Wild Thing

39. Thirty-Nine

Thirty-Nine

DYLAN

M y room key, where was it?

Standing at the door to my hotel room, I fumbled around my stupidly small clutch for my roomkey.

Steven was swaying next to me. I had let him keep me company downstairs, mainly in the hopes that Brax would see me in the bar on the way back to his room. I wanted to make Brax jealous like the petty bitch I was.

“Steven, you don’t need to hang around," I slurred. "Just go back to your room. I am fine.”

I continued searching for my roomkey. It had to be somewhere in this tiny little black leather prison.

Drunk and sad off my tits, I squatted down and emptied the contents of my bag onto the hallway floor. I scattered it all across the patterned hotel carpet. I picked up my card holder, lipgloss, powder until finally, I found it stuck to the back of my phone.

Clumsily, I shoved the items back into the bag, before standing up and holyhellmyheadwaspinning .

Using one hand to steady myself against the wall, I took a deep breath. And then another, before I lost my balance.

“Woah," he said, catching my stumble. "Let me help you in, you’re a mess.”

Squinting, I shook my head. “No. Bye bye.”

He was the last person on earth I wanted inside my room.

I swiped my roomkey over the card swipe. Pushing my shoulder into the door, I entered my room without looking behind me.

Another critical mistake.

Placing my bag onto the hallway console, I turned around to see Steven had braced the door open with his arm.

Silent, he was staring at me. Like a predator sizing up prey. His laser stare raked across the entire length of my body, starting at my feet, then all the way up to my breasts where his stare lingered.

I'd seen this look before. Most women know the one. The one where the person disappears from behind their eyes, and something else takes over before they unleash violence.

My pulse quickened, my senses warning me to shut the door and lock it.

“Goodnight Steven,” I moved to close the door, just as he palmed his hand onto it, forcing it open further. The force slammed the handle into the wall, making a loud thumping sound.

He stormed in, kicking the door closed behind him.

He swayed past me.

“Steven, what the fuck?!”

He staggered around my room drunkenly, then back into the hallway, poking his head into the bathroom, searching for something.

Or someone.

“Steven, get out of my room.”

Instead of doing what I’d asked, he braced his arms on the bathroom doorframe, swaying on his feet. Looking at me with more savage intent this time, he bit his bottom lip.

Every alarm bell in my body was ringing. My nerves were frayed from the night already, but I could still sense danger. That instinct never switches off for women.

Pretending I wasn’t scared as hell, I pointed towards the door. “I’m not going to ask you again,” I said as sternly as I could. “Get out.”

Where is my phone?

I fretted when I remembered I’d put it in my bag, which was on the console behind me. Steven noticed the millisecond it took for me to spy where my bag was.

He moved fast.

He snatched my bag away and tossed it into the bathroom, out of my reach.

Flinching, I backed up a step.

“Relax!” Steven snapped.

I cursed myself for slamming those tequila shots, my reflexes weren’t as sharp as they would be if I was sober.

“You know,” he slurred. “I always had a feeling that you were a naughty, little slut.”

There was nowhere for me to go. He had me backed into the wall. I could smell the whisky on his breath. He was utterly wasted.

“Steven. You're drunk. You need to leave.”

“No. You flirted with me tonight,” his eyes burned with violence. “You owe me something.”

I shook with fear and rage. “Flirted with—? Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

“I’ve been dying fuck that filthy mouth of yours.”

“You need to leave.”

If he wasn't going to leave, I needed to try to get to the door and make a run for it.

Aggressively, he braced his arms either side of my head, pushing me roughly into the wall. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you…” he dropped his head to my chest. “Why are you wearing shit like this if you don’t want my attention, huh?”

Being a woman, it wasn't unusual to have thoughts about what you'd do if you are attacked by a stranger. You grow up learning to be on your guard in most places. To place your car keys between your fingers, pretend to be on the phone in an empty carpark, to check the backseat of your car.

That type of shit.

But I'd never given any thought as to what I would do if I was attacked by someone I knew.

I should have screamed for help. But I was completely paralyzed, frozen in fear.

Wasn't I a tougher bitch than this?

Normally, yes, I would have liked to think so. But I was emotionally drained and physically incapable to be at my defensive best.

I tried to duck out from under his arms, but in one swift motion, he grabbed my hands and pinned them over my head. My small frame and drunkenness made it easy for Steven to overpower me.

I was helpless.

“Please don’t do this.” I hated how pathetic I sounded.

“Ssh… I’m not going to do anything you won’t like.”

Aggressively, he tried to kiss me.

I shook my head from side to side and pleaded with him to stop. "Stop it!"

“C’mon Dylan, let me have a taste.”

He tried to kiss me again, but I did the only thing I could do, which was knee him as hard as I could in his balls. "Fuck you!"

He hunched over, but as I moved to reach for the door, he clawed at me, grabbing my dress.

He overpowered me in less than two seconds.

Spinning my body around, he slammed my head into the mirror on the opposite wall, the glass shattering everywhere.

I was stunned, seeing stars and darkness for a few moments.

