling. Bruised and scraped. I can’t help the whimper that escapes my own lips as I let sleep pull me under, leaving the tears to silently roll down my cheeks in the dark.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tatum
Blinking my eyes, I’m met with darkness. My head feels stuffed with lead when I raise it to look around. It pounds; a thousand drums beating within my skull. My sleeves are damp, and my face feels tight, puffy, swollen. Every muscle in my body is tense, as if I haven’t moved for hours. What time is it? It takes a minute for the fogginess to fade and it suddenly clicks. I’m in Mr. Ryan’s house. But where is he?
And then I remember.
Wyatt.
I think I’m going to be sick.
Leaping off the couch, I round the corner of the living room and find myself in a large galley kitchen. A silver garbage can stands near the edge of the counter, and I don’t even hesitate to rip the lid off and heave the contents of my stomach inside. I wipe my mouth with the corner of my sleeve when I finish, and leaning a trembling hand against the counter, I stand up.
As my eyes adjust to the darkened room, I take in my surroundings. A large bay window is situated over the kitchen sink, and the light from the moon is filtering inside. Crossing to the faucet, I run the cold water over my hands before splashing my face. Then I cup my hands to take small sips, reveling in the feel of the cold water trickling down my sore throat. I lean against the countertop, breathing deeply to try and calm my racing heart.
His kitchen is modern, fully equipped with stainless steel appliances: a large French door fridge with the lower drawer freezer, a gas stove top and double oven. The room is dark, yet I can see the color palette of white on gray cover the cabinets and the walls. This kitchen is immaculate, especially for a young bachelor living by himself. The thought stops me. Is he a bachelor? I don’t know anything about him, and here I am, standing in his kitchen, puking my guts into his garbage can in the middle of the night. And he’s my teacher for God’s sake! I should get out of here.
When I follow the hall back to the living room, I spot the bathroom that I didn’t notice in my scramble to find a barf receptacle. I step inside and shut the door softly. The light blinds me momentarily when I flip the switch, but as my eyes adjust, my appearance shocks me even more.
Bright purple and bluish bruises rim the base of my throat, like some gaudy, chunky costume jewelry. Two of the bruises spread upwards beneath my jawline where I remember Wyatt bit me. My eyes are red, my lids swollen, resting as two slits above my cheeks. My skin is spotted with red dots around my eyes, spreading over my cheeks towards my ears. Popped blood vessels or something like that, from lack of oxygen and from my exertion to get him off of me. Tracing my appearance lower, I take in my red puffy lips, one cut with dried blood.
I don’t remember bleeding.
Using the hair tie on my wrist, I pull my hair into a ponytail and off my neck. My body temperature is rising from anxiety, and I finish up in the bathroom quickly so I don’t have to look at myself anymore.
When I make it back into the living room, I spend some time scanning the photographs along the walls. Most of the pictures are artsy landscapes and city scenes, but a few frames on the mantel show a small boy, ranging from three to probably around ten years old. Riding a bike, holding a trophy, hugging presumably his mom. These all must be pictures of Mr. Ryan as a kid. And even though I don’t understand it, I’m relieved that it doesn’t appear a woman lives here with him. That doesn’t mean he’s single, but I feel like less of an intruder.
I can’t go back home by myself. Wyatt knows where I live. He’d find me. I don’t understand why he attacked me. I’m confused and angry. Really fucking angry. Not once in the past year has he struck me as a violent person. Now, in the matter of a day, he’s broken down any sense of security I’ve built for myself. And the jackass still has my car. And my keys. Come to think of it, I don’t even know where my purse and phone are, if I even brought them here or if I dropped them at the school. I feel entirely violated and defenseless.
I’m alone, frustrated, and exhausted. But I can’t turn my mind off enough to sleep. Mr. Ryan must have left me to sleep on the couch, and he’s probably in his room. My stomach feels funny when I picture him sleeping somewhere on the floor above me. Stop, I chide myself. I am not having feelings for my teacher. This must be some sort of syndrome. Like Stockholm syndrome, but for the rescuer, not the captor. Couple that with my daddy complex and I’m totally, utterly fucked up.
