A DEBAUCHED FRAT PARTY #4
He stops at the edge and finally turns to face me, his hand still locked on my wrist. “You ever tried molly?” he asks, like he’s offering gum. His tone is weirdly gentle, almost sweet, but there’s a flicker in his eyes I don’t like at all.
I shake my head, try to yank my hand back again. “I don’t use. I can’t — I get really sick from that stuff.”
He cocks his head, still smiling. “Not even once?”
“No,” I say, sharper now, “and I’m not going to start tonight.”
He laughs again, but it’s not friendly. “You don’t have to freak out. It’s not like that. I’m just saying, it would help you relax.”
His thumb presses hard into the inside of my wrist, right where the blood runs closest to the surface. I feel a pinprick of pain, and realize how strong he actually is, how easily he could break something if he really wanted to.
The dark room yawns beside us, its gravity pulling at my feet. The pulse of the party recedes behind a wall of soundproofed silence. If I scream, no one will hear it.
Clay gives a little tug, not much but enough to tip me over the threshold. My boots catch on the edge of the carpet, and suddenly we’re inside, the door closing behind us with a sound like a mouth sealing shut.
Inside, my eyes adjust to the black: there’s a mattress on the floor, a couple of broken chairs, the faint glint of bottles on a dresser. I don’t see anyone else, but I can hear breathing — mine, and his.
He lets go of my wrist, but only to put both hands on my shoulders. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says, and the words are almost comical, like a parody of consent. His voice is soft, meant to be reassuring, but it only makes my skin crawl.
I try to step back, but his hands tighten, holding me in place. “Clay,” I say, voice wavering now, “I really want to go.”
“Okay,” he says, and the word is a lie.
He leans in, slow, and presses his mouth to mine. His lips are dry, the taste of beer and Red Bull and something sour. I try to turn my face, but he holds it with one hand, thumb digging into my cheek, his other hand sliding around my waist.
I go rigid. My arms stiffen, and for a second I forget what to do, how to get out, how to move.
“Relax, Mary,” he says, his breath warm in my ear. “You’re safe.”
I hear the party thumping on the other side of the wall. I think about Kent, about how he’d smash through the door and murder this guy, about how he’d call me an idiot for letting it get this far. The thought gives me a jolt of adrenaline.
I shove, as hard as I can, aiming for his chest. My hand lands right in the center of his sternum, but he doesn’t budge — just laughs and catches my wrist again, twisting it so my arm bends behind my back.
“Don’t be like that,” he whispers, and his breath is in my hair now. “There’s no need to fight, although it does turn me on.”
My free hand claws at his shoulder, trying to peel him off, but he’s stronger, heavier, locked in.
I feel the wall at my back, the doorknob digging into my hip, and for a second I think I can pivot, wriggle free.
I try, but he just spins me, his body pinning mine, his hand sliding down my waist to the curve of my ass.
The fear is electric now, shorting out all the logic in my head. “Let go,” I spit, and the words come out ragged.
He grins, presses his body against mine, and whispers, “I just want you to have a good time. What kind of host would I be if you don’t enjoy yourself?”
His hand slides under the hem of my skirt, his palm hot on my thigh. He leans in to kiss me again, tongue pushing past my lips, and I taste blood — my own, from where I bit down earlier. I jerk my head to the side, hit his chin with my cheekbone, and he hisses, more annoyed than hurt.
There’s a pounding sound outside — footsteps, maybe, or just the subwoofer maxing out. In that instant, he lets up, just a fraction, but it’s enough.
I twist, digging my heel into the top of his foot, and pull free. I stumble backward, crash into the edge of the dresser, the bottles rattling. My hand scrabbles for the doorknob.
He grabs at my arm again, but I swing my purse at his face, connect with a thud. He lets go, surprised, and I throw myself at the door, wrench it open.
The hallway is a flood of light and bodies, the noise from the party slamming back in like a tidal wave. I run, boots pounding the floor, but to my horror, Clay gives chase. I’m running one moment, and then the next, he’s tackled me and I’m knocked to the floor.
“Oof!” I shriek. “Ouch!”
The hulking boy drags me to my feet before grabbing my wrist and hauling me down the hall once more, back to his bedroom.
“I told you I have a really cool aquarium,” he pants, red-faced and angry. “Why don’t you want to see it?”
“No, no! I don’t care about fish! I don’t care about hermit crabs!
Let me go!” I squeal. But my protests only cause Clay to pull harder, forcing me back into his bedroom.
His movements are so abrupt that I literally bump my head against the door as he tries to push me inside, making me see stars.
I wobble on my feet, knees shaky, and then suddenly, everything goes black.