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But ever since the party, it seems like every male gaze is about fucking me. I don’t take the word ‘trauma’ easily into my mouth, but I’m starting to believe that’s what I have. I’ve been coping with things lately, but mainly by repressing them. Haven’t been able to touch the pen and write either, for fear that someone other than Sade might find my scribbling and read between the lines. Eva says that if I don’t do something about this, it’s going to fester inside me and erupt when I least expect it in the ugliest forms. The girls haven’t suggested therapy yet, but they will soon.
On the other hand, any therapist worth their money is going to tell me I need to face my fears. Like, the deepest ones. The very idea horrifies me, but I don’t want to be stuck with Afterparty Justine for the rest of my life either.
Or with Dogg staring at me like a serial killer at a hooker he’s about to rape and kill.
Like he does right now, rounding the corner of the mansion, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his slacks. He’s wearing an expensive suit and a bow tie that somehow adds to his serial killer look. With his hair starkly gelled back, he’s a modern day Jack the Ripper.
“Well hello, Afterparty Justine.”
Sweat breaks out on my palms.
“Finally, the gold digger learns her place,” he says with a grin, overturning my bucket and placing his foot on it. “On her knees, dressed as a servant. Looking up at at a lord with her mouth ready to suck.”
He looks down at me with contempt in his eyes, like he could spit right into my mouth and then fuck it. Which must be precisely what’s on his mind, because there’s also no mistaking the tent growing in his pants, right in front of my eyes. Damn, the fucker gets off of abusing women, using his power on them. Seems like all of the Kings are fucked in the head. That weirdly makes the others only hotter, but him? It makes him sleazier, repugnant, because there’s no backbone, no real manliness to back it up, or even, yes, pure-heartedness to give his deviance that irresistible, magnetic spice.
“W–what are you doing here?” I mumble.
His eyebrows shoot up theatrically. “It surprises you to see me? Oh, wait, I forgot. You thought the Royales mansion was your safe place. Your sanctuary.” Another cruelty-filled once over. “But surprise, surprise. It doesn’t look like Sade is putting you on a pedestal after all, Afterparty Justine.”
I press my lips together to repress the nausea I get from him calling me that. Yeah, I’m definitely going to need a shrink, even though I’m pretty sure choking this bastard would do the trick.
I shoot up to my feet without warning, too fast. I go dizzy, but it’s worth it just to see this piece of shit stumble back, and almost fall ass-first into the vases I’d been cleaning. Sadly, he catches himself against the edge of the stone banister. When he looks at me again, his eyes are filled with venom.
“You played a dangerous game, cunt. But today, you’ll learn your lesson.” With that, he straightens up and arranges his suit. I hold his ugly stare, my teeth pressing so hard against each other that my jaw hurts. Fear swirls in my chest like a black hole that threatens to swallow my heart and then the rest of me, but I just can’t let him win this staredown.
“I’ll see you inside,” he snarls, and walks past me towards the row of glass doors that line the patio.
I let out the air I’ve been holding in, fighting an overwhelming desire to hug myself and double over. My vision blurs. I’ve always had stable blood pressure, but now it must be through the roof. I need a moment before I can be of any kind of use to Dad, Mrs. Jones or anyone from the staff, but the moment I turn towards the stairs that lead down from the patio to the garden, a happy voice calls to me in her telltale accent.
“Justine, sweetheart.” It’s Mrs. Jones, waving to me from one of the open glass doors. Traces of the dough still pepper her thick forearm. “They’re going to need you in the dining area. They’re short of servers.”
“Like right now?” My voice trembles. I must look like a ghost too, because the jolly expression wipes off of Mrs. Jones’ face.
“Everything all right, sweetheart? You don’t feel up to it?” She points behind her with her thumb. “I can tell the Duke you’re unwell, and have someone else do–”
“The Duke? He requested me himself?”
Mrs. Jones looks puzzled, and proceeds to wipe her hands on her apron.
“Yes, he passed by the kitchen in person. He said he had special guests, and he requested you.”
“Did he say what guests?” My heart beats like a cornered rabbit’s inside my chest.
“Since when does the Duke report to me? Really now, child, is everything all right with you?” She searches my face with a frown, genuinely expecting signs of illness.
“No, I’ll just–” I can’t stay here, under her scrutiny, for another moment. “I’ll just go, excuse me.”
I hurry past Mrs. Jones and enter the mansion.
Inside, the air seems even heavier.
I really enjoyed living in this dreamland mansion before my life got turned upside down. No point mentioning that it was very different from our lives in the small apartment Dad and I shared in the suburbs, all gang graffiti on the walls and junk cars in the street. He used to work as a janitor at the local school, and bullies mostly left me alone because he could be creepy and scary when he wanted to, but things still got rough sometimes.
But nothing could have prepared me for what I’ve been through on campus.
I need to make sure that none of this transpires to Dad. He can’t know the lows I’ve sunken to. Lows that I’m now desperately trying to claw myself out from, because those things I was repressing? They’re coming to get me, and they’re doing it with a vengeance.
Finally having passed the halls that lead to the dining area of the mansion, I stop in front of it. The doors are open, the wood thick and dark, all sorts of shapes carved into it that now seem diabolical.
