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I stare down at the screen. For one, I haven’t heard from Mom in years. I haven’t heard from Dad either, but the first thought that crosses my mind is that Dad is sick. Or dead.
I pick up the phone, ready to call back, but I quickly change my mind. I don’t want to talk to them. I don’t care who is sick. Mitchell was sick in the mind and they did nothing about it.
She’s been calling for the past two weeks. I thought she’d give up, but now I’m beginning to wonder if it’s important. This is the first time she’s texted me after a call. Maybe it is…
But I can’t deal with it right now.
I put the blow dryer back and step out of the bathroom. The TV is now on and I gasp as I spot Shane sitting on the bed, watching Drake’s interview that filmed after the fight. I do my best to ignore the sound of Drake’s voice as it rolls out of the speakers.
It’s so familiar—so close. It honestly pisses me off that even during a simple interview his smoky voice can make my belly roll.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I murmur. I grab my suitcase from the corner and pull out some pajamas.
I hear movement behind me and glance back. Shane is now sitting up with his eyes on me. I didn’t notice before, but they are glazed and low. He looks me over as I stand in my towel.
“Where were you?” he asks, his voice gravelly.
“I was with Kylie. I told you.”
“Doing what?”
“We were just doing some sightseeing. Having a little Vegas fun.” I try and boost my voice with the word fun but he doesn’t fall for it.
He stands from the bed and walks around the foot of it, stopping only a few inches away from me. “I called you a dozen times, Jenny. Why didn’t you answer the damn phone?”
“It was loud—we were out. Geez, what the hell is your problem? Lighten up a little.”
I turn my back to him, searching for a pair of panties, but before I can sift through my clothes, Shane walks up to me and tightly grips my arm, spinning me around. I wince as he holds onto my arm and drags me towards the bed.
I land flat on my back, and my towel falls down a bit, revealing my breasts. I try to cover them back up with the towel but he climbs on top of me, yanking the cloth away.
“Shane—what the hell are you doing?”
“When I call, you answer, bitch.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?! Are you drunk?!” I hold him off as much as I possibly can, pushing his hands away after he squeezes my breasts and attempts to run them down my bare body.
“A little.” He sneers.
I shove him away and start to get up. He pounces back on top of me like a wild animal, and with a snarl, he says, “Just be still! I needed you to meet me.”
“For what?” I shout.
“Because I fucking did!” I feel something hard rub across my leg. He’s so hard right now, like he gets off on seeing me panic.
“Get off of me!” I push him back by the chest and move backwards on the bed.
He yanks hard on my hair and then grabs the inside of my thigh to catch me. His thumb presses down when he has me in his grasp. He does it to the point of pain and I cry out, my hand instinctively striking his face.
He looks at me, astounded, and then grips my thigh even harder, just as he grabs my hair and yanks my head back. “Ow, Shane! Stop! Please! Just stop!”
He glares at me for several seconds, his hand still on my thigh. He watches until tears form in my eyes. When they fall, he finally breathes evenly and pulls his hand away.
He snatches himself up, grunting as he storms for the bathroom. I listen to the door slam, scrambling to sit up. My throat works hard to swallow. I swipe the hot tears away from my face and then climb off of the bed, getting dressed rapidly.
As I do, I can’t help but notice the large, round red mark on my thigh. That’s the second mark like this, only it’s not on my arm this time. I had to wear hoodies for weeks just to conceal the bruise that formed on my arm.
I have no doubt that another will form.
We fight and argue a lot. He grabs tight and doesn’t let go until he knows he’s won. And each time, he is always sloppy drunk.
I grab my cellphone with shaky hands and call Kylie right away. I don’t wait for Shane to come back out. I have the handle of my suitcase in hand. I put on some shoes and walk out of the room, so glad the door slams behind me. At least he’ll know that I’m gone.
