Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Present: Three Years Later
" T hanks for the ride home, Peter." I gave him a small smile, trying to push the car door open, but he reached across me, stopping my hand from pulling the handle.
"You know, if you were hungry or something…"
He was harmless, but I hated this feeling.
You know, just because I had a vagina and a guy did the decent thing and drove me home because it was storming, I somehow owed him something more than just a ride home.
"I’m not," I quipped, trying to push away his hand, but he held me tighter.
I sucked in a deep breath before turning to him in my seat, using my free hand to reach into my black backpack tucked behind me. To my surprise, there was a little can of pepper spray. I didn’t remember it being there, but it was exactly what I needed.
If he moved even a quarter inch into my space, I was going to burn his little fucking eyeballs until he cried in utter pain.
"Back up, Peter," I commanded, leaning as far away from him as I could. His hand was crossed over my chest and was tightening onto me as I pressed into the seat.
"When you’re surprised, your lips part a little bit. Did you know that?"
Ew. Fuck. God. This was not what I wanted to deal with after class tonight. I had to grade a bunch of papers for my professor, and I had class tomorrow morning, along with teaching yoga on campus beforehand. This was fucking exhausting.
"You have three seconds where I ask you nicely to move before I go wild on you." He laughed, and I knew he would.
"Three…"
"Two…"
Nothing. He wasn’t budging.
"One."
I shoved the pepper spray can in his face, shooting the liquid into his eyes.
"Oh my God. You are such a bitch." This time it was my turn to laugh at him.
"I am," I confessed. His hands were clawing at his eyes, trying to get the intense stinging away, and I took this as my opportunity to get out of the car.
"Bye, Peter. Get fucked."
He screamed at me as I shut the door, then I walked backward. Thank God I didn’t actually give him my address, knowing some stupid shit like this could happen.
I looked down at my hands, hoping I would see them trembling—a sign that this was a scary situation, but I was cool, calm, and collected. It had been three long years of losing sight of the person I used to be. I recognized the icy demeanor that permeated through my bones once again.
I was working hard to get my other persona back. It helped that most of my classmates had graduated and left Isles, so it did feel like somewhat of a fresh start the last three years.
For the most part, I kept to myself. I still got fucked up almost every night at the clubs to keep the thoughts that plagued me at night from seeping into my brain.
"Bad girl."
"Pathetic little girl, snuggling up to your blanket like you’re some kind of child."
"Worthless piece of shit."
Those were words my parents would throw at me growing up. They were the reason I was this person. They disregarded any emotion I had when I was a child, which caused me to not get emotional about things. It was a survival mechanism.
Thanks to my psychology classes I’d been taking, I knew this about myself now, but I was still lost. I had all the right information to fix myself, but was still broken. A frigid human no one wanted to be around or talk to. The few people who used to know me saw me as a horrible person, and truthfully, I was.
What I did…I hated even thinking about it, but what I did to my roommate was atrocious. I was downright mean to her. I had a one-track mind for the revenge I so desperately wanted a little taste of and lost track of the persona I worked hard to create.
I sighed while crossing the dark street, heading toward the outskirts of town where I had rented a small guesthouse behind one of my professor’s mansions. She was seldom home due to frequent travel for guest lectures.
My grandmother didn’t leave me with much, but there was enough if I allocated it right for me to get through school. However, I hadn’t factored living expenses into that arrangement, so I found myself living out of my car for a couple months.
In exchange for assisting with grading papers and being her TA, she offered me free housing in her guesthouse. It was a converted hunting cabin, resembling a quaint log cabin behind her expansive mansion, nestled beneath the pine trees. I was in the final year of my grad program in Isles, approaching winter break, with just one semester left before stepping into the real world to secure a job.
To be honest, I still had no clear idea of what I wanted to do with my life. I hoped that clarity would dawn upon me soon. Walking down the path beside the main house that led to the back guesthouse, I appreciated the seclusion of the area. Living here made me feel secure, as if no one from my past could track me down, and individuals like Peter wouldn't easily discover my residence.
