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“You know me?” I ask, shaking some of the lusty feeling from my head. I almost can’t think past the drug’s heated fingers in my brain as they scrape through the gray matter.
She nods. “We go to school together. Not that you’d notice me. Football players don’t really look away from the mirror, do they?” Her tone is laced with venom.
How had I made this girl hate me when I don’t know who she is?
“Well, I’m at a disadvantage then, hmm?” I ask.
She looks down, eyes grazing my rock-hard dick, and I don’t shift away from her gaze. Under the haze of the drugs, I can almost feel her eyes’ touch.
She shakes. I don’t know if it’s from the cold air in the room, or that I’m standing on what seems to be her bed, cock hard, and a deviant look in my eyes.
“Don’t be afraid,” I tell her.
“Why?” she asks, voice small and meek, and I fight the urge to pull her from the tub for only a moment before I do so, gripping the back of her head into my hold.
“Because it will only hurt for a moment,” I snarl.
* * *
I shoot awake,panting, as I race to the toilet. The lid barely hits the back of the porcelain throne before I violently lose my dinner. That night in November has always been a haze for me. Alcohol, mixed with the drugs the cops had found in my system—that I don’t recall taking—has kept me in the dark about most of what happened that night. Father buried all of it, and I never looked back.
Untilher.
It’s her eyes.
They unlocked something in me I thought was long gone. Memories I wish now would’ve stayed buried. I move to the sink and splash my face and rinse my mouth, flushing the toilet on my way out. When I open the decanter from the drinks cart in the living room, I forego a glass and chug right from the bottle. I don’t know what the rest of that nightmare held within it because I’d awoken, but thank God, I did. I was high. I was drunk. She wasn’t. Her blue orbs were as clear as the sky on a beautiful summer’s day.
She remembers.
How can I face her, knowing? How can I face her now that my memories are surfacing? I’ve seen Conner look at her in a manner I didn’t understand and shrugged it off as Conner being Conner. But now it makes me wonder what the fuck he knows that my mind is protecting me from.
I rush to the bedroom before thinking, grabbing my cell. Pounding in his contact information, I place the phone to my ear. Biting my nail as the phone continues to ring, my mind spirals with thoughts of what I’d dreamt. It’s as if it’s on replay, over, and over, and over again. It’s going to haunt me the rest of my life now that it’s fresh.
“Hello,” Conner answers, voice filled with sleepy confusion.
“Tell me what I’m missing from that night,” I blurt, fear residing in my voice as it shakes.
“What? What do you mean?” he asks. Swishing of bedsheets indicates his movement as he sits up.
“Tell me what I’m missing. What did I do to Carina?” I ask him, tears wracking my body like a fucking hailstorm.
“I don’t want to do this over the phone, Em.” His tone is instantly closed off and curt.
He does know.
“Well, get your ass over here. Because I can’t...” I trail off as despair settles into my chest.
“I’m on my way,” he says, cutting the call.
I throw on sweatpants and make myself a proper glass of whiskey before clicking the fake fireplace on for some warmth. The way she’d looked at me with my hand tangled in her hair would’ve stopped me now, but it didn’t then.
But would it have?
I recall instantly the other day in her office when I saw her look of fear and still pressed in toward her face. I noticed how she white knuckled the desk, and I still pushed myself into her space.
I’m a fucking monster.
Tears spring free again, and I drown them with more alcohol. Why was she there? In the dream, it seemed as though she’d been asleep in there, as if that was her home. I remember how Principal Glenmont told me her father was in and out of prison, and I wonder if that night was one of those times.
