Chapter 15 Solana #2
“Am I?” He turns his phone toward me. The screen shows a video thumbnail of me, clearly out of it, dress pulled down. “Got plenty more where that came from. Pics and videos of you doing all sorts of shit. Your face is real clear in all of them.”
Tears fill my eyes as cold, icy horror rushes me and leaves me sick to my stomach.
“No,” I croak, then I shake my head. “Kel… no. I was drugged in those. That’s evidence of—”
“Evidence?” he repeats, barking out a laugh.
“Who’s gonna care about consent when they see these?
When I send them to every student at school?
You think it’s bad now? Just wait ’til we make the albums public.
Post them online with your name tagged. Hell, maybe I’ll send them to your uncle’s biker friends.
Let them see what a thot his niece really is. ”
“Why are you doing this to me?! What did I do to have you hurt me like this?”
“Nothing,” he answers simply. “I told you. We were just trying to make you more fun. I tried to be cool with you after. I took you out, didn’t I?
I figured a prude like you—dating you for a while would make it better.
But you just couldn’t get with the fucking program, Lana. You had to involve the bikers.”
I’m so sick, so disturbed, I can’t even speak anymore. I shake my head, slow tears rolling down my cheeks.
“Hey! Did you hear me?” he growls impatiently.
His hand shoots out and he grabs me by the throat, dragging me toward him.
“Call off your uncle’s fucking dogs. Tell them to back off or I release everything.
Every photo. Every video. Every humiliating second of you acting like the whore you’ve always pretended you weren’t. ”
“Kel,” I sputter, clawing at his hand, trying to pull it off me. “I can’t breathe!”
“Is that a yes?” he asks, his dark eyes burning with cold humor. Then they dip, lowering to admire my heaving chest and jerking body. “Or maybe we can work something else out. Like we did that night. Except this time… you’ll remember it.”
I scream as he shoves me hard. I’m sent stumbling backward onto the couch. He’s on me immediately, his weight crushing me down and his hands everywhere.
He wrenches at my shirt and grabs at my jeans.
“Kel!” I cry out, panicking, pushing back against him. “Get off me!”
“Come on, Lana. Part two.” He pins my wrists with one hand and uses the other to tear at my shirt. The fabric rips, exposing my bra. “Wish I brought more ketamine. You’re so much more fun when you can’t fight back. When you just lie there and take it like a good fucking slut.”
“NO!”
An instinct to fight explodes from within. My knee comes up hard between his legs, mashing against his groin. He grunts but still holds me down the best he can. I rake my nails across his eyes and he screams, jerking back.
I roll off the couch, pushing myself up from my hands and knees and dashing toward my bedroom.
If I could make it to my phone. If I could call for help—
His hand closes on my ankle, yanking me off my feet. I hit the floor hard, chin splitting open on the hardwood. The coppery taste of blood fills my mouth. He’s dragging me backward as I thrash and kick my legs to break his grip.
My hands latch onto the doorframe, desperate cries pouring out of me.
I’m so close yet so far.
I manage to kick him in the face, the heel of my foot connecting with his nose.
“Fucking bitch!”
He hauls me up with ease, any patience lost. I’m thrown onto the bed, hitting the mattress like a ragdoll as he climbs on top of me.
My torn shirt hangs off one shoulder before he rips more of it and gropes a breast. His hands move to my jeans, fumbling with the button and shoving his hand down the front.
“Just like last time,” he reminds breathlessly. “You’re gonna take it, Lana.”
I cry out as he fondles me through my panties. I’m pushing and shoving at him, dizzy with panic and desperation. But it’s no use; he’s weighing me down like an anchor. He has no intention of stopping, his fingers rubbing against my vagina.
“STOP IT!” I scream, my voice breaking. I jerk against him, finally wiggling over enough to reach for my pillow. My hand slides underneath, and I grab the one comfort item I’ve started sleeping with in recent weeks.
A kitchen knife that’s made me feel secure on nights I’m home alone.
I close my eyes as I thrust it forward. I can’t bear to look as I jam the blade deep into his stomach and cut off his assault mid-grope.
His eyes go wide, mouth opening. He releases a grunt like the true pain hasn’t sunk in yet. He’s still too shocked to process what I’ve done.
“You… you stabbed me,” he says slowly.
I don’t answer him, practically hyperventilating as I twist the knife and then push him off me. He crashes onto the floor, landing on his back with a thud. His phone slips from his hoodie pocket, the screen still showing the video of me.
“Lana,” he wheezes, a sheen of sweat on his pained face. “Please… call 911.”
But I can’t move. I can’t even bring myself to respond.
I stay where I am, perched on my bed, heaving sharp breaths like I’ve run miles. My eyes are large and round as I stare down at him and watch the blood pool.
I watch him die.