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My body, on the other hand, reminded me every aching second that he was across from me. Blood rushed through me like bike messengers in a contest to see who could deliver a message the fastest. Drew spent most of his time calmly inventorying me. On the island, I’d learned to watch people who watched me. I can crack my eyelids open half a millimeter and appear to be asleep.
Drew watched me for that entire ride. And I felt every second of it.
Why? The word loops through me with an obsessive mantra. My therapists on the island would tell me that if I couldn’t get it under control, they would increase my meds and decrease my media time. I shiver, the quick twitch unnerving.
My therapists don’t have any control over me. Not anymore.
We begin to land.
I breathe in slowly, willing my mind to stop chasing itself. I exhale, imagining the pain drain out of me. My therapists told me that the pain I hold onto in my body is the source of my suffering. The medications all dull the pain.
Pain is my enemy.
And Drew let all that pain happen.
A thousand questions ping against the walls of my skull. I can’t ask him any of them. Not one. If I crack open that vault, I’ll never stop. I have to end this self-torture.
“Your father is in his office in the south wing of the house,” Drew shouts as the helicopter blades slow down. “He wants to see you before you go to your room.”
Your father. The south wing. Your room. These are words that have meaning, but I’ve been gone for so long.
I ignore Drew. If I pretend he doesn’t exist, I can cut down on suffering, right?
“Lindsay?” Drew shouts.
I pointedly ignore him and unclip my seat harness, scrambling out the door before he can stop me.
My high heels sink into the lush grass at the landing site. This slows me down. All I can think about is getting into my house. My home.
And getting away from Drew.
My progress ends with an abrupt wall of six feet plus of muscled man in front of me. I crash into him, his movement so swift I don’t see it coming. My face smashes into his chest, the soft weave of his cotton shirt like the smooth skin of the back of his hand brushing against my cheek.
A small cry of desire comes from the back of my throat. I twist the sound until it is outrage, but deep inside I know.
I know what it really is.
And I hate myself for it.
“Lindsay, I—” Frustration fills his voice, lowering it. His voice is so deep. So commanding. I’d forgotten how he could make electricity flow through my body just by saying my name.
“I’m sorry,” he says. My ear is pressed against his broad, hard chest. I feel the words more than I hear them. The vibration and cadence make it clear he’s apologizing. Heat radiates off him like he’s the sun and I’m in his orbit.
I break away. I’m not his moon.
“You should be sorry,” I snap, marching toward my destination, fighting the soft ground. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to do this. Not now. Definitely not right now. I haven’t seen him for four years. Four long, painful, horrible years. More than 1,400 days of waking every morning knowing I wasn’t with him. Knowing he sat there that night and did nothing while three men raped me. Degraded me. Used and abused me and enjoyed it.
My body goes into a full-blown supernova, skin on fire at the thought. My rage cannot be contained by a mere mortal body.
I turn around. He’s right there, following me.
“Go the fuck away, Drew. I told you. I hate your guts. Leave me alone.”
At least, I think that’s what I say. My mind can’t process words and thoughts right now. I am fixated on the red door at the back entrance of the house, the sprawling mansion that is the only home I’ve ever known, aside from Daddy’s townhome in Washington D.C. If I can make it to that red door without Drew touching me, if I can make it to my bedroom and to my medications where I can take enough to fall asleep, maybe I can get my brain to work again.
And stop the flood of emotions that are making me crazy.
But no.