Stepping into the charming little cabin, a comforting warmth embraced me. The rustic allure of the space made it feel irresistibly cozy. With just one big room encompassing a small kitchen and a bathroom boasting a massive tub. Yet, what captivated me was the floor-to-ceiling window in the bathroom, offering an immersive view of the surrounding forest while soaking in the tub. It came furnished with large furniture, a huge cherry-wood desk in one corner and a four-poster bed in the next. The bed was draped in a gorgeous cream bug netting for when the mosquitos wanted to be my best friend in the warmer summer months.
In many ways, this little home of mine mirrored my evolving attitude. The tranquility that permeated the cabin resonated with the newfound calmness I was trying to cultivate within myself. The ambiance reflected my internal transformation—now quieter, calmer, and a continuous effort to let go of the anger I once harbored against myself and the world. I was once a very mad person and hated myself.
I could admit that I hated myself and the world a little bit less. I finally started to understand who the real Madison was supposed to be. I focused more on making myself a little bit stronger, and without his persistent presence in my daily life, it was just easier.
At least during the day. The daylight hours allowed me to focus on rebuilding, forging connections, and fostering a sense of peace, but when dusk settled in, so did the haunting thoughts, the persistent pain, and the vivid images of the degradation I had endured in front of his house. The memories swirled through my head, threatening the progress I had made that day.
It was during these dark hours that I needed an escape. My cozy house, once a sanctuary in the daylight hours, felt inadequate. The walls closed in, suffocating me with the echoes of past torment. In those moments, I craved the numbing effects of alcohol. I sought attention from the outside world, desperately needing to break free from the clutches of the horrible memories of the revenge I thought I was getting years ago.
During the day, I never thought of him. I actively worked on bettering myself and putting my mask back on. At night, I couldn’t stop thinking of him. The way he played a game with me. The way he looked at me when he told me he would ruin my life.
Three agonizing years had crept by, marked by an interminable wait. If I wasn't drowning my sorrows in the dimly lit corners of some bar, I found myself huddled in my house, clasping a book to my chest, bracing for the impending storm he promised to unleash after the last time we had seen each other.
In those three years, I sought refuge in the beds of other men, a feeble attempt to erase his lingering presence. Yet, in order to orgasm, I'd have to close my eyes and conjure his face—a paradoxical ritual that both revolted and captivated me. What had he done to me in those distant years? We were practically strangers, our interactions reduced to fleeting glimpses, yet the fear he instilled in me endured. I dreaded the day he might materialize to claim what he believed was rightfully his—me.
Yet, amidst the shadows of my torment, I endeavored to become someone else. Someone capable of resurrecting the self-protective armor that had shielded me throughout the years.
"Fuck this," I whisper-shouted into the eerily quiet house, grabbing my bag and flinging it over my shoulders. After discarding my sweatshirt with a swift motion, I revealed a black crop top. Dressing up for the local bars had become an inconsequential ritual; my attire now served as a mere distraction. What I truly craved was an escape from the relentless grip of my own haunting thoughts.
I strutted down to the bar, the classic college establishment perched on the edge of Main Street. The scene was lackluster as the early evening still clung to a bit of gloom. You could practically feel the place yawning, bracing for the college crowd that would inevitably swarm in, turning it from dreary to a buzzing hive of activity.
The bar's exterior had that timeless worn charm, a survivor of countless wild nights and student escapades. The neon lights overhead flickered lazily, hinting at the lively chaos about to unfold.
Stepping through the somewhat squeaky door, I embraced the early emptiness. The bartender, casually wiping down the counter, gave me a nod. It was low-key, a moment before the place transformed into the lively hubbub of a full-on college bar. Taking my seat at the bar, I knew this subdued warm-up would soon morph into the energetic crescendo of a typical college night out.
I’d been in Isles for seven years. Originally, I’d come here on a cheerleading scholarship. After my parents’ accident, I went to live with my grandmother in middle school. I was a kid, but was surprised to find out my mom had a living parent. My parents never cared about me, and because they were both addicts, my grandmother removed herself. I’d learned later it was only to conjure her own persona.
My grandmother had married some rich guy and they settled outside of Seattle. She was surprised my mother had a child, and while I came to her a broken person, she taught me the importance of acting right in front of others.
I didn’t want to come to Isles. I wanted to go to school in Seattle or even down in Dansport, but I got a scholarship out here, and my grandmother kept going on and on about coming to Isles. She had heard many of her friends in high society came out here and loved it and ended up marrying someone of status. My grandmother imparted that it was important I continue to not let my parents’ behavior affect how I would show myself off to the world. Therefore, I needed to go to college, not to get a degree, but to find someone worthy of marrying. I needed to find someone to take care of me, she would tell me constantly.
