CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TRINA
I trip and fall out into the hallway and start screaming. “Help! Help!”
No one is around, but I keep running and don’t bother looking around. I just run and run and run. While my heart pounds a million miles an hour and utter fear drives me forward.
Is Roger crazy enough to chase me knowing there are cameras everywhere and his broken dick is hanging out?
I can’t think about that.
I just run.
When I reach the elevators I slam my hand on the button and snap my head around, quickly trying to decide whether I take the stairs—a huge risk—or bang on some hotel room doors.
That’s when I see him. Roger is standing at his door holding a hand over his cock.
“You piece of shit!” I scream and punch the button repeatedly while trying to untie my hands.
I’m trembling so hard.
“Tell Marshall he can have the damaged goods back,” he yells.
What?
“You would’ve been a dry fuck anyway.” He slams the door.
The elevator doors ping open, and I run inside and punch the button to go down to the lobby while his words roll around in my head.
I was right. They know one another.
Why did they both pretend not to?
Shaking, I try again to get my hands free, but it doesn’t work. I don’t even know if I am drunk anymore when the doors open once more and I stare out at the busy lobby. People are happily going about their Friday night while I’ve just had the most traumatic experience of my life.
That’s when I start feeling the pain and bruising as the adrenaline begins to wear off. A tear slides down my face and robotically I walk across the lobby and out into the dark night.
“Are you all right ma’am?” Someone asks and I nod but keep walking as more tears pour down my face. As I head down the street, traffic rushes past me and I stumble.
“Hey,” a woman who looks like a waitress heading home says, pulling her handbag close to her.
Jesus. I’m not some dangerous homeless person. I’m wearing a Prada dress. Compliments of Savannah once more, but still.
I realize I must look a mess.
Drunk. Probably like I’m on drugs.
I feel completely out of it.
“Sorry,” I mutter and keep walking, then suddenly nausea rises up and I run into the bushes. I power vomit what feels like gallons of fluids as I fall to my knees.
Did Roger put something in that tea?
Spinning for what feels like hours, I kneel on the grass heaving and spitting, wiping my mouth on my arms.
Then at some point, I collapse onto my ass and just stare at nothing.
The traffic lights change, and I barely acknowledge them.
The night sky is barely visible with all the lights of Los Angeles.
Car horns blare.
Loud music and tires screech past, while I just sit there.
Call Marshall.
I blink as the thought enters my mind along with the information that I need to get myself safe. What if Roger gets dressed and comes looking for me?
That gets my heart racing and body moving.
I dig into my pocket awkwardly, my hands still tied, and finally pull my phone out. Then finding Marshall’s name, I press dial.
The phone rings and I almost cry, waiting for him to answer. Until he doesn’t. Nor a second time.
Or a third.
Oh god.
He isn’t coming to save me.
The reality of how badly I’ve fucked up my life comes crashing down. Marshall is done with me. I’ve lost him.
I was raped, and I’m sitting on the grass in some unknown Los Angeles street with no panties, hands bound, vulnerable, and alone.
I should call Briar or Alice, but I don’t want them to see me like this or for any of the guys to know what happened. And they would.
For a moment I consider calling my mother, but the truth is she’s probably drunk or comatose by now.
I climb to my knees and pull myself together. When I get home I can fall to pieces. Right now, I’m not safe. I quickly order an Uber.
Then I glance down at my tied hands and wonder how I’m going to explain this. I know I should call the police, but I just want to go home where I feel safe.
That’s when I spot the rock.
On my knees, I move over to it and lower my hands, scraping it against the fabric until it begins to rip. Over and over, it begins to loosen until the restraint falls to the ground.
I stop, just before kicking it away, and roll it up and put it in my pocket. That fucker is not getting away with this.
I will not let him break me.
I won’t let any of them fucking break me. Anger replaces the feeling of being victimized and I tell myself I was right not opening up to Marshall.
Fuck him.
Fuck him for not answering the phone.
When the Uber arrives, I curl up in the backseat and let the tears flow some more.
––––––––
THE NEXT MORNING, I make the decision to ring Briar. She is my best friend, and I can’t go through this alone.
“Good morning, sunshine. How’s your head?” she asks.
“Roger raped me last night. I need you to come with me to get a rape test done,” I say, then break down into loud sobs.
There’s a moment of silence, then Briar replies, “Fuck. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Fifteen tops.”