I wondered if I was bleeding, before I felt a warm trickle of blood run down my face. I raised my hand to touch my forehead, blinking the stars away. Blood gushed from a gash on my hairline.

“Oh my god,” I croaked in disbelief.

Steven yanked me upwards and fastened my bloody hands behind my back. He pushed all of his body weight into me, pinning me to the wall.

My face was crushed against the shattered mirror. I heard the sound of crunching glass underneath my face.

I blinked, again and again, seeing fragments of my reflection in what was remaining of the mirror on the wall. My head was spinning, fuzzy and my ears were ringing from the impact. I could taste blood as I heard him fumbling around his pants, loosening his belt with his free hand.

I’ll never forget the sound of his pants dropping to the floor. I felt pure terror at the thought of what was about to happen.

He was going to rape me.

I needed to scream, needed to shout for help, but I couldn’t. I was petrified and injured.

Possibly concussed.

Steven tore at my dress, pulling it up over my hips, and roughly forcing my legs apart with his knee. I cried out and begged him to stop.

But he didn’t. The demented sicko liked seeing me in such a weakened, desperate state.

He pressed his crotch into my ass. I gagged—he was hard.

I begged him to stop again and again.

But Steven was a monster, there wasn’t a shred of humanity left in him. He leaned into me harder, crushing my lungs and squeezing the breath from me.

“I’m going to fuck some manners into you," he hissed.

His drunken breath seeped onto my neck, as he tore at the top half of my dress, reaching to my front and roughly grabbing one of my breasts.

I gritted my teeth and thrashed. If he was going to rape me, I decided to go down swinging.

I told myself to get the fuck up, spit your blood at him and go down fighting until you've got nothing left. “Fuck you Steven!”

He responded with pure venom. He ripped at my dress, then my underwear, attempting to gain access.

I screamed, bucked and thrashed against him. I struggled to break my wrists free from his iron grip. I threw all of my body weight into trying to break free, but each time I moved, he pressed into me harder.

“Stay fucking still, slut!”

I could feel the glass shards piercing the skin on my face. I felt worried about having shards of glass in my eyes and if I'd need eye surgery after this was over. My eyes. Please not near my eyes.

I wondered what style of glasses I might wear. It's funny what your mind does when it's in the throws of a traumatic incident.

“Get off me!” I screamed, using the very last bit of energy I had. I was so weakened from having my head slammed into the mirror. The alcohol in my system hadn’t helped either.

I was spent, done.

Defeated.

I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed to any god that would listen that this would be over quickly.

At that moment, the hotel door kicked open.

Someone must have heard my cries for help and had sent hotel security. Thank god!

My eyes sprang open. A sob escaped from my mouth when I realized who it was.

It wasn’t security.

It was Brax.

Brax looked like death incarnate, pure unrelenting rage emanating from him as he realized what was unfolding in suite 1402.

He was as fast as lightning, forcefully pulling Steven off me.

Steven was about to get fucked up.

Brax dragged Steven down the hallway by his shirt. He struggled to free himself, but it was of no use. He was wasted and sloppy; while Brax was sober and at full strength.

Brax pressed Steven into the back of the lounge, fisted his shirt and punched Steven in the face. Twice.

The force of the second punch caused Steven to fall backwards over the back of the lounge. Steven didn't have a chance to get up before Brax was over him.

He pulled his sorry ass up by the collar of his shirt.

Holding Steven by the shoulder, Brax dropped his arm low and punched him in the stomach, winding him.

Once.

Twice.

Then a hook to the kidney.

Steven dropped to the floor and doubled over, gasping for air.

Brax watched him for a few seconds.

But he wasn’t done.

Brax was unleashed and scarily violent. He continued to beat the shit out of him. I lost count at the kicks to Steven's stomach and back.

I wondered how someone could survive such a brutal assault.

Brax paused, gasping for air, exhaustion catching up to him.

"Dylan?" he asked, breathless. "You want any revenge on this fucker?"

I wasn't normally a violent person. But when you've been sexually harassed and almost raped, ones view can change. I thought about how many woman would like the opportunity to seek revenge on those who stripped them of their innocence.

I limped over to where Brax was standing over Steven and glared daggers down at him. He was in the foetal position, curled around himself.

Steven spluttered out something that sounded like an apology. "I-I'm-sorry," he groaned.

I placed one of my stiletto heels onto his cheek and pressed down, pushing the pointy heel into his skin. It pierced through his skin, drawing blood.

He squirmed and moaned from the pressure.

Part of me wanted to pierce the heel straight through his cheek, but I knew that would make me feel worse. I already felt like a shell of a human; I wouldn't let Steven kill the last remaining light inside of me.

I removed my foot, releasing the pressure. There was a deep gash on cheek from where my heel had been.

I hoped I'd scarred him forever.

Keeping my eyes on Steven, I gave Brax instructions. "Finish him."

Brax understood the assignment. He hurled Steven's bleeding, limp body off the floor and slammed him into the window.

Steven was barely conscious. Blood was trickling from his cheek.