While she left me with an inheritance, it turned out to be significantly less than expected. Following her own advice of never revealing her true financial standing, the inheritance covered my school expenses and provided a few years of living without a job. However, it wasn't enough to sustain me for an extended period of time, likely the reason she emphasized finding a husband who could provide for me, knowing she wouldn't be around forever.
Over the years, I tried to ration the savings I had, which meant oftentimes during the summer when my apartment lease would run out, I didn’t have enough money and no family to go to, so I’d sleep in the car until I found something.
There was one thing for certain no one could take away from me: I hustled through life. No one could take away the pressure I put on myself to succeed and perform. If it wasn’t for my obsession with Walsh Solis and getting revenge for what he did to my roommate, I would never be in this position. I’d probably be married to some rich guy with my persona still intact. This was the dream, but unfortunately, I didn’t get to live in it. I was repeating the consequences of my need to be near Walsh while trying to get ahead.
"Same thing as always, Madison?" I smiled at the bartender, who pathetically knew me by name.
"As always, Hugo," I lamented. "Think it’s going to be crowded tonight?"
He was older than me and always here on the weekends. He had shaggy brown hair, wore a plain T-shirt and jeans, and always worked the bar. When the college kids came, usually around eleven-ish, there would be a female bartender, whose name I could never remember, who would join him.
I always tried to come around eight so by the time the bar got crowded, I was liquored up enough to have zero inhibitions. Hugo caught me many times in his back alley or the hallway by the owner’s closet fucking some frat boy. I preferred this bar because Hugo never said anything, never tried anything with me, and honestly, never judged me. He always greeted me with the same friendly hello, and for a moment, it felt safe on campus. The one place I could come judgment-free to drown my pathetic life away.
"I think it’ll be pretty mellow tonight because of the football game in Seattle." He shrugged, and I glanced over his shoulders where the game was on.
"Oh yeah, it's the finals or whatever football players call the big games, yeah?" I knew about football; I was a cheerleader for years, but I was trying to put my persona back in place.
He chuckled before pouring me a vodka soda and passing it across the bar. His hair was gelled back, and he had shaved and trimmed his beard.
"Are you expecting someone special?" I asked, bringing the glass to my lips. As the cool liquid entered my mouth, the warmth of the alcohol coursed through my veins, and I knew I was in for a good night tonight.
There was really no choice at this point because the demons that haunted me between dusk and dawn would be forced silent if I drank them away.
"Why do you ask?" Hugo blushed, then went around to wipe something off the counter.
"You just look different today."
"Oh…Thanks for noticing."
I took another sip as he fidgeted with his hands, but I shook it off and plastered my eyes on one of the many TVs that surrounded the bar area. It was a mindless football game.
I pounded the drink before motioning to Hugo for another. Part of me felt guilty for spending my grandmother’s last few inheritance dollars on booze, but it was the only thing that helped me. Maybe it would eventually help me put my defenses back up—so I kept telling myself that she’d want me to find a solution for the hole I dug myself into.
Hugo came over and poured me another drink as the ticking clock behind me permeated my ears. We were closer to when the college kids came out to play, and the bar was still empty.
After two more drinks and another hour passed, I realized tonight was a fucking dud, but at least I had my liquor coat around me so when I got home I would be warm and fuzzy and hopefully, pass out quickly.
"I’m going to head to the ladies’ room, Hugo. Will you watch my purse?" I nodded to my bag. Fuck if I cared if it got stolen, to be honest. There was nothing important in there. I kept my keys inside my jean pocket along with my phone.
"For sure." He winked at me.
Wait…he winked at me? I shook my head, convinced it was my booze goggles.
As I made my way back toward the little office where the bathrooms were, I couldn’t help but look down the little hallway where I’d usually take my mark for the night against the wall.
"Not tonight." I sighed as I pushed open the bathroom door, making sure to lock it behind me.
When I finished, I unclicked the lock, grateful there was no mirror inside the bathroom so I wouldn’t have to look at the pathetic person standing on the other side.
As I opened the door, still very much lost in my thoughts, I attempted to round the corner, but a large hand stopped me.
