Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I go rigid. My arms stiffen, and for a second I forget what to do, how to get out, how to move.
“Relax, Mary,” he says, his breath warm in my ear. “You’re safe.”
I hear the party thumping on the other side of the wall. I think about Kent, about how he’d smash through the door and murder this guy, about how he’d call me an idiot for letting it get this far. The thought gives me a jolt of adrenaline.
I shove, as hard as I can, aiming for his chest. My hand lands right in the center of his sternum, but he doesn’t budge — just laughs and catches my wrist again, twisting it so my arm bends behind my back.
“Don’t be like that,” he whispers, and his breath is in my hair now. “There’s no need to fight, although it does turn me on.”
My free hand claws at his shoulder, trying to peel him off, but he’s stronger, heavier, locked in. I feel the wall at my back, the doorknob digging into my hip, and for a second I think I can pivot, wriggle free. I try, but he just spins me, his body pinning mine, his hand sliding down my waist to the curve of my ass.
The fear is electric now, shorting out all the logic in my head. “Let go,” I spit, and the words come out ragged.
He grins, presses his body against mine, and whispers, “I just want you to have a good time. What kind of host would I be if you don’t enjoy yourself?”
His hand slides under the hem of my skirt, his palm hot on my thigh. He leans in to kiss me again, tongue pushing past my lips, and I taste blood — my own, from where I bit down earlier. I jerk my head to the side, hit his chin with my cheekbone, and he hisses, more annoyed than hurt.
There’s a pounding sound outside — footsteps, maybe, or just the subwoofer maxing out. In that instant, he lets up, just a fraction, but it’s enough.
I twist, digging my heel into the top of his foot, and pull free. I stumble backward, crash into the edge of the dresser, the bottles rattling. My hand scrabbles for the doorknob.
He grabs at my arm again, but I swing my purse at his face, connect with a thud. He lets go, surprised, and I throw myself at the door, wrench it open.
The hallway is a flood of light and bodies, the noise from the party slamming back in like a tidal wave. I run, boots pounding the floor, but to my horror, Clay gives chase. I’m running one moment, and then the next, he’s tackled me and I’m knocked to the floor.
“Oof!” I shriek. “Ouch!”
The hulking boy drags me to my feet before grabbing my wrist and hauling me down the hall once more, back to his bedroom.
“I told you I have a really cool aquarium,” he pants, red-faced and angry. “Why don’t you want to see it?”
“No, no! I don’t care about fish! I don’t care about hermit crabs! Let me go!” I squeal. But my protests only cause Clay to pull harder, forcing me back into his bedroom. His movements are so abrupt that I literally bump my head against the door as he tries to push me inside, making me see stars. I wobble on my feet, knees shaky, and then suddenly, everything goes black.
14
THE RESCUE
KENT
Ipark half a block away, engine off, the Mercedes idling on residual heat as if the car’s nervous, too. I can see the Sigma Epsilon Chi house from here—a three-story Victorian, every inch of it warping under the weight of its own bad choices. There’s a crowd on the lawn, the familiar vector of kids queued up like sheep at slaughter, IDs in hand, some too drunk to stand straight. The porch sags under the weight of the party, a single light over the door flickering between yellow and straight-up funereal. I see Mary Kate’s blonde head, bouncing in the half-dark, her white tee almost radioactive, skirt the color of a cherry popsicle, legs impossibly long above the boots. She’s with another girl I don’t know, and she’s laughing, her breath leaving ghosts in the cold. I watch her disappear into the house, the front door swallowing her whole.
I have no business being here. I’m a forty-five-year-old man, a doctor with a career, a house, a life. But I’m also a failure, because it’s been an hour since my stepdaughter left the mansion and I’ve spent twenty minutes of that hour sitting in my own driveway, hand locked on the wheel of my car, telling myself to be a fucking adult and let her go. I lost that argument. Now here I am, staked out like a PI, waiting for some idiot frat boy to make a mistake with my girl. Self-disgust rolls through me, a churn of shame and arousal and the sour terror of a man who knows exactly what can happen at a party like this. I grip the wheel until my knuckles flash bone-white. It feels appropriate.