Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
OPHELIA
Thursday night, Bryan drops me at the corner of the local shopping centre just before seven-thirty. The bully support group meets in behind, and I walk along a row of shops to reach the alleyway shortcut, every second store featuring the word ‘bargain’ or ‘discount’ in their name.
My steps are slow. My eyesight’s always worse at night, and I navigate the dark lane with sideways sweeps of my cane, but that’s not the only reason for my lethargy.
A bad day is coming. The kind where I can barely drag myself out of bed, and my bones ache in anticipation.
Stepping out of the alley, the streetlamps turn into kaleidoscopes where they hit the crack in my glasses. After days of adjusting the broken arm, they still pinch, and my blackmail agreement hasn’t borne any fruit.
Following Tuesday morning’s ambush at my locker, Damien has stayed well away.
Awareness tickles my neck, and I pause, listening intently. Is someone watching me? I fold the cane into my bag, fingers closing around the pepper spray canister inside.
“Phee!”
I startle at the voice, then exhale as Philip’s burly arms embrace me in a hug, his bushy beard tickling my cheek.
“You’re cutting it close tonight,” he exclaims. “I’d almost given up on seeing you.”
“Bryan got a phone call just as we were leaving,” I say, though my internal clock tells me it’s not as close as he’s making out.
Inside the community hall, I choose a hard plastic chair. Far from the kitchenette sink where the scent of rot rises from the fifty-year-old plumbing. I close my eyes against the shrill fluorescent lighting and dump my bag on the floor, squeezing it between my calves.
Around me, regulars introduce themselves with their gait long before they speak, the thud of work boots versus the tap of high heels and the soft rustle of a skirt.
Then Philip booms another greeting outside, and an unknown stride enters the room. Confident. Masculine. Trailing a cloud of expensive cologne, and I inhale a greedy sniff, confused when my pulse thuds in warning.
Opening my eyes, I lean forward, trying to make details appear from the fuzz. But my eyes are tired and he’s across the room, nothing but a dark shadow lost in a snowstorm.
“Welcome everyone,” Philip chirrups, clapping his hands together. “Why don’t we start by going around the group? Everyone say their name and tell us a little something about yourself.”
It’s the usual routine for a new member, and I slump in my chair, wriggling as the hard plastic numbs my arse. I tune out the droning voices, only listening for my turn.
“Hey,” an unfamiliar voice rumbles. “I’m new here, but I guess you figured that out already.”
His tone is deep and rough and too damn sexy for this early on a Thursday evening. The low timbre draws a prickle up my arms. No hint of nervousness, though unknown faces will be turned in his direction.
Bullshit this new member has issues with bullying or self-esteem. It’s the voice of a man with no issues at all.
Introductions continue and I join in on my turn, smoothing my brow because a frown gets noticed, pulling my hair across my taped glasses because I’m suddenly nervous about sharing tonight.
“Now, Phee,” Philip says, always observant at the worst times. “Would you like to—”
“Actually,” the new guy interrupts. “Would you mind if I went first? I spent ten minutes gathering my courage in the carpark and want to say what I need to before it slips away.”
He gives a self-deprecating laugh and I say, “Go ahead,” before Philip can interfere. Curious what could frazzle this confident man.
“Thank you, Phee.”
I grip my knee to stop its nervous bounce.
Am I crazy or was that a dig?
“This confession has weighed pretty heavily on me, so I’m grateful for this opportunity.”
My leg begins jiggling again, shoulders pulling inwards.
“To give you some background, I’ve been moved around a lot of high schools because of bullying in the past few years. Four times to be exact.”
Sympathetic noises erupt from the group, but my jaw clenches. He doesn’t sound like a kid my age. Far too self-assured for his own good.
It’s just his voice. Stop being so judgemental.
“And this week, I started at yet another new school, and I…” He clears his throat. “This is hard for me to say, but I’m just so sick of moving all the time when the people responsible never face repercussions. It’s just so unfair, you know?”
“It is,” Philip says, always eager to affirm. “And that’s an indictment of the system. Moving once is bad enough, but four times…? It’s unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. Unbelievable.
“Anyway…”
The new boy’s voice is suddenly thick with tears and my stomach shrinks. Here I am thinking bitchy thoughts, and he’s crying.
“It’s no excuse, but I’d just had enough, and when everyone started picking on this girl, right in front of me…” He exhales in a huff, sniffing in a new breath. “Instead of sticking up for her, I joined in. Laughing while the other pupils called her a freak.”
Shock hits like a bullet in my brain, scrambling thoughts, annihilating my senses.
It’s the word that pumps my insecurities up to ten feet tall, casually dropped in the middle of my safe space like a fucking atom bomb.
Philip shifts in his seat. “It’s hard when we fall short, but—”
“I broke her glasses.”
My breath hitches. The air conditioning kicks into life, making me jump, its hum the loudest noise in the room.
It’s a coincidence. Students break their glasses every day.
“I stood on them, deliberately, just to make another girl happy. Just so I could fit in.”
That’s no coincidence.
Different voice, different scent, but it’s Damien.
I jump to my feet. “Excuse me.” Fleeing the room, tapping chair backs as my guide. Tripping over a curled carpet tile near the door, then I’m outside.
My fingertips trail along the stippled wall until I’m safely around the corner, then I slap the rough surface in frustration. “Coward.”
Except it’s more that I don’t make good decisions when I’m confused, and I don’t have the faintest idea why he’s here, infiltrating my group. Making everyone swoon with his crocodile tears.
My arms shake like I just downed five double-shot espressos, and the tremor grows worse as the hall doors open, and his confident footsteps follow me along the path, stopping at the corner.
