28. LINC
TWENTY-EIGHT
LINC
Sitting on the floor, I watch through the small TV screen. My best friend . . . my girlfriend. Naked. Her big blue eyes are full of tears, her arms chained to a pole, wrists bleeding.
“Please, no. No, no, no,” she cries.
The fucker on top of her pushes her face into the cushions, leaning down so his mouth hovers over her ear.
Did he say something to her?
The angle makes it to where I can’t see his face. Just dark hair. Grabbing. Driving into her from behind.
The camera angle shifts closer. A moment later, the guy grabs her hair and twists her face away from the back of the couch, toward the camera.
The crystal pools in her eyes are haunting—even more blue when they’re heavy and red from tears.
He’s fucking raping her. Filming it.
The sight is decimating me with every thrust, and I slam my eyes shut.
I can’t help her. I can’t fucking help her.
Why? Why is this happening?
Why am I watching this?
The constant chill to the room I’m in somehow gets colder, but the sudden sound of a smack pulls my attention back up to the screen, and Paige jerks, her bare ass clenching as it quickly turns a little pink. “That’s it. Take it, you filthy fucking tease.”
The sound of the voice drops my heart. My eyes freeze, blur, then focus.
The guy. The guy holding Paige down. That piece of shit, scum of the earth on the screen is . . . me.
It’s fucking me.
My chest shakes, and a roar erupts from my throat as I wobble to stand, hooking my hands behind the TV. I shove it over, watching it crash to the ground and shatter.
He was right.
My eyes shoot open and I gasp for air. The smallest movement tells me I’m lying in a pool of sweat and I roll over, cringing at the damp feeling surrounding me as I check the time . . . 7:08 a.m.
I finally catch my breath, then groan. Goddammit. An hour of sleep.
Just enough time for my subconscious to torture me with another memory I wish I could forget.
Adding to the collection would be last night —what I said . . .
My palm smacks my face, dragging it down and wiping away the sweat before I pull my tank top up and over my head. Yanking it off, I ball it up and toss it to the floor, releasing a heavy exhale.
Truth or not, there’s a little thing called tact—something that was completely absent when I reminded her of what happened.
She looked horrified —retchedly shocked. And it’s so fucking confusing that all I can do is chalk it up to a trauma response. I know the mind is capable of blocking out all sorts of things.
My heart quickens, and I blink up at the ceiling, taking another deep inhale.
I’m kind of surprised she came back with us. With me.
She also didn’t say another word.
Ellis tried with a couple of small-talk questions when we got back in the car, but gave up and just put on some music when he realized she wasn’t going to say anything.
Her gaze caught mine a few times through the mirror, but she looked so painfully stuck in her mind that all I could do was mentally beat the shit out of my own brain.
When we got home, she immediately locked herself in the extra room, and I spent two hours bare-knuckling the boxing bag in the garage before taking a cold shower and memorizing the exact layout of my bedroom ceiling.
Shoving myself out of bed, I shuffle to the bathroom, take a piss then open my bedroom door. I cleaned up my hands last night, but I should go make sure there’s no blood on the bag.
As my hallway opens up to the living room and I start toward the garage, the extra bedroom door down the hallway—the one that’s usually open—is closed.
She’s right behind that door.
My bare feet take timid steps toward the bedroom, letting my toes drag through the pathways of the grooves in the floor.
Part of me wonders if I’m secretly hoping the floor stops me from continuing. Maybe I’ll hit a knot in the wood and stub my toe.
Turn around.
But I don’t , of course.
Bad ideas.
The door is suddenly right in front of me, and I stare down at the knob. A worn brass device that will open with a simple twist, unveiling my singular paradise.
If I could just watch her sleep . . .
The wavy mess of silvery blue hair sprawled over the pillows, her face peaceful with softly parted lips as she breathes.
In my mind, my eyes travel, curious . . .
Her beautiful body tucked and nestled.
