20. Mimosa
CHAPTER 20
Mimosa
I shower and get dressed in the ankle-length jeans and simple t-shirt we’d bought yesterday, and for a very long stretch of time, I sit on the couch and do absolutely nothing. The cell phone, elevator key card, and credit card Drake gave me are on the coffee table, and I have no idea what I want to do.
I’d been honest with Drake that I wasn’t sure if I’d leave him.
The smart thing to do would be to get out of here. It’s what I would tell any of my friends if they told me about their situations. Abuse is abuse, and most men are terrible, and you have to get out of a situation before you can see it clearly.
I should hate Drake more than I do. I shouldn’t find him endearing, I shouldn’t enjoy toying with him.
“Why the fuck am I still here?” I ask the room at large—and it is a large room, designed for parties and not for intimate family gatherings.
Everything around me is too fucking rich. I grab the phone, key, and credit card, stuff them in my jeans pockets, and head for the elevator.
I take it all the way to the ground floor, where the bellhop gives me a strange look. I keep my head high and ignore him.
I’m used to strange looks. I didn’t dye my hair blue because I wanted to avoid attention.
I don’t know my way around this part of New Bristol, but after a few blocks I find a subway station entrance. From there, I end up on the train to New Bristol U.
I don’t know why I’m going to the university. I missed the last two months of the previous semester, and I doubt there’s any way they’d let me enroll for fall classes three weeks into the current semester.
Maybe they can make an exception for me, if I explain the situation.
I snort. Yeah, right. Let me just tell the administration all about how I’d been kidnapped and sex trafficked and then bought by multi-billionaire Drake Brutal. That’ll go over well.
It sounds about as believable as all the grandparents that just happen to keel over dead in time for finals.
It’s about forty minutes to the university, and I almost change my mind before I get there. But I transfer lines, and as I get closer to the university, the amount of college-aged people around me increases, and my feet just keep moving on their own.
I end up in front of the cafe, which is completely full, but I decide to test out Drake’s credit card on coffee and a snack. They’ve always had the best muffins, and I could use a pick-me-up.
I head inside, but after grabbing my drink and muffin, I realize there are no empty tables.
There is an empty seat, though — and it’s directly across from someone I know.
She’s typing intently on her laptop, pausing only to push her glasses up as she stretches back in her seat.
Janine and I had met during Freshman year because we were both taking the same psych classes. I don’t know that I’d call her a friend, but we chatted often enough and I never hated any group projects I’d done with her.
“Hi, Janine,” I say, sliding into the chair across from her. “How was your summer?”
She looks up from her laptop, her expression going from one of concentration to something more open, more friendly. “Amber! Hi! It was pretty good. Well.” She scrunches up her nose. “I took a few extra classes, so I don’t know how ‘good’ you’d say that is. What about yours?”
Terrible. I got raped nearly every day .
I shrug and rip off a piece of my muffin. “It was fine. Didn’t really get out much. Had to work a lot.”
“Sucks,” she says sympathetically, and I can feel her eyes boring into me, like she wants to ask more. She must have noticed I haven’t been taking any classes. “Your hair looks gorgeous,” she comments. “I like this shade of blue on you more than the lighter one.”
I automatically reach up to touch my hair. “Thanks. It was… Well, a lot of my summer wages went into it.”
Was it always this easy to lie? I’ve never been super expressive—no, that can’t be right. I’d mouthed off to Giulio Pavone, and he’d decided to make my torture worse.
I can’t drum up the energy for that kind of passion anymore.
I sip my coffee and point at her laptop. “Already hard at work? I think most people don’t start cramming until an exam is around the corner.”
She laughs. “Yeah, well. They must not be psych majors. There is so much fucking reading.” She shrugs, and for a moment, she looks self-conscious. Vulnerable.
I wonder if she’s ever been hurt by anything in her life.
“What about you? I haven’t seen you around.” Janine shuts her laptop lid and sighs. “Did you switch majors?”
I shake my head, although at this point I feel like my body is fighting its way through thick goo. “Nah. Family things came up. I had to take the semester off to deal with that.”
What am I doing here? Everything I say is a lie. There is no way Janine could respond that would make me feel like I still belonged here.
Do I need to give up on this dream? Am I too broken, too dead inside, to have a normal life anymore?
Maybe I really am just Drake’s toy.
Janine fidgets uncomfortably. “So… why are you here? If you aren’t taking classes.”
I laugh bitterly. “I don’t know. I got a bit nostalgic? I wanted to see what I was missing out on? I wanted to prove that I still exist, that I still have meaning and worth and?—”
Oh, there’s that passion, that energy. Hiding just behind this wall I’ve put up to seal away my emotions .
I stop myself before my voice gets any louder. “Sorry,” I say. “I think I might have a few issues.”
Janine looks at me, wide-eyed. “Amber… Do you need psych services? I’m sure if you explain things, the campus counselors will let you talk to them.”
As a psychology major, I know exactly how important mental health services are. I’m not immune to that need.
But I’m not ready to tell anyone about what’s going on in my life.
“I’m… not fine,” I answer steadily. “But I’ll deal with it.” I finish my coffee and stand. “Thanks for the chat, Janine. Maybe I’ll see you next semester, if I can get my shit sorted.”
She doesn’t stop me from leaving. Maybe if we were closer friends, if I thought I could trust her or anyone not to make a scene, I’d actually talk.
It would be worse if they didn’t believe me, though.