My mind is reeling even more now that I’m awake, and the house is quiet. I should raid Mr. Ryan’s kitchen for something to help me sleep. After searching a few cabinets and not seeing anything that will help me, I check the fridge.
Holy crap, Mr. Ryan likes beer! Half of the left side of the fridge is filled with brews.
Not knowing a thing about what kind is good, I grab a six pack of some light amber colored beer called Michelob and bring it with me to the couch. I uncap one and decide to go all in, taking a long drink off the glass bottle. It’s not too bad, a little bitter tasting, but I want to forget so I take another drink.
And another.
And another. The more I drink, the more I like the taste, and the better my body starts to feel.
The six pack is gone. It’s a little after 2 a.m., and I am feeling drunk. More than drunk, I am feeling annihilated. I think I’ve gotten up to pee probably six…seven times since I started drinking? I don’t remember, but I need to go again, so I hoist myself out of the nice warm cushion I’ve been perched in.
“Ow! Shit,” I cry out as I stumble into the coffee table. Rounding the corner into the hall, I trip on my own feet and knock down a planter sitting on top of a pedestal. I giggle. My bladder is full to bursting. I leave the plant and power my way into the bathroom, dropping my pants, and sitting down without even turning the light on. Sweet relief. I wash my hands, and upon exiting the bathroom, I run into a hard, thick wall I don’t remember being there a few minutes ago.
“Oof.” I ricochet off the wall, falling backwards on my ass, but a pair of warm, strong hands reach out to catch me.
“Tatum? What are you doing?” I recognize Mr. Ryan’s sleepy voice, and I can’t help but giggle. He just caught me from falling on my ass, and I’m drunk in his house. My life is so messed up.
“Just using the bathroom,” I slur, my voice sounding funny to my own ears. His face is screwed up, like he’s piecing something together. Abruptly, he yanks me forward, closer to his warm, strong chest, and brings his face down to meet mine. I think he’s going to kiss me!
Instead, he sniffs loudly, and I laugh again. He’s smelling me!
“Have you been drinking?” he asks, incredulously. Uh, oh. Mr. Ryan is grumpy. Probably pissed I stole his beer.
“Noooo,” I giggle, trying to bury my face in my elbow so to not have to look at his stern face. But I’m curious, so I peer up at him through my thick lashes.
“How much did you drink? And what did you drink? You were sleeping when I went to bed.”
“Your beer,” I slur again quietly.
“You drank my beer? Why?” He looks like he’s trying not to smile. The corner of his lips are twitching.
“Thirsty. Trying to forget.” And suddenly melancholy settles within me; I do want to forget. Forget about this afternoon, forget about Wyatt and Mrs. Marsden, and forget about my mom and being unwanted and worthless. For some reason, I think Mr. Ryan can make me forget.
I launch myself towards him, latching my arms around his neck, and he stills. He looks down at me, caught off guard, but as if he’s scared to even move. I press myself against him suggestively. I want him. I need him. His warmth settles deep inside of me, and I cling to the feeling like it’s a life preserver.
“What are you doing, Tatum,” he whispers, a look of panic on his face. But if I’m not mistaken in my drunken haze, I think I see lust, too.
“Please help me forget, Mr. Ryan. I need you to help me forget.” I try to press my mouth into his, but he halts me, using his arms still on my shoulders to hold me back. I try again, attempting to maneuver against his stronghold. If only he’d let me kiss him, he’d see he wants this, too. I know it.
“Tatum, stop. Stop!” he says, a little more forcefully this time, and he has my attention. He doesn’t want me. And why would he? The girl who lied to him when we first met, the girl who treats him with hardly an ounce of respect, the girl who makes every minute I’m around him full of torture and defiance. I’m worthless to him, too.
