Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
RAINE
M y eyes trail to his bloodied knuckles as Drake throttles the steering wheel like he’s wishing it was Everett’s neck. It’s quiet. Nothing but the roaring engine and the whooshing of my racing heart pounding in my ears. I can’t do this anymore. Can’t sweep this under the rug or brush it aside. I can’t.
I’ll pack my things tonight, then sneak out once he falls asleep. He can’t stay awake forever. I just need to survive the drive. I’ll figure out the rest once I’m…anywhere else. Everything will be fine.
Everything. Will be. Fine.
He hasn’t said a word.
Not a single word since we left the party.
It isn’t helping my nerves.
He’s stewing. Probably making up what he thinks he saw or weaving together an alternate reality, painting me as the villain.
I know I should’ve stayed at Everett’s house. I’m not stupid. But everything I own—my clothes, my toiletries, my sketchbooks—is in the apartment. And I have a feeling after tonight, Drake won’t let me retrieve my things without a fight. And a battle with Drake is always a nasty affair. One I really don’t want to tackle if I can help it.
Way to go, Raine. Procrastinate more. It won’t blow up in your face at all.
I scoot a little further down in my seat, attempting to make myself smaller.
While Drake was busy having an all-out brawl in the bathroom and hallway, his buddies were having their own fight in the family room. I can’t decide if Drake’s pissed at me or if he’s mad at his friends for not having his back when he needed them.
That’s a lie.
Of course, he’s pissed at me.
I can feel it. The rage. The way it clings to him. Radiates off him. Like a scorching heat. Like a blazing fire. One I can feel down to my bones.
“You gonna tell me what the fuck that was about?” Drake finally snarls.
I tuck my hair behind my ear and face him fully. “Drake, I promise?—”
My head swings to the side, and stars explode behind my eyelids.
Shit.
The hit was so fast I didn’t even see it coming. Slowly, I lift my hand and touch the side of my face. I feel like I took a baseball bat to the mouth.
“I can’t lose you, you dumb slut,” he spits.
I’d laugh at the contradiction of his words if my lip wasn’t throbbing. You can’t lose me, but I’m a dumb slut? Does he even hear himself? This isn’t the guy I fell for. It isn’t the guy I moved in with. This is…this is a fucking asshole.
Pressing my fingers to my tender skin, I wince and look down at my crimson stained fingertips .
I’m bleeding.
The realization makes me want to cry. Or maybe it’s the pain from being backhanded. At this point, who the hell knows? It’s like a sick, twisted game of deja vu. A replay of the last nightmare I’ve relived for weeks. I’m both livid and shocked, yet not surprised at all. It’s confusing and dizzying and disappointing and rage inducing. I want to cry. I want to laugh. I want to fucking scream.
How is this even happening?
Forcing myself to stay calm, I whisper, “You promised you wouldn’t hit me again.”
“And you promised you’d never leave me!”
I blink back my tears. “I didn’t leave?—”
“Did you let him touch you?”
I stay quiet. The light reflects off my fingertips, showcasing the blood clinging to them as I carefully lick my bottom lip. It stings. And throbs. So much so, I can feel my heartbeat in it. It feels like it’s three times the size it should be.
How did I get here? How did we get here? This can’t be happening. Who is this man? How could he do this to me? How could he do this to anyone, but especially me? He’s supposed to love me and cherish me and treat me like a princess. My heart cracks even more as I stare at the crimson staining my fingertips. Like a carousel, memories of us together flash through my mind. The first time we met. When he slipped me his number. Our first kiss. The first time he said he loved me. When he bought me flowers on my birthday. When he asked me to move in with him. When we made love. They all swirl together, every moment, every memory, until each and every one is painted with a sour stroke of regret, leaving a bitter tang in my mouth.
Then again, maybe it’s the blood.
“Don’t. Fucking. Ignore me,” he yells .
My bottom lip quivers, and I blink the burn behind my eyes away. “No, I didn’t let him touch me.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you?”
“And I’m supposed to believe you ?” I spit, dropping my hand to my lap and turning to face him fully again. “You promised you wouldn’t hit me again!”
The crunching of gravel beneath our tires hits my ears, and I nearly bash my head against the glass as he yanks the steering wheel to one side, swerving onto the side of the road.
“Get out,” he growls.
I look out the pitch-black window, then back to Drake. “Are you serious?”
“You don’t want me to hit you again, right?” he counters. “Get out of the car. You can fucking walk home.”
“Drake—”
“You always said if we’re fighting, and I can’t control my anger, I should walk away.”
Now , he listens?
I’d laugh if I didn’t feel like I was talking to a fucking toddler.
“It’s the middle of the night.” I wave my hand toward the dark passenger window as if to showcase my point while choking back tears. “And I have no idea where I am.”
“Maybe you’ll think twice before you wind up in a room with a locked door and a guy who isn’t me.”
“Who are you?” I cry.
Face twisting with rage, he warns, “I’m your worst motherfucking nightmare if you don’t get out of this fucking car right now.”
“Why’d you take me there in the first place?” I demand. “If you were so hellbent on keeping me away from him?—”
“Get out of the fucking car!” he screams.
Spittle hits my cheeks, and I jerk back. The look in his eyes terrifies me. Like he’s gone. The man I fell in love with. No. This man is nothing but a stranger. An animal, even. Like he could kill me in this moment, and honestly? A small part of me wouldn’t even be surprised if he tried. He’s too far gone. This is too far gone. Our relationship. Our trust in each other. It’s obliterated, and there’s no going back. There’s no pretending this didn’t happen. No writing it off as a one-time thing. No justifying it.
Do. Not. Justify. This.
Blindly, I reach for the door handle, my hands trembling, and climb out of the passenger side on shaky legs. Without even waiting for me to close the door behind me, he peels onto the road, the tires squealing as they search for traction on the black pavement.
Is this man serious?
A numb tingle spreads across my body, and I shake my head, convinced I’m hallucinating or in shock or…hell, maybe I have a concussion at this point because my brain is struggling to process what the hell just happened and how I wound up on the side of the road at one o’clock in the morning at least twenty minutes from home. It’s cold. It’s quiet. It’s foreign. It’s…scary. I take in my surroundings, unsure what to do or who to call. There’s nothing but inky blackness all around me. No street lights. No signs. No buildings. Nothing but Drake’s fading brake lights.
As they’re swallowed by darkness, I wrap my coat tighter around me and try to hold my tears at bay.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?