41. Juliet
41
JULIET
3 years ago…
S harp nails stab into my arm as my mom yanks me away from Bran and Avery’s side. All dressed up in her evening finery, Mom glares down at me with a false smile painted across her face. She turns her eyes to my best friend and boyfriend for a moment.
“Will you excuse us, darlings, I have to talk to Juliet for a moment.”
Avery smiles back, her own grin a bit loopy because the three of us just snuck out to the courtyard for a few extra shots. If I thought three more would give me the strength to deal with my mom’s demands tonight, I was wrong. I wish I’d taken another five before returning to this stupid party.
I can’t even remember what it’s for anymore. An animal charity, maybe? Saving the sea turtles? Ha. Fat chance. More than likely, this is another dumb attempt for my Mom to make friends with the wives of Dad’s associates. When will she realize that none of them like her and this is exactly why.
“Sure, Mrs. Donovan,” Bran answers when Avery can’t seem to form words. He reaches for my best friend and for a moment, I hate the way his hand curves around her shoulders as well as the way she leans into him almost instinctively. Then, I hate myself because he’s just looking out for her. Jealousy is an ugly look on a woman—or so my mom always says.
“Thank you, dears.” Mom doesn’t wait for another moment as she begins to drag me backwards. I wince as her freshly manicured nails dig into my upper arm even harder and stumble on the slight rise of my heels. She was the one who said I had to look the part if I wanted to come to their party tonight—news flash, I didn’t, but how would it look if the Donovans’ only daughter didn’t show up to their gala.
I bite back my complaints and allow my mother to lead me from the giant ballroom of the hotel they’ve rented out for this event. Once we’re out of sight of the majority of eyes, she starts walking faster, not seeming to care when I trip and nearly fall flat on my face.
“ Mom. ” I hiss as the tip of my heel catches one of the tiles underfoot.
“Oh, stop your whining,” she snaps back. “You were embarrassing your father and me in there. I cannot believe you thought it was appropriate to sneak out and come back drunk.”
“I’m not drunk.” A little buzzed, sure, but I’m by no means completely gone. I’m hardly even slurring.
She snorts and whirls around, releasing my arm from her dagger-like claws. I rub the spot where she’d dug in, sure I’ll have a bruise in the morning, and frown at her.
“You made more of a scene than I did,” I tell her. “You practically dragged me out of there in front of?—”
“I dragged you out of that room to save our family the embarrassment,” she cuts me off, her lips—a week fresh from her most recent filler appointment—pursing in distaste.
I scoff. “Embarrassment?” I repeat the word. Is she fucking for real right now? “If anyone is an embarrassment, it’s you!”
The slap comes too quick for me to see, but I shouldn’t be surprised. We’re in a small hallway several paces away from the main ballroom as well as out of eyesight of any of the guests. I should’ve known she’d feel comfortable enough in this setting.
My hands clench into fists at my sides as I slowly turn my head back to face her. I feel all of the emotion in my expression drain away. Every ounce of understanding I might have had disperses. All I feel is cold resentment.
She glares at me. “Do you have anything else to say or are you done with the theatrics, Juliet?”
Oh, I’m done alright. Done giving a single fuck about her stupid fucking charity or Dad’s friends and clients. Done with this whole fucking night. I want to return her slap with one of my own, except I don’t want to stop at one and I don’t want to slap her so much as I want to throw her to the ground and punch her in the face. Over and over again, ruining her makeup and her expensive fillers, eyelashes, and botox.
I want to pin her down and show her what it feels like to hold authority over someone so deeply that they feel not just comfortable and confident in slapping them, but in absolutely wrecking their ass just because of some perceived slight.
“Well?” she demands when I remain silent.
Tipping my head back, I eye her and let everything but apathy go. “Well, what?”
The snarl that rips free from her throat almost makes me smile—almost isn’t enough though. “Go to your room, you’re not to come back down for the rest of the night,” she states, turning away from me. “If anyone asks, tell them that you felt unwell and didn’t want to miss the activities tomorrow.”
“Why would I be allowed that honor?” I ask, my tone dripping in sarcasm.
She whips back to me. “Keep this up and you won’t.”
“Don’t hold back on my account.”
Her hand comes up and I stare at her this time, willing her to finish the action. “Go ahead.” Ice forms across my words. “I fucking dare you.”
Her coal-lined eyes narrow on me, but instead of responding with a second slap, she lowers her hand and then waves me away. “Ugh, just go,” she grits out. “I’m disappointed in you.”
“Likewise.” Before she can respond, though, I stomp around her and enter the main hall. My heels clack across the tiles, loud and echoing. Maybe all it takes to walk right in them is righteous fury because not once do I look down and not once do I stumble this time.
