Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
This man and his poker face.
“I was nineteen, a late starter already. I was mouthy and bolshy, but I think I came out of the womb like that. I was obviously much less sophisticated than I let on.”
Sounds like me now.
“I told him I wasn’t ready. That I didn’t want to rush into things. He wasn’t happy, but he didn’t do anything, until… one night, we’d been partying pretty hard. I crashed, and when I woke up, I didn’t know where I was.” I shiver, suddenly feeling cold as I try to detach myself from the memory I never examine.
“I felt sick, disorientated, and out of it. It wasn’t like a normal come down, and I wasn’t sure what was happening. And then…” I inhale sharply. Force it out in a long breath. “I realized he was on top of me.”
Sweat. Sticky skin. A sharp pinch. His horrible grin.
I screw my eyes as I press my forehead to my knees. My chest seems to calcify, the only movement in it my heart, hammering away. “I pushed at him, but it was already too late. Too late, and I was too stupid.”
“No.” His fingers slide between mine and grip. “It’s not your fault.”
“But it is.” I bite the inside of my trembling lip. “I tried to get him to stop, but he wouldn’t. He said he’d waited long enough. I felt so out of it. He said I was making excuses, that I was supposed to be his girlfriend. So I just stopped. Stopped trying to stop him. I just lay there. But I didn’t leave my body, like some people say.” Because I felt every hard, hideous minute of it. “And afterward, I smiled when he told me how good it had been. How good I’d been. That’s fucked up, right?”
“It’s not your fault. None of this was your fault.”
“He was my boyfriend.” Another swallow. “I decided that meant something—that it had to mean something, or else what was it?”
Probably a word I wasn’t ready to face.
“I thought I needed to hang onto him after I’d given—”
“No.” One low, adamant word. “Fuck that, he took what you weren’t ready to give.”
“I know.” I nod. Hindsight. Time. Maturity. They all brought a new perspective. I couldn’t be sure, but maybe I was drugged? “But then, I followed him around, like a loser, like that was what I was supposed to do. I don’t know, maybe I thought I could somehow get back a little of what he’d taken. But I let him do it again. I was his girlfriend, right?” I glance up, the motion making tears spill. “It’s not like I was attacked in some seedy back alley.”
Raif says something low and in Spanish, or Llanito, and his thumb brushes away the tears. His heart seems to pour from his eyes, and when he takes my hand again, I crawl into his arms.
“But I didn’t tell anyone. I kept it all inside. Even when I found out he’d been fucking another girl. She was supposed to be my friend. He put his hands on me and shook me like a dog, said I was frigid. A crap fuck.”
Raif’s arms tighten on me as though to say, that’s enough of that.
“I got drunk and went to his flat, off my face. I banged against the door, hammered on the window. Yelled obscenities up at his flat and screamed and screamed. I was so angry. So hurt. And there was a brick loose in the wall, and in a fit of rage, I threw it through his window. The neighbors called the police, and I was arrested.” Taken away in a police car in handcuffs. I didn’t feel like a woman scorned. More like a kid who needed her mum.
Raif presses a kiss to my head. “What happened then?”
“I called Whit.” I was ashamed. “He went to see Julian, then later I found out he’d paid him off.”
His arms tighten—just a tiny bit—as though he wants to squeeze me but worries I might be too fragile to take it.
“It wasn’t Whit’s fault,” I say, looking up at him. “He didn’t know. He was just trying to make sure I didn’t get a police record.”
“He didn’t ask why you’d done it?”
“Of course he did. I told him my boyfriend shagged my mate. The police told him I was under the influence and, well, I guess he just thought that was me all over. I was a stroppy bitch.”
“I’m sure most nineteen-year-olds are difficult.”
“I’ve been difficult my whole life,” I whisper. “It was just another inexplicable day in Lavender’s life, as far as Whit was concerned. You have to understand, I’ve always been that problematic middle child. Sullen and angry. He only took me at my word. Then after, when things started to unravel and fall apart, it all just played into the same narrative. Which suited me because I was so ashamed.”