Page 94 of After Hours

“Where the fuck are you going?” He shouted and leapt to his feet. I could definitely see where this was now headed, and I hated it.

“I’m going to bed. I can’t have sex right now. I’m sick.”

The anger was evident all over his face, and before I knew it, I was pushed down to my knees, and he had unbuckled his belt. The tears in my eyes just flowed without any warning. I was tired of living like this—I needed a way out, but I couldn’t get one because everyone loved him, and his dad is the governor.

Everything went to a blur, and all I could recall were the names he called me.

“Your mouth is definitely better like this.”

“My ex’s did a better job.”

“For someone with the body of a whore, you definitely don’t know how to use it well.”

And. That. Fucking. Hurt. To. Hear.

He ejaculated, got dressed, and left me on the ground. I was a cold, sad, teary-eyed shell of a person, and I hated it. It had to stop here, and that’s when I reached out to Abigail.

Nothing hurts worse than being sexually harassed and left by your boyfriend. One who’s supposed to love you, give you care, and make life a little bit better. But instead, all Matthew gave me was trauma, fear, disassociation, and emotional scars that would never heal. He was not like my dad. He was my dad, and that’s the realization I needed to get the fuck out of there.

My body shuddered at that flashback, and I was almost sure my skin was pale. I got a Google alert about Dillon, which snapped me out of my thoughts.

It wasn’t anything terrifying, so to speak, but it gave me the biggest realization.

I needed to tell him about Matthew, and I needed to do it before Matthew showed up. It wouldn’t be long before he did. It wasn’t his style. Matthew was truly never himself if he didn’t come on and wreak havoc in my life. All those years weren’t enough for him; he had to permanently damage me so I’d be good for nothing else but death.

My fear wasn’t even finding the words to tell him. My fear was his reactions.

I couldn’t hold back anymore, and I ran to the bathroom, throwing up the contents of all the food I’ve eaten for the past two weeks.

After washing up, I ran back to my desk and went over everything I needed to do today. I had to see Doctor Green, and I needed to talk to Dillon. If not now, before it’s too late. The only thing that hurt worse than the thought of losing him was the thought of him leaving me.

“Precious,” he said, peeking his head through the door, “come here.”

I somehow found the strength in my legs to get up and go to him. I’m hoping that today’s one of the days where he doesn’t notice anything about me. Where he’ll overlook the fact that I’m actively shaking and my skin is as pale as it’s ever been, but knowing my devilish lover— he won’t.

“What’s wrong?” He asked after looking at me, but I looked everywhere except in his eyes.

“Nothing,” I plainly said, looking down at my feet.

“Who do I need to kill, Azzaria? Who hurt you baby?” If it were anyone else who asked that question, I would’ve cringed, but I knew he was serious.

He would kill for me. And that made me even more so terrified about telling him.

“Dillon,” I said and released a breath, “you don’t need to hurt anyone, baby. I’m okay. I’m just sick.”

“I’ve seen you sick, but right now, you look terrified. You look like you want to be obliterated or you wouldn’t mind if the earth swallowed you whole. So, I’ll ask you one more time, what’s wrong?”

“I feel awful. My body hurts. I just want to rest. I’ll be okay.” In reality, I was trying to convince myself more than I was trying to convince him.

He took small but greatly impacted steps towards me and looked me straight in the eyes. I’ve always noticed his eyes, but I’ve never spent minutes looking at the beauty. They were easy to get lost in, and the minute they fluttered and softened, a tear streamed down my cheek.

I was breaking down… in front of him, and I didn’t know why, but I just knew I had to break eye contact and look down at my shoes. I didn’t want him to see me like this— he didn’t deserve to.

The once so soft glint in his eyes turned into feral rage. He was angry. But not at me. His hold on me increased. He was holding me as if I needed protection and not comfort. I felt safe.

He lifted my chin with his index finger, brushed the tears from my cheek, and whispered, “when I find out who did this to you, they better pray to God that I’m in the best possible mood or they’ll pray they never came into close proximity with you.” All while he’s trembling with anger and sorrow.

“Dillon, I—”

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