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He was worse.
Far worse than any horror flick I’ve fallen asleep to, worse than any walking red flag, or villain.
This fucker was my real life, full-blown gaslighting manipulative abuser that made all those good-deep-down characters seem like angels.
That time, I was the one to disappear in the dead of the night and never looked back after he put his hands on me for the final time. I ran to my dad’s—the one place I knew he’d never come back to—and hid until I heard a rumor of him moving out of town again. To follow another dream on a whim, which was really just code for drugs.
Jeremy was all about chasing the next high. It took me too long to realize I was just another conquest, another hormone boost to satisfy his seriously messed up brain.
I promised myself then that I’d never see this side of town again, let alone Jeremy. Not willingly anyway.
It sent me into another spiral that required more therapy, where I became this version of me that refused to let anyone else in besides those who were already there—Aria, her sister, and my dad.
And it was working just fine. I was fine.
Until Fin showed up.
With his pretty-boy eyes and sexy as hell smile and that sound he makes when he cums …
Sucking in a deep breath that’s filled with the scent of pungent garbage, I steel my shoulders and face the broken glass of the storm door with a grip on the handle.
The worn release button catches on the pad of my thumb when I yank it, the scent of propane filling the air in place of the garbage I was expecting the moment the front door creaks open.
Having seen every horror movie on the market, I know stepping into the house—alone, without a weapon of any kind—is one of the worst ideas I could act on, but I’m resolute. Resolved to whatever happens. Ready to put this chapter of my past behind me where it belongs.
I step inside and see the drenched couch, the spilled liquor and pill bottles spread out over the furniture. A layer of trash on the once-blush-colored carpet that’s now some fucked up shade of shit brown. The scent of booze is almost as strong as the garbage and gas as I step deeper into the house. Dust clings to every flat surface above eye level almost as much as the foil and drapes stick to the nicotine covered windows.
Then I hear the rattle of chains—like this isone of those stupid movies—and I go for the bat I know Jeremy’s mom used to keep behind the door.
Please still be there …
Yes!
My fingers wrap around the grip of an aluminum baseball bat and I drag my new weapon with me down the narrow hallway in the direction of the sound.
With every step closer to the back of the house where the kitchen is, the scent of propane permeates the air so thick it feels like it’s the only thing I’m breathing. It makes my eyes water and my mouth go dry as I walk across the worn path in the carpet that veers off into the bathroom and then continues the rest of the way to where I had my first dinner date.
The sound of chains rattle again, this time right next to my head. And while I subconsciously jerk at the sound, the walls don’t come crashing down and nothing flies in my direction. Sucking in a deep breath and regretting it, I lift up the neck of my shirt to cover my nose and mouth and turn to the smaller door set into the wall next to me.
I don’t remember what’s on the other side. And while my mind conjures up all kinds of tormenting things that might be on the other side of the panel, I reach for the knob anyway and jerk the door free from the jam with my bat cocked at the ready.
Not that I could get a good enough swing in the confined space, but the thought makes me feel better.
“Jeremy?”
Soft, pain-filled moans escape past the shell of a man’s bloodied lips, one of his eyes swollen completely shut while the other is on the verge of the same. I step back and take in the sight of the one that controls my nightmares handcuffed to the pipes leading out of the water heater. One of his hands is bent in an unnatural angle that makes my stomach clench and his too-big pants hang loose around his thighs. Blood stains the exposed purpling skin of his chest, some spots appearing as sores broken open, while others look like fresh track marks.
Are those fresh bruises?
“Ce—Cecilia?” He groans into the space, his puffy jaw leaning into his shaking twig of a bicep, as red-hot anger rips through me.
I feel my face heat, my ears burn, my hands clenching the handle of the bat in my grip almost as hard as my teeth grit.
Cecilia.
The bitch he cheated on me with.
The one who encouraged him to chase after more highs, more stars, more dreams.