"I brought your purse to you." I paused, giving the person a once-over before realizing it was Hugo with my purse extended in my direction.
"Oh, cool, thanks." I grabbed the crossbody strap, slinging it across my chest before attempting to head back toward the front door, but his arm didn’t falter.
"There is a door behind the office that will take you out closer to the street you live on."
"Oh, wow. Thanks."
Wait a damn minute. "Where I live?"
My heart was racing, and my hands went clammy. How did he know where I lived or that the door back here would be closer? I never told him anything personal, and when I sat at the bar, we would have surface-level conversations.
"Come on, Madison. You must’ve known all these days you’ve been coming to my bar how much I wanted you." He stepped closer, and I backed up, but realized I was in a corner.
"I-I didn't?" It came out as a question.
"Get into the office," he ordered, using his large body to usher me through the door to the left. Panic surged as I assessed the room, desperately seeking anything that could aid my escape.
Two alarming incidents in a single day—it had to be some kind of record. Self-blame crept in; maybe it was a sign to cut back on the drinking. Dwelling on that thought had to wait, as the immediate concern was finding a way to fend off this threat.
"Hey now." I took into account what was in the room: a small desk in the center littered with paperwork, a bookshelf in the corner stacked with ledgers and notebooks that could hurt if I smashed them over his head.
Then a small trophy on a bookshelf caught my attention. I needed to get to it. My hands were so clammy I wasn’t convinced I’d be able to hold onto it. My heart was pounding so loudly, he could probably hear it from where he was standing.
The door Hugo mentioned was right where he said it would be. The trophy was my goal, and then I could get out of there. Taking a deep breath to calm the anxiety, I steadied my nerves and moved with purpose, blending into the surroundings as I made my way toward the door.
"I've been watching you for months, giving yourself to guys who don't deserve you. You enjoy my hospitality, yet now you think it's acceptable to deny me what you freely offer them?" His accusatory tone only intensified the urgency of my escape. Thoughts raced through my mind, my focus fixated on the door and the potential makeshift weapon that might just save me.
"I-I didn't know you felt that way." The words tumbled out, a shaky attempt at salvaging what little control I had left. He shot me a withering look, a mix of disbelief and disdain.
"Dumb, aren't you? Couldn't see what was right in front of you." He scoffed, his tone dripping with condescension. The tension in the room escalated, and his hands slamming onto the small desk reverberated throughout the cramped space, making me jump. I continued to inch backward.
"Look, I didn't mean to...I just didn't realize." His laughter sliced through the air, a bitter response to my feeble attempt at an explanation. This would be harder than escaping Peter had been earlier.
"Real smooth, playing dumb now. You think I'll buy that?" My heart raced, then the other bartender came to mind.
"What if the other bartender walks in? We don't want her to see us like this, right?" I ventured, a glimmer of hope that someone might intervene. His eyes narrowed at my attempt to divert the situation.
"She’s not working today. It’s just you and me." He stalked closer toward me.
I refused to look at him, discreetly keeping my eyes on the door, calculating the distance and timing. Summoning every ounce of acting prowess, I widened my eyes, letting fear consume my expression. The goal was to convince him I was terrified, to project the vulnerability that had kept me safe and hidden for so long.
"I-I don't want any trouble," I said, feigning fear as I inched toward the door. His gaze remained intense, cutting through my act with sharp discernment.
"Don't play that shit with me. I know you. I see you." His voice was cold, slicing through the tension-laden air. My heart pounded louder, the realization sinking in that my act was failing, unraveling under his scrutiny.
Panic clawed at me, but I fought to maintain composure. I couldn't let him see the cracks in my armor. With a forced gulp, I spoke, my voice shaking but determined. "Please, let me go. We can forget this ever happened."
His eyes bore into mine, a silent standoff that seemed to stretch for an eternity. The room felt oppressive, a confined space where my act felt inadequate.
"Seems too late for that." His hand went down to his jeans. "You even noticed that I dressed up for you today."
I gulped, my lungs seizing, as I was struggling to breathe.
I was actually fucked this time. I was dumb to think that one day I wouldn’t be put in this position.
"It’s too late," I cried because I knew there was nowhere else to go.
The man in front of me, unbuttoning his pants, laughed hysterically. I whimpered. "Please."