This time I have nobody to blame but myself. My head droops in defeat.
“We can’t do this. I am your teacher and you—you were sexually assaulted today! Damnit, Sweetheart, look at me.”
I don’t want to. I try not to, but he slips his hand beneath my chin, lifting my face to meet his steady gaze.
“I know what you’re thinking, and I can guarantee you’re wrong. But you’ve been drinking, and you’re my student. It’s not right. I could lose my job. I can only imagine what terrible thoughts are going through your head right now, but doing anything with me is not going to take away the pain of what he did to you. It won’t.”
“But we’ve done it before,” I reply feebly.
“Tatum,” he growls while shaking his head. “We just can’t.”
My body shudders as a tear slips from my eye, one after the other. I begin to cry and massive sobs wrack my body. For the third time today, Mr. Ryan enfolds me in his strong arms, and I hold on, afraid I’ll sink if I let go.
Mr. Ryan leads me to sit on his massive sectional and once again, pulls me onto his lap. He strokes my hair as I try to quiet my cries. I can’t stop picturing what Wyatt did to me, and I feel dirty and disgusting. Even though I’ve had sex with him before, it feels much different knowing what he did was forced on me. I can still feel his hand between my legs and not in a sexually pleasant way. His fingers felt foreign and wrong, like they didn’t belong inside me. And they didn’t belong. I didn’t want them there, but he did it anyways. And Mr. Ryan was there to see that.
Oh my God.
Embarrassment blazes inside of me like a rapidly spreading wildfire as I realize what all Mr. Ryan saw. At the time, I know he saw me against the wall, struggling against Wyatt, but I didn’t initially think he saw all the graphic, disgusting details.
I lift my head suddenly to look him in the eyes, even though inside I’m mortified. “What did you see?” I choke out, because suddenly it’s the most important thing in the world to me. I need to know.
“What?” he asks, probably thinking I’m rambling because I’m drunk. So I sit up straighter and hold his gaze, trying to show I’m serious. His hand stills it’s ministrations in my hair.
“When you found me today, what did you see?” I repeat.
“You don’t want me to describe that—ˮ
“Damnit, tell me how much you saw!” I demand as my embarrassment morphs into anger.
He visibly takes a deep breath and I focus on the rise and fall of his chest. I want to reach out to touch him there, to steady myself with his strong body, but I don’t. He doesn’t want me to. I shouldn’t be feeling this way. It doesn’t matter what happened two weeks ago. He’s my teacher now and we hated each other two days ago, but something changed today. He saw something happen to me that I would have never shared with him under other circumstances.
Now, he holds my deepest darkest secret because he was in the right place at the right time. Something like that, something that happens not by choice but by fate or destiny, is so much more powerful than if I had chosen to trust him with that knowledge. He was there because life intended him to be, not because I wanted him to be. He’s forever intricately woven into one of the darkest moments of my life, and it’d be impossible to unstitch that bond.
Now that life has given me a little taste of what it’s like to have someone care about me, to protect me, and nurture me, I realize I need it. It’s as necessary as any other sustenance. I don’t think that’s the alcohol talking, either.
His arms are still loosely resting around my body when he answers without meeting my stare, “I saw everything within a few seconds prior to me tearing him off of you. I probably can guess which parts you’re really wondering about, and yeah, Tatum, I did see what he was doing to you.” His voice is angry and pained, but hearing his emotions doesn’t make me feel any better.
I try choking back the sob working to claw its way through my chest, and a sound comes out like a hitched keening cry. I don’t want to spend my night crying and crying, over and over again, but the pain is so much more than I could have ever imagined. I feel dirty, and I need a distraction if I want to sleep again tonight.
I need the blade. I need the delicious silk of sharp metal to open me at the seams I try so hard to keep stitched together. My body is begging for the only release I know how to utilize. The only way to free the painful emotions tearing wildly through my body.
But I can’t. I don’t have it with me, and even if I did, I couldn’t risk anyone finding out the fucked up way I deal with my emotions.