I don’t go back to the hotel room they booked for me, but instead, I head for the small hotel bar on the opposite side of the building. Out through the courtyard again and then into a hallway that’s for more public guests than those like my parents and their charity attendees, I hang a right and stomp towards the open archway that leads into a darker room lit with candle wall sconces and dim chandeliers that cost more than most people’s cars.
The bar is mostly empty with only a few men and women in expensive work clothes scattered around the low tables and bar top. I wave my fingers to the bartender on duty, catching his eye as I head for a booth in the farthest, darkest corner. I slide between the velvet red hanging curtains pinned to either side of the opening and onto the bench seat just as a waitress shows up.
Money, at least, has its perks. No one even bats an eye as a fifteen-year-old orders a drink. Even if they know I’m not twenty-one, though, no one here cares. I’m not with friends making a nuisance. I’m not drunk as my mother claimed—at least, not yet.
She thinks a few shots can make me drunk? Oh, I’ll show her drunk. I’ll show her fucking belligerent. Let’s see what she thinks of the family’s reputation then, of the embarrassment I cause then.
“Two doubles of vodka and a dirty martini,” I say before the waitress can even introduce herself. She pauses a moment, her gaze moving over my features and down to the black and glittering formal gown I’m still wearing before she peers back at the bartender.
I cross my arms over my chest and glare at her. “Problem?” I snap.
“No…” she replies, though she doesn’t seem that confident in her answer.
A moment later, though, she turns away and hurries back to the bar and a while after that, the drinks are delivered with a different waitress with a sour expression. I don’t even wait for her to finish setting down the rest as I grab one of the doubles and down it in one go. The older woman pulls back as if surprised and I reach for the second shot glass. I down that one too and push them towards the edge.
“Two more.” This waitress, at least, doesn’t hesitate. She grabs the now empty glasses and then heads across the bar.
The alcohol burns down my throat and into my stomach, warming me from the inside out as I sit there and stew in my silent anger. I’m an embarrassment? Really?
My fingers clench around the dainty stem of the martini glass and I bring the drink up to my lips. Fancy drinks like this always taste like shit unless it’s top shelf liquor, but tonight what I really want is to go back to that damn ballroom, grab Bran and Avery and disappear somewhere with nothing more than a six pack of beer and sit and chat for the rest of the night.
If only they would like that too. I have a feeling that if I ask, Bran will scoff at the thought of drinking from a can and Avery will giggle and shake her head like I’m playing a joke on her. I’m halfway done with my martini when the waitress returns with the other doubles.
Reaching into my strapless bra, hidden by the dress’s top, I withdraw my cell phone and play my fingers across the screen. There are no text messages from Bran or Avery asking where I am. I try not to let it hurt—no doubt my mother told them the lie that she’d concocted about me not feeling well. Denise Donovan can be convincing when she wants to be. She should’ve gone into acting. Too bad I never got those skills from her because right now I really wish I could go back in there and pretend that I don’t want to claw my own mother’s eyes out or that my friends’ lack of communication doesn’t dig a hole deep in my chest.
A notification pops up on my screen and I swipe it to find one of those random spam email addresses has sent me a series of ads for new music. My finger hovers over the delete button when I pause next to the name of a playlist: For Beautiful Girl’s Drinking Alone.
I don’t know why but the playlist title almost feels like it’s directed at me, but that’s ridiculous. My curiosity gets the best of me, though, and I find my finger pressing the drop down to see the songs listed. The first song is Lonely by Palaye Royale, how appropriate. My lips twitch and I move on to the rest, scrolling through the song titles and recognizing more than a few of them. Whoever put it together has good taste.
I drink the rest of my martini in record time and end up sipping on the doubles as I peruse the extensive playlist. As the minutes tick by and more people leave the bar, I forget all about my intentions of coming in here and getting trashed just to really embarrass my mom. I’m feeling gooey inside and warm by the time I finish the last of my order.
When the bartender begins to wipe down the counter and lights slowly brighten, I know it’s time to go. Withdrawing a few hundreds from the case wallet on my phone, I drop them onto the surface of the table and get to my feet.
“Whoa…” My hand slaps the wall, and I shake my head. Four doubles and a martini as well as all the alcohol I’d had at the party earlier have finally made their presence known. I should’ve eaten more at dinner.
Stumbling forward, the room tilts, but I wave off one of the male waiters as he rushes forward to help me. “No… thanks…” Now, I’m really slurring. My words sound garbled to my own ears. Still, the man doesn’t touch me, and I’m able to make it out of the hotel bar and into the lobby on my own.
In the elevator, I breathe a sigh of relief and lean back against the wall. Minutes pass by when I realize I’m not moving. Shit. I forgot to press the button to my floor. I fumble forward and press a button, cursing when it’s not the one I wanted. I press a second and finally get it correct on the third try.
