Page 19 of On the Line

Or maybe I never did.

“What happened?” I croak.

Zachary, shirtless and wearing gray boxers, shifts in bed. He averts his gaze for a second, looking away and then back. His subtle evasiveness makes my heart sink. “You started fighting me like you didn’t want it,” he mutters, dragging a hand in his messy hair. “Like you didn’t know who I was.”

It takes me a few seconds for his words to properly load. But when they finally do, they feel more like a virus rotting my body from the inside out.

His words echo. Shatter.

As if I didn’t want it?

The sinking feeling morphs into something harsher, sharper … into something I'd rather not name out loud.

Looking down, I realize my sleep shorts are pushed halfway down my hips. I stare at my uncovered thighs numbly, before finding Zachary’s gaze again.

“I was asleep …” I say limply.

His eyes narrow into something hard, his face darkened by the early morning shadows. It’s quick, he blinks and it’s gone, his face softening into a roguish smile. “Oh come on, honeybun,” he says with a sickly sweet tone. Reaching over, he strokes my arm before giving it a squeeze. “You never seemed to care before.”

My reaction is visceral. But quiet. I collapse into myself, like a star swallowed up by a black hole. Zachary doesn’t seem to notice. He slides closer, and this time I do nothing to push him away. