Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
It takes everything not to glower. Face-to-face manipulation is not my forte, but I’ve been working on it this summer.
I let out a tiny laugh to cover the disgust. I approach.
Inches from them, I peer upward to meet their faces, feeling small.
Like a solitary doe among hunters. They’ve gathered for the skinning.
My mother would loathe knowing I feel like prey. She’d say I’ve taken a crucial misstep. That somewhere, I’ve lost the greatest leverage. They should have the illusion of power, but I should always be the one holding the shotgun to deliver the fatal blow.
I motion them to stand where their backs will face Phoebe. “Line up.”
“How about we tell you what to do?”
“Yeah, take out your braids.”
“I kinda like the braids.” One snickers.
I touch one of the two sloppy fishtail braids. It’s already come unraveled. “Take off your pants,” I tell them, hoping to bide my time.
“You first.” Callahan grins.
Phoebe would strip without issue. She was trained for this.
A pit forms in my chest, and I pry my mesh shirt off my body. It was see-through anyway. I’m left in a simple black B-cup bra. “Now take off your pants,” I counter.
“We call the shots.”
I swallow a grimace. “Or I could just bite your dick off.”
Callahan grips my face with one palm, painfully pinching my cheeks together. “You bite us, we will fuck you ragged in this fucking sand.” He throws my head to the side, my neck aching, but I don’t turn back to him right away.
I stare at a divot in the sand. A footprint.
This is not my role, and I hate that it had to be hers. I hate that it could belong to anyone who’s perceived as weaker. Isn’t this what it is? Perception? I’m smaller. They’re bigger. Two simple, important facts.
My brain buzzes with more solutions, scenarios, and possible outcomes until I land on one that gives me more time. That’s all I need. Time. The longer I can distract them, the better chance Nova will find us before it’s too late.
My eyes flit between the four of them, not shying from their gazes. “Have you heard of the term oral fixation? It’s a controversial theory developed by Sigmund Freud.”
“We don’t speak freak,” Callahan tells me.
His friends snicker.
“The uncomplicated version…I want things in my mouth.”
That quiets them. They look from me to one another, sizing up their friends’ curiosity. I’m a weirdo they’ve never encountered before. I’m allowing them access to the bizarre, and I’m hoping maybe that’s a little more enticing than the beautiful girl passed out behind them.
“So before you put your cock in it, why don’t you try something else?” I say. “You can test me. I won’t bite. I promise. I get off on this.” I open my mouth as wide as I can, convincing myself this isn’t exposing the vulnerable parts of me.
I just need time.
“Dude.” The preppy one slides a look at Callahan. “She really is a slut.”
“We’ll see just how much you get off on this.” Callahan steps forward and grips the side of my cheek again. His eyes lance me in warning before he slips his thumb between my lips. I can’t avoid the salty taste of his skin. “Close your lips.”
My heart beats heavily as I comply, my eyes pinned to his friends, making sure their attention remains on me. One of them nears just to start slowly untying my braids.
“Suck it like you would my dick,” Callahan prods.
My pulse pounds. I lose track of the other two guys as they slip behind me. I try to look over my shoulder.
Callahan’s grip tightens, not allowing me to turn my neck. “I said, suck.”
From behind, fingers tug at the hem of my cargo pants. They’re playing with me like I’m a toy that I dangled in front of their faces.
My plan.
It’s working…a little too well.
My stomach lurches. Nausea spools through me as I begin to suck Callahan’s thumb. He grins wickedly. “Aw, she’s enjoying this.”
More snickering.
I can’t…I can’t do it. Some darker part of me snaps inside.
My teeth clamp down on his thumb hard enough that the metallic taste of blood pools in my mouth. “Fuck!” He growls, pushing me hard into his friend. Hands catch me around the waist. I’m not done. I whirl my head back, hawk up a loogie, and spit at Callahan’s face.
Wet, bloody saliva splatters against his cheek.
He growls, “You fucking—”
I shriek—a demonic, unhinged shriek—hoping they’ll be so freaked out they’ll jolt backward.