A sharp inhale comes with a thought that plows through my imaginings. “I sleep naked most of the time.”
She’d said that once. I remember . . .
Holy fuck.
I turn away from the door, preparing to run from the memory like the coward I am, but suddenly every bit of anything I’m feeling pools and circulates to my groin, and I grab the wall, grunting.
Jesus, fuck. I’m sick.
After what I did —what I said to her last night— and now I’m getting a raging hard-on outside her door.
Suddenly, I hear a throat clear, and my eyes shoot up, seeing Ellis standing there, yawning through my painfully fast and aggressive erection. I work to straighten myself up.
Try not to bring attention to it.
A small bit of relief finds me when I see his eyes drift just behind me, but it disappears when I realize his gaze is lingering on the door.
There’s a longing there too, but it’s stifled by something I can’t quite place. Another beat passes before he says, “So, what are you gonna do about that?” his eyes pointing toward the door.
There’s a challenge lit in his gaze, but it’s not exactly playful. Just like with most things, Ellis is steady until he’s not. And right now, I’m gathering from his expression that there’s an answer that will keep him steady, and an answer that will tip the scale. And right now, that realization is only jacking up my discomfort.
My eyes squint and my weight shifts, studying him. But really—how can he be so . . . calm about this?
Given the fact that Paige was typically a “no fly zone” as far as conversation was concerned, and the fact that I was gone for the couple of years they seemed to lose touch means I’m not exactly sure how he feels about seeing her again.
But . . . he’s the one that offered to let her stay here.
And he knows what I did to her.
I don’t even remember telling him. It was the night I . . . kissed him. He said . . . something, and I blacked out.
But he told me the next morning. And I’ll never forget the haunted look in his eyes . . .
I cringe at just the thought of the fuzzy memory as Ellis crosses his arms over his chest, awaiting my response.
I take a deep breath and my hand digs through the pocket of my sweatpants, searching, but I don’t have any change. “I—” I start but then stop.
Slow.
I take another breath, but my jaw tightens, my throat narrows.
Ellis knows what I did to her, but he doesn’t believe it. Just like her. That much is clear from her reaction last night.
They just don’t want to believe it.
And I don’t either—but you can’t deny what you’ve seen in plain sight.
I wonder if she’s seen it . . .
The thought strangles the air in my throat, and Ellis dips his chin, reminding me that he’s standing right in front of me—that he asked me a question.
“Sh-She doesn’t remember,” I say quietly, jaggedly. I feel lightheaded, but my hand is still on the wall, helping me stay upright.
“Linc,” Ellis says through a sigh. It has the tone of . . . disappointment? Frustration? I can’t be sure. He rustles his hair on the back of his head, looking like he wants to say something, but then releases a heavy exhale. “Just promise me you’ll actually talk to her. Take a few days, get your thoughts together, let the initial shock settle, and then talk to her.”
I gnaw on my lip. Ellis has been dealing with my shit for years, and I know he’s delicately side-stepping what I told him in that blackout. Not ignoring it exactly, but he doesn’t acknowledge it.
And I can tell he’s being . . . cautious with his wording. He doesn’t coddle me in any areas of my slow, painful attempt at recovery, and I genuinely appreciate it. But this is the only thing I’ve noticed he will tiptoe around.
Probably because you blacked out and scared the shit out of him last time he brought it up.
And I imagine it’s because he tries to avoid the reminder that his best friend is a monster. When he doesn’t think about it—without her around—it’s probably easy enough to just hold onto the person I used to be—deny the truth of what happened.
His mind probably won’t let him accept it, and he’s looking at Paige’s return like some beacon—something to shed light on an event I wish I could physically capture and bury at the bottom of the fucking ocean.
But unfortunately, no matter how lightly you tread around the truth, no matter how much you try to keep your eyes off the reality, there’s no denying it.
It will surface and then they’ll see.
I am a monster.