Brax wrapped one of his tattooed hands around Steven’s throat, and squeezed. Steven's face reddened, before changing to a blueish purple as he was slowly deprived of oxygen.

Brax was choking him. To death, it seemed.

"Look at me so I know you can fucking hear me," Brax commanded.

Steven struggled to open his eyes. They were already swelling shut.

“You so much as look at her again…” Brax squeezed his hand tighter. Steven's eyes began to bulge. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

Keeping a tight grip on Steven’s throat, Brax punched him in the face again, the force breaking his nose with a sickening crunch.

I winced at the sound.

Finally, Brax released his vise grip from Steven's throat. Steven gasped for air, sliding down the window, pawing at his throat and nose. Blood seeped between his fingers. He was fading in and out of consciousness.

Brax stomped over to where Steven had dropped his pants. He picked them up, angrily throwing them at Steven.

“Get up, motherfucker.”

Steven tried and stumbled to the floor. Between his drunkenness and the fact that he just had the living shit beaten out of him, he couldn’t get to his feet.

Steven needed to be physically removed.

Brax walked over to where Steven was hunched over and hoisted him up by his shirt. Forcibly, he dragged him out of the room and tossed him out into the hallway, along with Steven's pants.

Brax stood at the door, threatening Steven viciously one last time.

“Come near Dylan again and you’re dead. Mark my words, cunt.”

Steven groaned in agony and agreement, bleeding profusely from his nose. He looked utterly pathetic as he grimaced in pain, trying to cover his limp dick with his pants.

Brax slammed the door shut and rushed over to me. We didn’t wait to see Steven pick his sorry ass up off the floor.

I sat in a crumpled heap on the chair. There were shards of glass in my hair, my face, my hands.

Ripping off his shirt, Brax squatted down in front of me. He scrunched up his shirt and gently applied pressure to the many cuts on my head and face.

I fell forward into his arms. He held me, gently rocking me back and forth to comfort me. The weight of what had happened crushed me like an anvil.

I let out a sob, my head spilling blood onto his skin.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “You're okay now. Let me see you.”

He cradled my face in his fingers, his lethal hands now the promise of safety. “I’m going to remove the glass from your face, okay?”

I nodded in agreement.

Stroking my face, he inspected the cuts and slices. "Do you have any tweezers in your bathroom?"

“In my vanity case.”

He disappeared for a second, a minute, an hour—time meant nothing anymore—before he was back and kneeling before me, tweezers, tissues and alcohol swabs in his hands.

“I'm going to clean your head up as much as I can, okay? Hopefully we don’t need to go and get stitches.”

Wincing at his touch, he tended to each wound and abrasion on my face. The largest of which was on my hairline from that first impact into the mirror. Brax didn’t mention stitches again, which I took as a good sign.

“Where is she?” I asked meekly.

He knew I was talking about Ally.

“Gone.”

I didn’t know what that meant, but I didn't push it. She wasn't my biggest concern anymore.

My head was pounding. I felt like I'd be strung upside down and spun around, again and again. I wondered if maybe I was concussed.

I looked down at myself, suddenly aware Steven’s filthy hands had been all over my body. I couldn’t stand to be in this tattered and torn dress for one more second.

I started to pull at it, panicking.

“I need to get out of this dress.”

“It’s okay, I’ll run you a shower,” Brax gently helped me to stand. "Come with me."

He guided me into the bathroom. “Go slow.”

Sliding off my torn dress, he tossed it into the bin. I wanted to set it on fire. Burn everything that reminded me of this nightmare.

Brax turned on the shower, and guided me towards the benchseat.

He was shirtless, but still had his suit pants on. Even though I was swaying, possibly in some sort of trauma psychosis, I marveled at how sexy he looked. He had Steven's blood on his hands, and mine splattered on his inked up chest.

He had come for me. Saved me. Nearly killed a man for me.

Gently, he stood me up. “Come under the water.”

Tenderly, he began to wash me. The only sound was the water spray from the shower. Steven’s scent, breath, words, his filthy touch… Brax washed it all away.

“How did you know?” I asked, slurring my words. My speech was still impaired from the alcohol.

“I didn’t. It was by chance," his voice wavered. "I came to let you know that Ally and I… it–it’s over, and I wanted to apologize to you and explain everything."

His fingertips lightly traced up and down my arms.

"But when I got to your room…" he took a deep breath in. "I could hear you. The sound of your voice…"

He shook his head. He struggled to articulate what he heard. "Then I remembered I had your spare room key.”

Water streamed down his face, droplets forming on the end of his lashes.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here," he swallowed the lump in his throat. "I should have been here with you.”

The weight of everything hit me like a fucking sledgehammer. Our affair, the lying, the secrets, the guilt, the sexual assault. Everything.

It was all so fucked up.

Under the warmth of the water, I let myself fall into Brax’s arms. He stroked my soaking wet hair as I silently cried into his chest. It felt less like comfort and more like two people, broken.

I swear he was crying too.

I wasn’t sure who was holding who anymore.