Maybe now I should go back to my parents’ party. Amusement fills me. I’m actually drunk now. Mom would be so pissed.
I swallow the taste of the vodka still clinging to my throat and when the elevator dings, announcing my arrival onto a floor, I push myself through the doors and fall right into a hard, male chest.
“Oh dear…” Deep, eloquent and familiar, the voice that greets me as firm hands grip my shoulders and help me to stand up more fully is warm.
My head rolls back on my shoulders and I smile back at the man before me. “Hi, Uncle Morph…” I slur.
Morpheus’ face creases in amusement as he gazes back at me. “Hello, Pretty Girl. You’ve been missing for quite a while, where did you go?”
“Hotel… bar…” If he can understand my speech, then he’d be a miracle worker, but then again, he’s my dad’s right hand man. Uncle Morpheus is a miracle worker.
“Too much to drink then?” he steps to the side and hauls me closer, wrapping an arm around my waist.
“Just enough,” I confess with a giggle. “Mom was being a bitch.”
“Ah.” He helps me walk forward, his eyes moving from my face down to my throat and chest and then my dress. “You looked beautiful tonight, Pretty Girl,” he murmurs.
I grin. I’d felt beautiful when Bran had first seen me and asked if we really had to go to the party or if we could stay in my room and fuck. A sweet talker, he isn’t, but at least Uncle Morpheus appreciates the hard work it takes to look this decent for one of my parents' parties.
“Morpheus!” A deep male voice calls out from down the hall and at my side, Uncle Morpheus stiffens. His face, which had been soft and relaxed, goes tight. He glances over his shoulder and sighs.
“I’m sorry, Pretty Girl, but do you mind waiting here for me?” Uncle Morpheus’ words are accompanied by him moving me to a small curtained alcove along the wide hallways. It’s not unlike the booth in the bar with velvet curtains except instead of a table, there’s a small bench there. “I’ll be right back.”
I slump onto the bench when he releases me and lean back as a wave of exhaustion swamps me. I’m so tired. I can hardly keep my eyes open. “‘Kay…” I mumble. Warm fingers graze my jaw and then down to my throat for a brief moment before disappearing.
Uncle Morpheus’ receding footsteps disappear in the direction of the man that had called for him, and I close my eyes, wondering how mad mom will be if I’m found asleep here in the hallway of this fancy hotel. I can’t seem to help myself, though. Trying to lift my arms or stand is a Sisyphean task in futility. So, instead, I recline and let myself drift.
I startle awake slightly at the feeling of a hand on my leg. Dragging my eyes open, I spy Uncle Morpheus on his knees in front of me. My smile is a little uneasy as he pushes the fabric of my skirts up and strokes his fingers, first over my calves and then further up.
“Such a pretty girl, Juliet,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry for leaving you, but I’m back. Are you ready to go?”
I shift a bit on the bench, but when I try to stand, he stops me. “I’m tired,” I tell him in case he can’t see it on my face.
“I know, sweetheart.” His hands move up some more, grazing over my knee and then on my thighs. “Did I tell you how pretty you looked tonight?” he asks. “Pretty, pretty girl…”
My head throbs. My stomach cramps. My skull feels like it’s the heaviest part of me, and it takes all of my concentration to keep it upright.
Uncle Morpheus’ hands move, one arm tucking under my legs and the other around my back. He stands, lifting me up, and I sigh in relief. Oh, good, he’s going to carry me back to my room. I relax against him. My dad would never do something like this. He’d probably order one of his security guards to do it. Mom would just stand there and yell at me, maybe even hide me if her friends were around.
My eyes slowly slide shut as Uncle Morpheus’ voice rumbles against my ear. “Don’t you worry, Pretty Girl,” he says. “I’ll take care of you.”
I snuggle closer and for a fleeting moment, I wish he was my dad. Uncle Morpheus takes care of me in a way my own parents never have.
Sometime later, I’m lowered onto a mattress. Soft and plump and full, I release a slow breath as I sink deep into the comfort of the blankets and pillows.
“Juliet…” Uncle Morpheus’ voice calls out to me and I groan in dismay as he grips me and sits me up. “Come now, Pretty Girl. Take this, it’ll make you feel better.”
Uncle Morpheus presses something small and dusty tasting to my lips. I grimace but part them obediently. Once it’s on my tongue, the taste gets worse, and I gag until he presses a cool glass of water to my mouth. I gulp down the liquid greedily, drinking more than I need to get rid of the awful taste. Hopefully, though, whatever he gave me will make sure my hangover tomorrow won’t be so bad that I can’t show up to mom’s dumb activities. If I miss that I know I’ll be in a world of trouble.
“Alright, good girl,” he murmurs. “Now your dress. We need to get it off you. You’ll be too uncomfortable sleeping in your clothes.”
