Letter Fourteen #4
While I clutched my side and rode the wave of pain slicing through my body, I learned something important about myself: I didn’t like this type of pain. Pain wasn’t a release unless I had full control. And I had zero control here.
One of them yanked on those stupid braids, pulled me across the floor, and flipped me onto my back.
Greer.
He straddled me as I kicked and fought, and then I couldn’t kick anymore, because he’d pinned my thighs under the weight of his body.
I tried to sit up.
He shoved me back down.
I tried again. He shoved me down harder, catching my flailing arms and forcing them to my chest, crossing one arm over the other.
And this felt worse somehow. So much worse than losing control or being kicked. This was a churning deep in my gut and whole-body shivering. A tightness in my chest and real fear. Trapped. I was trapped. Couldn’t get free. Needed out. Couldn’t breathe. LetmefreeLetmefreeLetmefree.
I didn’t realize I’d said it out loud until Greer leaned close to my face, breath reeking of beer. “What’s that?”
“Get off me!” I thrashed beneath him, struggling to loosen my arms, but he only pressed them harder against my chest. The floor vibrated with the bass of some high-tempo rap song, one that sounded vaguely familiar, shaking my whole body.
Or maybe it was me—shivering uncontrollably—I couldn’t tell. “Get off me!”
“Sure,” Greer said. “Right after you apologize.”
“Get the fuck off me!” I yelled—that deep, dark rage bubbling up, boiling over, and seeping out. I needed him off me. Needed free. Needed to breathe. Why couldn’t I breathe?
“No way,” Greer said. “Are you crying? She’s crying, Rory.
Look at this—real tears.” He pressed a fingertip to the corner of my eye and laughed at me.
They both did. “This isn’t like you, Bancroft.
You’re tough. You’re bad. You took that hit to the face like a champ. You should be able to take this.”
But I couldn’t take it. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t take it, just that it felt like drowning.
Like clawing to reach the surface and flailing.
Like a foot on my chest, pressing me down.
Like panic.
Greer lifted my arms and pinned them above my head, and in some strange way, this felt better. Finally, I could expand my lungs enough to breathe.
I took slow, measured breaths in an effort to calm myself. But the tears kept coming.
Hot tears.
Hot and humiliating and pathetic.
“Here, Rory. Take her arms.”
Rory pinned my wrists to the floor, high above my head, while Greer lifted up, pale eyes sliding down my body in a way that sparked a different kind of churning in my stomach. A different kind of fear.
“Apologize,” he said.
“No.”
Greer pressed his lips together. Grabbed the Wednesday collar. Ripped it off my neck.
“Apologize,” he ordered, tossing it to the side.
“No.”
His eyes flicked to Rory, then back to me. He reached for his belt. “No?”
“I won’t”—I shook my head—“I won’t apologize.” But the words had come out shaky and weak, and they weren’t true. I could feel it in every squirming cell of my body. If he attempted to do that, I would say whatever the hell he wanted. I would beg for his forgiveness. I would break.
The night we met, Casey, I told you: “I’m not scared of anything.
” And you were right—I didn’t know that feeling yet.
I’d been safely tucked away inside that great big house of mine, where the only danger I ever faced was the danger I posed to myself.
But those boys? They could hurt me in ways that would hurt me for life.
A sentence far worse than being trapped in a gilded cage.
I needed to get him off me. Needed his beer breath out of my face. Needed Rory’s sweaty hands off my wrists. They were too close, the room too hot, the rage building. I swallowed back the bile rising up my throat. “My dad has a guy who takes care of problems like you.”
Greer laughed. “Your dad doesn’t have a guy.”
“He’s right outside, waiting in the car. He’s huge.”
Rory’s hands shifted on my wrists. “I’ve seen that guy—the driver? Who drops her at school sometimes? He is huge.”
Greer lifted his head. “Chill, Rory. She’s full of shit.”
“When I leave tonight, I’m telling my dad everything. He’ll send that guy after you, and you’ll regret ever touching me.”
But the horrible thing was—and I only realized it after the words had left my mouth—I couldn’t tell my dad. Not about anything I endured in Willoughby’s guest room. Telling my dad would get us both into trouble. Especially you.
“You’re not leaving this room,” Greer said, “until you apologize for getting me kicked off the tennis team. And while you’re at it, apologize for being such a cocktease and a bitch.”
“A cocktease? I never did anything to lead you on.”