“I need a shower. I need to wash him off of me.” It’s the only other option open to me. I jump off Mr. Ryan’s lap before he can answer me and start to wander down the hall to the bathroom.
“Wait,” he calls after me, and I stop in my tracks.
“You can use my bathroom,” he offers.
“Why can’t I use the one down here?” I ask, confused why it matters which bathroom I shower in. I just want to hurry up and scrub away the filth and degradation on my body.
“You’re drunk, and I don’t want you to slip and hit your head. My bathroom has a tub so you can sit down if you need to, and it’s just more comfortable. Come on upstairs. Let me help you.” He rushes over to take my arm beneath my elbow and steers me up the steps. I’m more intoxicated than I thought. Several times I trip up the stairs, but each time, Mr. Ryan is there to catch me.
“What’s your name?” I ask him, getting tired of this ‘Mr. Ryan’ crap. He knows my first name, and we’ve moved past ‘Miss Krause.’ I think after today’s events, I should be able to use his first name.
“Jacoby.”
“Jacoby.” I test his name out, weighing the feel of it on my lips. “Jac-OH-bee,” I repeat, dragging out the ‘o’ sound, and it probably sounds much worse because I’m drunk. “I like it. It suits you.”
He chuckles beneath his breath. I know he isn’t totally stone faced, even though I can’t see him right now.
He leads me to his bedroom. A king sized bed with dark gray sheets dominates the room, complete with a large four poster frame made of dark, solid pine pillars. Across from the bed sits a matching chest of drawers, also of pine, and a large flat screen mounted above the dresser. To the left of the bed is a large walk-in closet and from what I can see, it looks surprisingly empty. I spot a few button down dress shirts and two pairs of slacks hanging from the clothing rod. I wonder if the other side is just as vacant.
Off to the right side of the room is a small private hallway which Jacoby turns down, opening a door to reveal the bathroom. Inside sits a his-and-her vanity with a large wall to wall mirror, which is reflecting a tub and shower from the opposite side of the room. The toilet sits on the far left side of the bath.
Jacoby leaves me by the vanity while he starts to run the shower. The bathroom quickly fills up with steam, and the need to scrub my skin off is making me insane. He joins me by the vanity again, pulling open a cabinet to remove a fluffy blue towel and a washing cloth. He also removes a comb from a drawer and places it on the vanity, too.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have an extra toothbrush,” he tells me. “Are you okay by yourself? Are you still tipsy?” he asks, his features soft and full of concern as his eyes steady mine. I’ve never noticed how deep brown his eyes are, like the color of melted dark chocolate. They’re beautiful and rimmed with thick, long lashes.
“I’m fine. I’m not too dizzy.”
He turns to leave the bathroom, but pauses.
“I’m going to leave the door open. I’ll be in the room so if you need anything, just holler. And if you feel dizzy, sit down for a while.”
“Yes, mother,” I answer sarcastically, a grin spreading across my face.
“Ah, there’s my girl,” he replies, before leaving the room.
I walk across the chilly slate tiled floor to strip down privately, in case he happens to walk by the doorway while I’m naked. Bonus points for not having to see my reflection in the mirror again. I’m glad he left the door open, though he doesn’t need to worry as I’m starting to feel more sober.
The water is deliciously warm when I step into the shower, and I immediately sink down to my knees beneath the stream. Droplets pelt against the sore muscles of my back and I revel in the feeling, the tension seeping from my abused body.
Time passes as I soak up the relaxing, soothing heat. Rivulets flow down my cheeks, down my chest, and I watch the water run down between my legs. Suddenly, I’m overcome with emotion and soap the washcloth, scrubbing my skin in a desperate attempt to remove the memory of Wyatt’s touch from me. My skin begins to turn red before I realize I’m sobbing. Not entirely satisfied with the now raw skin of my thighs, I move the cloth upwards scrubbing my stomach to my breasts to my throat, while choking against the angst threatening to overcome me.