“Nooo.” I whine as I feel his fingers plucking at the strings of my dress holding it up around my neck.
His low chuckle is full of an emotion I don’t recognize, making him sound strained. My eyelashes flutter open to find him staring at me, round eyes locked on my face and then lower. He carefully plucks my phone from my bra and sets it on the nightstand of the hotel room.
“This dress was very… revealing,” he continues, sliding a fingertip beneath the fabric along my chest. I shiver and frown, scooting back against the headboard.
“M-mom picked it out,” I say. I hadn’t even wanted to come, much less wear it.
“Did she?”
I try to roll away, but he tsks at me and straightens me once more, his hands becoming more firm as he unties my top and then tugs the dress down. I go still as he works it down my chest and over my hips until I’m left in nothing more than my thong and bra.
“You liked wearing it, though, didn’t you?” Uncle Morpheus asks, that same tension in his voice as he speaks. “Pretty girls like it when the boys look, don’t you, Juliet?”
I shake my head. “N-no one was…” My tongue thickens and sticks to the roof of my mouth, choking off my words as Uncle Morpheus returns to me. Instead of offering me a shirt or something to sleep in, he reaches behind me and before I realize what’s happening my bra loosens and drops away.
I cover myself. “U-uncle Morpheus?”
What is he doing? Why…
“God, I’ve always wanted to see these perfect tits of yours.” His words don’t match the man in front of me. They can’t. My uncle would never…
His hands grip my wrists and pull them away from my chest. The air in all these hotel rooms is set at a balmy sixty-nine degrees, and the second my nipples are visible, they pucker into hard little points. I press my legs together as my breath rushes in—faster and faster.
What’s happening? What is he doing? Why is he doing this?
Uncle Morpheus groans and reaches for one of my breasts. Cupping it in his hand and squeezing, he comes down on top of me, pressing my back into the headboard at first and then gripping my hips and yanking me to the bed. I’m underneath him and his body is on top of mine. It’s everywhere, heavy and too warm, and shock fills my bones with lead.
My breath chokes from me, fleeing and escaping in a way I can’t. What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I move? Why can’t I… I stare up at the face of the man that I’ve known since I was a child. Uncle Morpheus. Dad’s best friend and business partner. Morpheus Calloway. Philanthropist. Accounting genius. Kind friend. Uncle.
He doesn’t look like any of those things now.
Dimly, I can feel my legs being pushed apart. Uncle Morpheus groans. Cool air washes over my naked skin. My lips part, but nothing comes out. Not a sound. Not a whimper. Not a scream.
No. I mentally push the word towards my mouth, trying to force it out. It never comes. No. No. No!
Cold air over my breasts. Down my thighs. My dress is gone. All of my clothes are gone.
Tears prick at the back of my eyes, and Uncle Morpheus’ face comes into view again. I hadn’t even realized that he’d moved farther down. “Oh, no, don’t cry, Pretty Girl,” he murmurs, swiping a thumb along my cheek. To my utter horror, he presses the teardrop into his mouth and sucks it clean. “I’ll let you feel good too. You’ve been such a tease wearing your pretty dresses, but now you’re going to give me what I’ve been wanting, aren’t you? Yes, you are.”
I’m going to throw up. I can feel the need, the heavy weight of sickness rolling through me. Somehow, though, my body refuses to give me even that much power. I have no control of myself—not my limbs, not my words, not even my insides.
Morpheus presses a light kiss to the corner of my slack mouth. I’m awake and aware, but… I can’t move, only stare up at him and listen to the sounds of his belt buckle jingling as he unfastens it.
This isn’t real.
No, of course not. Uncle Morpheus loves me. He’s family. He would never do this.
This is just a bad dream.
“Fuck, even your cunt is pretty.” I ignore those words and focus on the ones in my head, repeating them over and over again.
This isn’t real.
It’s not real when he parts my thighs wider. It’s not real when something hard and hot pushes against my core. It’s not real when the hard pinch of pain slices through me.
I lie back and drift. I can’t do anything else. My body won’t move, so this can’t be real because I would never let this happen. I would never do this.
I close my eyes and try to tune out the sounds of his grunts and the slaps of flesh on flesh. Male groans fill my ears and I flinch.
No. That’s just part of the nightmare.
“My pretty girl,” Morpheus says. “My pretty, pretty girl…”
Fingers pinch my nipples, grip my hips, the slapping grows louder and I sink deeper into my mind.
“Oh fuck, oh God. Fuck… Juliet… Juliet… Juliet…”
Each time he says my name I repeat my truth—it’s not real. Not real. Not real. Not real.
The pressure inside me withdraws and a moment later, something hot and liquid splashes across my lower belly.
Nightmares are ugly things. I hope I never have another one.