The voice that came out was not mine. It belonged to my inner child. I was transported back to when I was a young kid and my parents came into my room drunk.
"You are such a spoiled little bitch," my dad spat at me while rifling through my closet.
"She has too many clothes." My mom echoed his same sentiment.
I struggled to open my eyes. When I realized it was early morning hours, that meant it was officially my tenth birthday. I wished I had the type of parents who greeted me in the morning with balloons or gifts like the other kids at school.
"Burn them." My mother had that evil glint in her eye as she walked over toward my closet with a match.
"What is happening?" I asked.
My father turned, the calculated madman he was, with nothing but apathy written into his features. He hated me. He wanted to hurt me.
As my dad poured liquid all over my closet, my mother shook with excitement next to him, shouting out unintelligible words of glee.
"What is going on?" I shot out of bed and ran toward my closet, and a strong odor permeated my nose. It was familiar, but I couldn’t place what it was.
"You are a spoiled brat," my dad said.
"Brat," my mother repeated before jumping with joy.
Then I realized what that smell reminded me of. It was like the gas station, and the liquid my dad was pouring all over my clothes was gasoline.
"Dad?" I whimpered. "Please, no. Don’t do this." All I had left in this life were my clothes. It was my birthday for God's sake.
"Not today," I pleaded, reaching out toward the warm bright light…
"It’s too late. It’s too late. It’s too late." My scarred hands covered my ears as I shook my head.
"That’s right, baby girl. It is." The man’s cock sprang from his pants. He was the grim reaper incarnate, and I was his prey today. The door was in front of me, so I knew the trophy was probably two big steps behind me.
"What do you want from me? Money?" I asked, thinking if I could convince this guy I wasn't broke and had a lot of inheritance from my grandmother, he’d leave me alone.
He only laughed. "No. I don’t want your money."
My breaths were quick.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
His hand snaked around my back, stopping me from backing farther away. I just needed the damn trophy. One more big step would allow me to grab it and slam it across his head.
His cock was now throbbing outside of his pants. "It’s too late," he chanted over and over again.
I would not become the girl who was stuck in her room while her dad sprayed gasoline all over. I would not be the girl who was a coward in the face of danger.
"Okay, you’re right. I do want this." I gripped his cock.
Please forgive me, God or whoever was up there, for what I was about to do.
"Yeah. That’s right." He held me there.
He leaned into my touch, which is exactly what I was hoping for when my brain came up with this—dare I say it?—genius plan.
"Okay, baby," I said in the sultriest voice possible. The absolute ick that the word "baby" gave me was tremendous, but it seemed to work in this situation. He groaned as my hands caressed him. All I had to do was pump once before he threw his head back in bliss.
I was winning.
I yanked on his cock, grasping it as tightly as I could, and ripped it forward.
"Holy fucking shit," he cried out, and fell toward me, giving me the leverage I needed to reach the trophy.
With one hand still twisting his cock, I reached around with my other hand to snag the trophy. As he registered what was happening, I slammed it across his face.
Bones cracked, but I didn’t give a fuck. He screamed, his hands bracing his face.
I turned toward the door and prayed to whatever God was up there that it was open. I only had seconds before he would come after me.
I grasped onto the knob, inhaling one deep breath before I turned it, and it clicked open.
Thank the heavens above. Holy shit.
"It’s not too late now." I cackled, slamming the door, then took a quick look around to get my bearings. One truthful thing Hugo said was that this door was closer to my apartment and off the main road. I only needed to cross the small parking lot in front of me and take the side road back to the guest house.
I breathed in a sigh of relief, knowing I was closer to home, but didn’t let my guard down. In the dimly lit parking lot, I picked up the pace, then whipped my head around when I heard more screaming from inside the bar.
He was bellowing from inside the bar, so I ran in the opposite direction. I was exhausted. Today had to have topped one of the worst days, between Peter and Hugo. A change was needed. I wanted my persona back. I needed to stop living this life that led to doors of bad decisions. Clutching my purse, I was about to take off when I ran straight into a thick wall of muscle.
"Holy—" The brown eyes I’d missed the last three years were staring down at me. His gaze bore into mine, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.
It wasn’t until his familiar hand touched my cheek to wipe away a rogue tear that I realized I was crying.
"Hello, Muse."