What would the university do, anyway? They’d probably tell me to keep my mouth shut because they don’t want negative press attention.
I head back to the subway, and I start my way back to Drake’s apartment. When I need to transfer stations, I end up walking out instead, finding myself in the heart of New Bristol’s luxury shopping street.
I reach into my pocket to feel the credit card Drake had given me.
I can at least buy things. I can get a brand-new wardrobe for myself, more than just the few sets of clothes we’d gotten yesterday.
That’s what I’ll do. I’ll spend not even a quarter of a percentage of his wealth, and maybe that’ll make me feel better.
I’m on the third store, buying a new pair of shoes, when the cell phone buzzes.
I glance at it, not surprised to see that it’s Drake texting.
Where are you?
I let out a soft huff, then text back, You already know, don’t you? You checked the GPS.
I didn’t, actually. I thought I’d ask first.
I find that hard to believe, but Drake has surprised me a little the past few days.
I’m spending your entire fortune on cryptocurrency , I text back.
Three dots spring up, then disappear, before he finally responds, Could you at least donate to an animal shelter or something instead of completely wasting my cash?
I don’t know why that makes me laugh. When’s the last time you donated to an animal shelter?
I donated to an animal once. His name is Chase.
I roll my eyes with a smile, then pocket the phone and pay for the shoes. I shove the box into the same bag as the other clothes I’d bought.
I end up buying a purse, a backpack, and a laptop, too. At this point I’m carrying around at least ten thousand dollars’ worth of goods, and it doesn’t even matter if somebody mugs me because I can just get more.
I stop at a Japanese restaurant and order the most expensive sushi platter I think I can eat, then take the phone out again. I have another two hours before Drake gets back.
Did Patrick blow you off? I text. It’s a bit mean, but I also am curious to know if Drake got a hold of whatever pills he’s been popping. He’d been jittery this morning, and I don’t think it was just because he wanted to stay in and fuck.
The message almost instantly goes to read, but he doesn’t reply to it until the waitress is setting the plate in front of me.
Yes.
I should be glad, but I wince. Going cold turkey is not good. I know that much, at least, even with my unfinished degree.
I take a picture of the sushi and send it to Drake with the caption, Let me guess: you don’t like raw fish .
Nope . For a moment, I think that’s all he’s going to say, but then he adds, I’ll eat it if it’s cooked, but it’s too… fishy ?????? . He adds several of the fish emoji, which is enough to make me laugh again.
It smells less when it’s raw! ?? ?? ??
I add fish and octopus emojis, and the Japanese fish cake too for good measure.
Then I take a picture of myself popping the sushi into my mouth and send it to him.
This is stupid. Whimsical, flirtatious, and far too encouraging. I shouldn’t give Drake the idea that I like him.
Okay, it was bad enough before you added ?? , he texts, using the octopus emoji right back. Why don’t y ou like normal things? Like steak and potatoes?
A pause.
Also, you look beautiful.
I don’t know what to do with that compliment, but I feel my cheeks heating up.
I do like steak and potatoes. But I like other things too. I don’t want to limit myself to just one food.
Or one hair color, or one style of clothes.
Or just the one life, the one where I’m useless and trapped.
I eat more of the sushi while I wait for Drake’s response.
And here I thought you weren’t adventurous.
It’s a little rude, in direct contrast to the playfulness of the previous texts, and it dims my mood.
Buy a dildo and harness, I’ll show your ass adventurous , I text back, a little annoyed.
The sushi doesn’t taste as luxurious as it had before.
Several minutes pass, then a screenshot comes through without any text accompanying it.
The bastard actually did it. He ordered the items.
I bite my lip, but I can’t hold in the laughter. I start giggling to myself, drawing stares from the other diners, but I don’t care.
I shake my head and write, If you’re nice, I might even let you lube up first.
He sends me three exclamation points back, then another screenshot follows: a receipt for an industrial size bottle of lube.
I have no way of knowing if he plans on using any of this or if he’s just fucking around, but it still makes me laugh all over again.
Shit. Why do I find him so amusing? What the fuck is wrong with me?
I think back to Janine, and the health services on campus, but none of that makes me feel hopeful.
“You can’t fix him,” I whisper to myself as I look at the phone. “People like him can’t be fixed.”
But that includes me, probably. I’m a broken mess too, I’m just doing a decent job pretending I’m okay.
If I were okay, I wouldn’t be entertaining this idea that staying with Drake might actually be good.
I type, Stop goofing off and pay attention to your work. Don’t jerk off in the bathroom either.
Fine, fine .
To my surprise, he does stop texting me. I can’t say whether he’s actually working or if he’s just bugging someone else, but he’s learning to at least try to listen.
I know he was disappointed this morning, either because I put a stop to things or because I’d shut down his hints about going back to more extreme BDSM.
I don’t like pain, though. I don’t need to go back to crying in fear and anguish.
I don’t want to cater to his whims in the bedroom. I want to have a say in things. I want to feel like my desires matter.
I glance at the last piece of sushi on my plate.
And maybe it’s a test, too. Because if he goes back to ignoring my wishes… Well, I’ll have my answer.
He’d be an irredeemable monster, and I’d be the idiot who didn’t run when she had the chance.
I eat the fatty tuna, and I know that I’m going to go back to his penthouse after this. I’m going to give him the chance he probably doesn’t deserve.
The chance he definitely doesn’t deserve.
I glance at the phone and whisper, “Don’t you fucking dare prove me right.”