Instead, Callahan tries to muffle my shrill sound with his meaty hand.
Like he promised, he brings me down to the sand.
I scratch him with my black-chipped and bitten nails, trying to rip out of his hold, but he’s clamped too firmly.
“What did I tell you was going to happen?” he growls in the pit of my ear.
Fingers fumble to try to unbutton my cargo pants as I thrash against them.
Knees pin my thighs to the ground. Sand gets everywhere.
Under my nails. In my eyes. I taste the coarse grit in my mouth and crunch it between my teeth.
I try to kick out when I hear Jake bark, “Get the fuck off her!! What the fuck?!” Now they jump back as though they’ve been electrocuted.
I claw away, then pick myself up, adrenaline coursing through me, making my pulse race at a speed I can’t control. Jake is screaming at them behind me, and their hands are raised in defense like they’re little innocent schoolboys.
They make excuses.
They try to laugh it off like it was no big deal. That I asked for it. That I like it rough.
Jake is the second-most-powerful person on this property, and they know it. I don’t wait around to see them shuffle away with hung heads and bruised egos.
I only care about Phoebe, and I sprint back to her, tripping in the sand, digging into it to stand back up, and when I collapse next to her on the lounge chair and see she’s safe, I dry-heave.
What nearly happened slams so violently into me. I choke for breath.
“Hailey.” Jake crouches in front of me, his hands so gentle on my cheeks. “Hailey.” His eyes dip to my stomach. “Are you okay?”
I nod and blink through a glassy film. “Phoebe.” I rotate my head to her, and he follows and bends over her unconscious frame. Two fingers to her neck, he checks her pulse. He listens to her breath, then comes back to me. “She was drugged?”
I nod rapidly. Snot is dripping out of my nose, and without thought, Jake uses the bottom of his shirt to wipe it, then he cradles my face again with an avalanche of compassion compressing on me.
It has a way of breaking me open. “Th-th-this is what they do, you know?” My splintered voice hurts my throat. I’m crying, and I can’t retract the waterworks as they cascade in heavy, anguished waves. “This is what happens to them over and over and over. This.”
Jake searches my eyes for clearer answers he can’t see. “Who…? What?”
“Phoebe and Rocky,” I cry. “This is what they were taught to do. Th-this is what happens. She almost…and he comes in…” I choke out. “Their roles. Their responsibilities.”
He casts a hard look backward to where my mesh shirt lies crumpled in the sand. Then back to me with the devastation I feel.
“It’s not fair what they had to do for our parents.
It’s not fair what they gave up for us…” My chin quivers as I remember Carlsbad.
The Fiddle Game. The mark. His grotesque friend.
“I just hear them in that fucking room with her, and I couldn’t get in.
They wouldn’t let me in to stop it…I would’ve done anything to stop it. ”
I sob, and Jake pulls me into his chest. I weave my arms around his shoulders. As he stands, I’m lifted with him, and I don’t have to hang on. He holds me against his muscled, towering build.
His cerulean-blue eyes sweep over me. Into me. Dreamlike. I stare into him, unable to look away. His thick brows harden like his jaw, but he’s not severe or stern. Of his many layers, most are soft. Caring. There is only care in his expression now, and it begins to calm the torture in my lungs.
This is a good man.
I gaze longer, soaring inside the summer sky, and I wonder how high I can truly go before gravity brings me down. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear, the soft act a caress to my heart.
We both hear the quickened, urgent breath of someone running toward us. Our heads turn in unison, and I see Oliver.
His eyes sweep our embrace, my lack of shirt, my tear-streaked cheeks while I slide down Jake. I’m shaking. I can’t stop the full-body tremors as panic and anxiety crush my windpipe.
“What happened?” Oliver asks with mountainous concern, then he spots his sister passed out on the lounge chair. He bolts for Phoebe. “Shit. Shit. Phoebe?” He pats her cheek.
I sink on the edge of the chair beside her bare legs.
