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I run the scene back in my mind over and over, and I am still convinced I was in the right.
I know what it’s like to be forced, pushed, to have my freedom and will completely stripped away. What happened with Marius on Sunday afternoon wasn’t that, but in a way, it wasworse. He gave me a choice.
And I chose to strip out of my dress and let him jerk his cock over and over until he came on my face rather than dealing with the legal consequences of my actions. I don't even know the penalty for trespassing. It likely wouldn't have been more than a slap on the wrist, right?
What's wrong with me?
It kills me that it was all my fault. I knew I was on private property; I chose to charge forward because it was more convenient to me.
For all that, why would I sign a document that damning, solely for their benefit? Coercing me into sex—or close to it—was wrong. It just was. And Riley was on his side.
Naturally she was; if I was the kind of person who’d run my mouth about their affairs, she’d be under fire, too.
Ugh, I hate how my mind vacillates, shifting blame, reanalyzing the situation. It’s done. It’s over. Who cares?
Strangely, given my history, no memory of the events of the woods joins my nightmares. They may occupy the better part of my daytime hours, but when I wake drenched in sweat at night, my throat hoarse from screaming and tears running down my cheeks, it's never about the woods.
I'm in a small room, in a single bed, and I can't move. I can barely breathe. I can only beg and cry, my nails biting flesh as he pushes himself into me over and over.
I've been out of the house for months—almost a year now. But in the dark, I can't help reliving those horrible nights.
I sleep like shit again and I drag my feet, although I usually can’t wait to get to my elective on Thursday mornings.
I feel marginally better after my music class.
“Hey!” someone calls, and I shiver as usual, before telling myself to keep walking.
It’s not about me. It’s never about me.
But quick footsteps approach, and then I actually hear my name. “Sarah, right?”
My heart skips a beat; it’s an unfamiliar male voice.
It’s not him.Nothimnothimnothim. Brandon’snothere. I’d recognize his voice anywhere.
I force myself to glance up, and a sigh of relief escapes me. Still, I frown. I’ve seen the man jogging up to me plenty of times, but I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced. We certainly haven’t talked before. Why did he call my name? When did he even learn it?
Tall, with long, dark hair tied behind his skull, broad shoulders, and powerful thighs, he’s dressed in a short-sleeved t-shirt and a pair of joggers. We’re in the Dome, the most recent addition to campus, a state-of-the-art building, mostly devoted to music, art, and performing arts in the upper floors, sports downstairs and underground.
The beginner music lessons I take weekly are the only indulgence on my schedule. It doesn’t serve a purpose. I’m not going to become a musician, so I’ll never make use of it. I just chose it because I’ve always loved music and never had a chance to study it. I’m honestly not any good. I’m just enjoying myself. Wasting an hour of my time per week.
He must be on his way to the gym, built on the ground floor, or maybe the Olympic swimming pool down in the basement.
“That’s me,” I reply uneasy as he catches up to me.
“I thought so. You’re in my math class. You’re acing it,” he informs me, like I didn’t know.
I shrug. Studying is all I do unless I’m working, at my one singing class, or Violet has convinced me to attend one of her parties. Which she sure as hell won't for the foreseeable future.
I wasn’t much different in high school, always on the fringe, not quite fitting in. I didn't wear the right shoes. I didn't have parents.No one really invited me to hang out back then. So yes, I’m good at class. A byproduct of not having much else to do.
The newcomer scratches his man-bun. “I’m falling behind a bit, and Coach’s breathing down my neck about it. He told me to get myself a tutor. I thought about you.”
That’s so utterly unexpected; a stranger, thinking about me at all. I don’t know what to say.
“I’ll pay you,” he adds into my silence. “Fifty an hour, and a bonus if you can get me a B by May.”
“Wait, you only need a B?” That doesn’t sound like much of a challenge, at least in math. All it takes is a little logic and learning some tricks.