“Was that entertaining for you, Damien? Don’t they have support groups for privileged arseholes?”
Nothing but silence. It lasts so long I pluck at my throat. “Damien?”
Finally, he chuckles. “What gave me away?” he asks, voice back to its normal register.
“Was any of that true?”
“That depends.” The toes of his shoes scuff mine as he stops just in front of me. “Does honesty matter to you?”
I frown, unsure what he means.
“Lots of girls prefer being lied to,” he continues. “Being told they’re beautiful, they’re special.” He bends level, hot breath tickling the hairs on my cheek. “They’re the only one.”
I duck my head, folding my arms. “Yes, I’d prefer you told the truth.”
“Okaaaaaay,” he drawls. “I have moved high school four times, and I did step on your glasses. The rest…?”
He leaves such a long pause, I prompt, “The rest?”
Another laugh. “Sorry. I shrugged, my bad. The rest is mostly fiction.”
“Why did you move schools, then?”
“This time? Punched a teacher.”
I clench my jaw, stifling the inappropriate laugh that bubbles up, unbidden. There isn’t a hint of regret in his voice, and it sounds kind of liberating.
“So, I guess it was because of bullying,” he adds.
I can’t help it. I snort with laughter, staring at his face, just a few inches from mine. And his expression changes, going blank. Like he’s removed the mask he usually wears in public, revealing his true self.
Dread creeps across my shoulders, but the twist in my lower belly? Excitement. He looks like he could slice me open and not even blink.
I expect him to withdraw, but he stays there, heat pulsing off his body, breath sweet enough to be intoxicating. “Why do your eyes move like that?”
Usually, I’d get defensive but there’s no judgement in his voice. “It’s called nystagmus, it’s involuntary.”
“Makes you look shifty. It’s kind of cool.”
Millimetres away now and how can someone so pretty, look so menacing? Do I have a death wish?
Well, obviously.
His fingers brush my bruised cheekbone. “Why are you smiling?”
“Private joke.”
How far Chelsea would run if she saw him like this? Miles, I’d bet, and the answer heats my lower belly.
“Rothschild usually has a nine-month waiting list.”
The change of topic takes a second, then I click. The expensive optometrist. Hope and disappointment war inside me. Usually?
“But I got my dad to pull a few strings. They share… similar interests. He’s set aside an appointment next week if you want it.”
I swallow the automatic ‘Yes’ that forms on my lips. “And you’d pay for everything?”
“Yeah, I could agree to that.” Damien plants his hands either side of my head and stucco dents my shoulders as his torso cages me. “But I’d want something in return. Something more than you helping me with music class. That’s only fair.”
He tilts his head, and deep shadows fall across his face.
“Let’s say I pay for the impossible-to-get appointment, and in return…”
The pause stretches until I can’t handle another single, solitary beat. “In return?”
He nuzzles into my ear, teeth scraping my lobe for one teasing second. “For the next month, you’re mine. Anything, anytime I want, and you can’t refuse.”
I jerk away, the hushed voice sending a shockwave to my core. But I’m already crushed against the wall, no escape. My blush deepens because this attractive, wealthy, utterly unhinged boy wants me so badly…
Chelsea.
Acid burns up the back of my throat.
He already has a girl, the most popular one in school. That’s what the delay with my quote has all been about.
Damien isn’t flirting.
He and Chelsea are making me the butt of another joke.
The possibilities crowd my head. Secret cameras. Intimate photos. Notifications pinging on every student’s phone.
These two must think I’m the most gullible fool on the planet, and the irony of where Damien staged his approach deserves a bitter round of applause all its own.
I grip my bag strap harder, arm across my chest, and the spray can bumps my ribs.
“Let me get this straight.” My voice is strangled. “You break my glasses, threaten to hurt me if I report you like you fucking deserve, sneak into the only place I can talk freely, and you think—what? That in gratitude for you replacing what you broke, I’ll become your sex slave?”
“No.”
His firm answer isn’t denial, it’s a correction.
Damien’s thumb grazes my lower lip, pressing on the centre until my mouth falls open, tasting salt off his rough skin. Pressure increases against my legs, his knee wedging them apart. An echo of Monday, in class, when he crowded me at my desk, unable to escape the press of his thigh against mine.
Just his thigh. Two layers of fabric separating our skin. A sensation I’ve experienced more times than I can count, but this one occasion got stuck in my head.
“You’re going to become my sex slave because I think you’ll enjoy every second.”
I fight back tears of humiliation. “You believe I want you after you threatened to hurt me?”
Knuckles graze my jaw and I tense, every muscle on high alert. His touch is light, almost reverent, and it sends a current straight down my spine.
Then his fingers clamp around my throat, my pulse jumping against his skin. Holding me while the heel of his palm hardens on my windpipe, and every sense screams danger.
And just as abruptly, he whips his hand away, glancing down.
He brushes my nipple, peaking beneath my blouse while he wears a satisfied smirk, and how I wish that smugness would fade back into a blur.
“Yeah, I do,” he whispers, his lips almost brushing mine. “Maybe even because of that.”
I’m a mess. Resenting my body’s betrayal, the amusement in his gruff voice, the way his torso presses closer and my traitorous back arches to meet him.
You might as well hand victory to Chelsea.
And Damien’s not my nemesis but knowing he’s in partnership with her squeezes my ribs, trapping sobs in my tightening throat until I’m losing control… and if I don’t take it back immediately, I might never regain it at all.
In defiance, I reach into my bag, my trembling fingers turning steady as they close around the cold metal canister inside.