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“You had fun at our party the other night, didn’t you? You missed the best part, though.” Bryce smirked. “It really got rowdy after you left.”
He laughed as he pulled out his phone and pushed play on a video. “Look. We fucking broke the bitch but she loved every second of it.” And there was the woman with the leather hood on, limbs splayed out helplessly as Bryce crouched over her, his foot on her face as he fucked her ass from above.
Her whole body jerked with the force of every merciless down thrust.
The cameraman walked around them, leaning in especially close so you could hear her pathetic whimpers as she cried.
“She was sobbing by the end, you would have fucking loved it,” Bryce laughed. “Oh, wait for it, wait for it—” he pointed at the screen.
A high-pitched wail strangled its way from the woman’s throat.
“See, the bitch still cums. That slut loves the fucking pain. I taught her to. She’s my bitch. It took a couple years but now she can’t fucking cum without it.”
“Damn,” I said, looking at the video, hard as stone and wishing like fuck I’d stayed to the end of the night. “Wish I had a girl like that.”
I’m going to be fucking sick again.
Was Miranda the girl?
Please Jesus, let Miranda not be that poor girl.
I masturbated to thoughts of that night and that video for years. Fucking years, even after I found out what a sociopath Bryce Gentry was.
It took a couple years but now she can’t fucking cum without it. The pain.
And Miranda was with Bryce for two years. And most of the time, she needs pain to come. Oh Jesus. It was her. It was her, wasn’t it. What sadistic shit did he do to her to make her not be able to cum without pain?
I think of everything she told me about her happy childhood in Ohio. Her mom and dad, still happily married after thirty-five years.
What the fuck did I think had happened to her to make her like sex the way she did? Why didn’t I ever ask? Why didn’t I demand to know?
I grab my hair and yank as hard as I can but it’s not enough. I shout and run at the wall, slamming it with my fists.
I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to know about the other men she’d been with. And I hoped, I don’t know, maybe some people are just into pain. Maybe she didn’t have to have demons in her past like I did.
But Bryce fucking Gentry?
Part of what was released in the Gentry files were videos of him raping women, multiple women, in the most horrific ways—
My fists go through the thin drywall and I kick and kick and kick at the boards underneath until Darren is pulling me backwards.
“Dylan!” he keeps shouting but I throw him off, turning on him.
“Was she the girl? That night, was she the girl? That we both…” Oh fuck, even beyond whatever Bryce did to her, there was what me and my own brother had—
Darren looks away and his voice is quiet as he admits, “Yeah. It was her.”
I stomp to my desk and hurl my lamp against the wall but it’s not enough. Not nearly fucking enough. I heave my entire desk onto its side, sending my monitor crashing to the floor. Still not fucking enough. I— We— Darren was at her mouth while she was trapped in that godawful leather hood and I— I—
I kick my fucking chair and then—
I can’t fucking stand looking at my brother for one more second. I have to get out of here. Maybe if I run far enough, fast enough, I’ll wake up from this fucking nightmare.
Eighteen
MIRANDA
“Mmm.” I lick my lips after I taste the pasta sauce. It’s good. I followed the recipe online but you never know how those will turn out. Not that I’d really know. I don’t cook that much. As in, never. I think this might be the second time I’m using this saucepan.
But I wanted to do something special for Dylan tonight.
I still feel like shit. He asked for honesty and I lied.
Lies of omission still count. I Googled it.
The water in the pot on the other boiler is finally boiling and I pour in the pasta, checking the box to see how long it’s supposed to cook for.
I’m definitely taking up cooking, though. Having something to do with your hands when you’re feeling lousy about stuff is turning out to be very useful. And I get the idea I’ll be feeling lousy for a while because I’ll have to keep lying to Dylan for who knows how long.
I sigh as I grab a wooden spoon and stir the noodles.
I’m about to put on the timer for nine minutes like the package said when there’s a pounding on my front door.
