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“Jesus, you’re so beautiful.” Stanley runs his hands down my waist, nuzzling my neck from behind.
It took him precisely seven seconds to drop his nice guy routine. I’m not surprised but the crushing realisation of what I’m about to do, sits heavy in my chest.
All the other times, I’d been too eager to please Vaughn, desperate for the praise he gave me after.
Deep down, I knew it was messed up. But when you’ve been dragged up, bounced from foster home to foster home, forced to survive neglect and abuse and utter loneliness, you crave attention. And when you get it, you hold onto it so tightly the lines between right and wrong, and good and bad blur until you could no longer see the edges.
This time, it is different.
This time, I don’t want to please Vaughn. But I need to convince him that I’m willing to play his game. Just long enough for me to make a run for it.
I glance at my backpack on the floor by the desk. My worldly possessions reduced to one bag. How pathetic.
But another emotion trickles through me.
Guilt.
I shut it down though. It doesn’t matter now. I made my choice—I chose to give Vaughn what he wants in order to get him out of Theo and Millie’s life.
And yeah, maybe part of me did it to protect myself, to prevent Theo from ever finding out the truth. But what’s done is done.
There’s no going back now.
“Let me make you feel good.”
His words yank me back into the moment.
“Let’s have a drink.” I wiggle out of his hold, rushing over to the mini bar.
“A drink, of course.” He loosens his tie, his eyes fixed on my body.
The hotel room is lush. Far nicer than the places Vaughn used in Brewton.
I pour us both a vodka and tonic and offer him the glass.
“To new friends.” A faint smirk traces his mouth.
“New friends.” I’m hardly surprised when he drains his glass in one.
He’s nervous.
Probably hasn’t ever cheated on his wife before. And if he has, probably wasn’t with a girl young enough to be his daughter.
“Drink up,” he encourages, growing bolder by the minute.
My palms sweat as I bring the glass to my lips, knowing that the vodka will numb me to whatever happens next. But I also know I can’t afford to let him get me too drunk. Not if I want to make a break for it.
I need to keep my wits about me. Which means I’ll have to find another way to escape the inevitable disgust and despair I’ll feel when he’s no longer content with just talking.
“You seem nervous,” he remarks. “You don’t need to be. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
“I’m fine.” I force my lips into a convincing smile, batting my eyelashes to soften the slight edge to my words.
“We talked a lot about me,” I say. “But you didn’t tell me anything about yourself.”
Much to Stanley’s disappointment, I sit in the small tub chair, and he perches on the end of the bed instead of taking a seat on the sofa.
“Oh, I’m not sure you’d find my story interesting.” He chuckles.
