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“You have ten minutes until we’re there,” he says icily. He doesn’t even bother unbuttoning for me. He’d rather I waste time.
Anxiety infiltrates my nerves. My hands shake and fumble with his button, pulling a cruel snicker from his throat. Tears prick at my eyes, feeling embarrassed. Ryan is so experienced, and it always makes me feel like a virgin.
I do as he says. And he keeps his word, too. He pushes my head down until I’m choking and gasping. And just when I think I’ll pass out; he pushes my head down harder. Tears leak out of my eyes, snot down my nose and slobber rims my mouth.
It takes the asshole nine minutes to come.
I’m heaving in air when we pull into the driveway. Pulling down the visor, I survey the damage.
I’m an absolute fucking mess.
I wipe the evidence away as best as I can, but I don’t look as pretty as I did when I got in the car. I think he likes me ugly.
“Make sure you look presentable,” he orders. A growl works its way up my throat and tears spring to my eyes anew, this time with frustration. Why does he need to dig the knife in deeper? He got what he wanted. And obviously, I need to look presentable. For my own dignity, not his. Despite my anger, I don’t say this out loud. It might make him angry at me, and I’m already exhausted.
Ryan’s relaxed now, his muscles languid as he watches me clean up. Thankfully, spare essential makeup is in my purse. I powder my face. Glide a tube of red lipstick across my plump lips just to spite him. And use a Q-tip to remove the rest of the eyeliner without mussing up anything else.
Q-tips are life.
His hand gently caresses my cheek when I’m finished, though a spark of derision flashes in his eyes when he notes the red lipstick.
“I love you,” he murmurs.
He looks at me like I’m a possession. I like being possessed by him. Those three words wipe away any lingering anger or embarrassment. I’m fucking pathetic.
“I love you, too,” I say, that lost smile found again and adorning my face once more. I’m ready to meet his parents now. Maybe one day, they’ll become my in-laws. They’ll be the first parents I’ve ever had.
Ryan met my mother three weeks ago. It was everything you could expect when walking into a viper’s pit. She sneered at him with disdain. He tipped his chin and look down upon her in equal measure while I shifted nervously from foot to foot. When he ordered me to keep still, asserting his dominance over me, I listened. Barbie snarled and called me weak. Part of me had to agree with her.
Growing up in a shitty town, in a shitty house with an even shittier mother teaches you to be independent. Shallow Hill is a breeding ground for gangs, prostitutes and the homeless. I’ve learned to survive. But I’m bereft of human connection. Sometimes it feels like Ryan takes that pathetic need inside of me and wields it to his advantage.
While Barbie lives amongst the cockroaches, the Fitzgerald’s live in comfort and style. Ryan’s childhood home is a three-story gray house, accented stone walls, and a stone entrance way. Cute light posts line the walkway leading up the bright red front door. Warm glowing light breeches the windows, inviting anyone into its warmth.
And there’s grass. Green grass, to be precise. With a white picket fence surrounding it. My house never had grass that green. Just overgrown tufts of brown, brittle blades, beaten down by random junk littering the yard.
The door opens right as our feet hit the first step. The first thing that assaults my senses is the smell of homemade apple pie. It smells absolutely divine, nearly causing my eyes to roll to the back of my head, much like Ryan’s were just a few minutes ago. A glowing, smiling face greets us next.
Ryan’s mother is stunning. Blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and subtle laugh lines that curl around a sincere smile. She radiates pure positive energy—something I’ve never quite experienced before. I could wrap myself around her in a warm hug and it would feel like coming home.
Yeah.
She could be my mom.
“Welcome home, honey,” she says to Ryan first, jutting her cheek out to accept a chaste kiss. Turning to me, she gushes, “Oh, aren’t you beautiful. My name is Julie, please come in.”
Beautiful.
The word makes me shudder. Too many times has the word tumbled out of cracked lips, yellowed jagged teeth, and accompanied by rancid breath. I don’t let the word falter my smile. Perseverance.
“It’s so wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Fitzgerald. Thank you for having me,” I say politely, a beaming smile chasing my words.
“Oh, please, call me Julie,” she corrects, waving a hand at my greeting.
“I think I can handle that.” I add in a cute wink. When she laughs, we collectively melt at each other’s fingertips. Instantly, I feel a bond with her that reminds me so much of Camilla.
Ryan surveys the interaction with a keen eye. When my golden eyes clash with his, he gives me a nod of approval. I didn’t need his reassurance—I already knew I have Julie’s approval. But his praise sends pride through my veins like a dose of morphine.
Mr. Fitzgerald is a tall, plump man with deep laugh lines, sparkling brown eyes and a gentle hand when he engulfs my dainty hand in his. He introduces himself as Matt. His energy is on the same wavelength as Julie’s. Warm and safe.