Greer lowered his face to mine. “Of course you did. All the crazy talk? The bad-girl act? The playing hard to get? A girl doesn’t tell a guy he can’t handle her unless she wants to be handled.”
I made a face. “Why would I ever want to be with you? You’re creepy and weird, and I made it pretty clear when I hit you with all those tennis balls: I want to be left alone. You never stood a chance with me, you disgusting piece of shit.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Greer’s gaze went dark as he released a low, guttural sound—half laugh, half growl.
He lifted one hand off the ground and reached between us for his belt again.
My stomach plummeted at the sound of his zipper coming down.
“You’re about to wish you’d never said that to me. ”
“I’m sorry.” A choked whisper. A plea. To this day, Casey, that little slip disgusts me—how he got me to yield. How he broke through my armor to the scared little girl beneath. How he broke me.
“Too late,” he bit out.
I wriggled and squirmed, Rory’s grip on my wrists tightening. Desperate, I lifted my head off the floor and spat in Greer’s face.
Jaw clenched, Greer pressed his hand to my throat. Not tight enough to choke me. Just tight enough to make me panic.
“Stop it,” Rory said after a few seconds of watching me struggle. He released my hands. “Stop it, Greer. This is too fucking far, man!”
But Greer didn’t stop. Rory’s command only prompted him to apply more pressure. Growing more frantic by the second, I clawed at Greer—tried prying his hand loose, tried pushing him back—but he was dead weight. He was cold and unyielding. He was stone.
This was the price for fueling that dark fire within him, and his rage was a different monster entirely, a flame that burned so much brighter than mine. I writhed and kicked. I dug my heels into the floor. I fought.
Real panic was someone squeezing the life out of you. That other stuff? Nothing compared to this.
I wasn’t tough or bad or any of the things I believed myself to be. I was fragile and weak, and this was the end. A little more pressure—that’s all it would take to extinguish the dark, raging flame within me.
And then…
He was doing it, Casey.
He was snuffing me out.
My lungs burned, every gasp scraping like sandpaper against my throat.
All these golden-hued moments flashed before my eyes, and do you want to know what I saw?
I saw my dad, eating ice cream with me on my birthday, the genuine look on his face when he said, “I’m so glad you’re mine.
” I saw Tinsley, dancing and laughing with me in my room.
I saw Bree, brushing back the flyaway hairs that came loose from my braid.
I saw Michael, his beautiful smile, the bright intensity of his gaze every time I stroked that scar on his lip—you’re still here.
And I saw you, staring at me over that cigarette the night we met. The warmth of your smile when you greeted me after school. Your hair, ruffling in the breeze that day on the beach when you gave me the ring. Your eyes, steady on mine and extra blue.
What a shame it was that my life should end like this. That I’d never get to tell you my world was brighter for having you in it. That I’d never get to see how it all turned out when you finally told John you’re his son.
What a shame it was that I should die at eighteen, never knowing what it was like be free, at the hand of some asshole like Greer, all because of my damn mouth. That was the problem with me—I didn’t know when to pull back.
Somewhere in the haze, I heard Rory. Yelling. Frantic. Far away. “I’m opening this door right now, Greer! And everyone out there will see! They’ll see what you’re doing to her! Don’t make me do this, man!”
As my vision blurred at the edges and little pinpricks of light burst before my eyes, Greer removed his hand. I gasped, throat burning as I greedily sucked air back into my lungs.
Greer wiped my spit off his face as he stepped over me. Through the ringing in my ears, I could barely make out his words as he kicked the Wednesday collar out of his walking path. Pretty sure he said, “Stupid bitch.”
When he and Rory left, I sat up slowly, clutching my throat and coughing, then crawled across the floor. It felt like dragging myself through sand, limbs trembling and too heavy, but I needed to lock the door behind them.
Somehow, I managed it. Then dropped to the floor, chest heaving as I struggled to catch my breath. I stared at Tinsley, still unconscious on the bed.
My phone. I crawled again, frantically searching around the bed. Within seconds, I located it underneath the nightstand.
11:25. Thirty-five minutes to get home.
But there was Tinsley, who I’d never get downstairs by myself. Leaving her behind wasn’t an option.
I considered Hal, but he’d read into the situation.
Maybe even tell my dad, feeling he didn’t have a choice.
And you—I really didn’t want to involve you, remembering how anxious you’d been about the party in the first place.
So I called Michael, hands shaking so violently I could barely hold onto the phone.
When he didn’t answer, I let out a sob, then shot him a text: I’m in trouble. I need your help.