Chapter 6 #2
I spot Brandon at the end of a long row of shelves, holding a hardbound book. His expression is serious. What is he reading? I doubt he knows Greek or Latin. Those aren’t exactly at the top of the list of subjects to include in a public-school curriculum, especially not at a school like Marshall.
He places the book on a library cart as I approach, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“I wasn’t sure you were coming,” he says, unlocking one of the study rooms with his student ID.
You have to reserve them in advance, and I guess he was lucky enough to find one available this morning.
He’s wearing all black—a plain t-shirt, worn-looking canvas pants and work boots.
I wonder if the all-black clothing is a deliberate choice to intimidate me.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say scanning the room.
There’s a square table and four chairs. There’s nothing else in the room except a small built-in bookshelf. It’s very quiet—probably soundproofed—and fairly private. There’s a decent-sized glass window in the door, but no one can overhear what you’re saying. His backpack is lying on the table.
He plops down in one of the chairs and motions for me to sit at right angles to him.
“You good?” he asks, as if he gives a shit how I’m doing.
“I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth. “Now what do you want?”
“What do you think I want?”
Fuck him for making me say it out loud.
“You want to fuck me.” I use ugly language on purpose, even as I cringe inside at how crude I sound. There are a lot of nicer ways I could say it, but I’m going for honest, not nice.
“Do I?”
“Are we back to playing this game? Saturday you said you didn’t want me and that same night you…” Now my courage fails me. I can’t bear to say it out loud.
“We,” he says, the evenness of his voice only pissing me off more. “Both of us were there. Both of us wanted it.”
“I don’t—. I just went along with it. That’s not the same as me wanting it.”
He shakes his head looking as if he’s disappointed in me.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.
Bingo! Now we’re getting somewhere. He motions for me to scoot closer and I do, hiding my glee behind a stormy frown.
I’m kind of amazed at how the plan is coming together.
Usually it’s never this easy. All I have to do now is snatch the phone.
I already know he’s going to play the video—what else could he be doing?
That means I can delete it in just a couple of clicks without having to search for it.
He’s taller and stronger than me, but I bet he’ll be so distracted looking at the video I can probably get the drop on him and make it to the bathroom before he can get it back.
Snatch the phone, toss my chair down, out the door and straight line to the unisex bathroom with a bolt lock.
Brandon positions the phone so we can both see it. On the screen I’m lying on my back topless and he’s next to me on his side facing the camera. I think it’s a still until he touches the screen, and it starts playing.
In the video, his hand lightly caresses my bare tummy.
“How are you feeling, baby?” he asks.
My response is too low to hear, but I can see him smile at whatever I’ve said.
“You like when I touch you?”
“Yeah.” My voice is clear this time. Why am I acting that way. I want to look away, but it’s like I can’t.
In the video he’s touching my breasts and I’m letting him.
Worse, I hear myself asking him to touch me more intimately, to use his mouth on me.
His eyes are glued to the small screen, his breathing faster than it should be.
This is mortifying, but I force myself to act.
I grab the phone and dart for the door, pushing my chair over as I go.
The plan goes off without a hitch. He’s fast, but so am I and by the time he gets to the bathroom I’ve already locked it.
The video is still playing my moans and pleas echoing in the small space.
It’s not loud enough anyone heard it as I went by, or at least I’m pretty sure of that, but in here the sound bounces off all the smooth surfaces so that it’s all I can hear.
I look down. In the video, my face is scrunched up, and I could convince myself I was uncomfortable, if I wanted to be dishonest with myself, by the way my teeth worry my bottom lip as the sound of a slap echoes through the small room.
He hit me. I remember the sting of the blow, the searing pain when his hand landed directly on my most sensitive place, but I liked it. I wanted more.
A wave of embarrassment passes through me. What is wrong with me? How can I like something like that. It’s…perverted, weird. And what is wrong with him that he wants to do that kind of thing to me? Is he one of those guys that hates women? Is he sick in the head?
Before the video can replay any more of my humiliation, I delete it. I scroll through the handful of still pictures of me and delete those too. There’s even one of me working out in the home gym, one he must have snuck a couple of weeks ago without me noticing. Obsessed much?
Satisfied that I’ve dealt with the problem, I open the door to find him standing across from it, his arms crossed.
His expression is angry, his eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.
He’s moving before I can say anything, leaping for the door like a linebacker determined to crush the opposition.
I jump back instinctively and then he’s through the door and locking it again.
He rounds on me, and I take another step back before stopping myself. What the hell am I doing? I’m not scared of this asshole, am I?
“Let me out of here,” I say, my voice steady.
“You want out?” he asks, cocking his head. “You were in such a hurry to get in here? What’s the rush?”