Oliver sends an alarmed glance back at me. “You need to tell me.” It’s not a harsh demand. Oliver is never harsh or unkind or cruel. Unless he has to be. But never with me.
“I-I…” I watch Jake trek away to retrieve my shirt. “I was here when she passed out. I didn’t see who drugged her.”
“Did anyone come over here?” Oliver asks, taking Phoebe’s pulse on her wrist. “Hails?” He reaches over and squeezes my knee. “Was anyone else on the beach before Jake got here?” It’s a gentle ask.
Yet I feel sick.
I puke between my knees. Barely missing my combat boots. Terrific.
“Just let it out, Hailstorm.” Oliver steps over the lounge chair with his long legs, coming to my side while unbuttoning his white shirt. “Nothing like a regular Saturday night rager. One for the history books.”
A strangled laugh is stuck in my burning throat. “I don’t want to reread this one.” I spit off to the side.
Oliver hands me his shirt to use as a rag and kicks sand on top of my vomit.
Then he squats in front of me, scrutinizing my features.
I fixate on his hair that curls around his ear.
On the curve of his soft kiss-worthy lips.
Whether he’s a warm golden tan or paler from avoiding the sun, whether he’s stubbled or clean-shaven, whether he’s shed weight or gained ten pounds of muscle, the glimmer in his caramel-flecked eyes stays the same.
His very existence is a cool balm to my wounds. Soothing, trying to wake me.
I’m not like him. I worry I’m not something that can heal others, but rather, something that will hurt.
He shifts in his squat, his eyes still tracing me. “Well, she seems fully intact. Where are her wits?”
“Lost for a moment,” I say.
“Nothing I can’t find.” His charismatic smile could draw a faraway one out of me, but his is slightly dulled with concern for me and for his sister tonight.
His pupils are also ginormous. I stare right into those big black orbs.
He knows that I know he’s high. I wasn’t supposed to be at this party tonight.
Without me here and while he’s around Trent, he probably thought it was a good time tonight to snort a line or two to assimilate.
Blending in as the chameleon comes with its own plights.
I wipe my mouth with his shirt. “Thanks, Olly.”
“How many were there?” he asks in one breath. He holds up his hand, and I lower his pinky finger. “Four?”
I nod. “I-I did something gross to bide me time.”
His brows rise in consideration. “I’m sure I’ve done grosser.”
My eyes burn. I wish that weren’t true. My lip quivers, and Jake returns with my shirt. His dark gaze and visceral heat on both of us. “We should leave.”
I nod, swallowing more nausea. “She’ll need smelling salts. We promised her…” I meet Oliver’s eyes, and he exhales heavily into a nod.
“Promised her what?” Jake looks between us, confused.
“If this were to happen, she made us promise to wake her up. Even for just a minute or two.” I don’t tell him that most medical professionals would advise against it.
The smelling salts won’t counteract the drugs in her system.
They’ll just make her alert for a short while, but no one is going to go against Phoebe’s wishes on this one.
Oliver turns to his sister. He scoops her up like she’s a Disney princess lost in a forever slumber. While he carefully cradles her limp body in his arms, her head slumps against his chest, and his gaze returns to me.
I take the shirt from Jake. Sticking my arms through the mesh fabric, I fight with the material as I roll it down my stomach, and I collect her purse and heels.
Oliver passes me and whispers, “Did they touch you?”
“Please, Olly, I don’t want to cry again.” I glare at the sand to subdue the wreckage I feel. Jake presses a comforting hand to the back of my neck as he walks beside me, his thumb stroking me, and I ache to grab hold of him.
I try to slow my pulse with measured breaths.
Phoebe compartmentalizes, purposefully forgets, but I don’t know how to.
All I do is remember. My skin still crawls from the meaty hand over my mouth.
From the thumb against my tongue. From the hands that I couldn’t see but I could feel on my body.
“Just go,” I breathe. “Jake, call Rocky.”
He’s likely out of his mind right now.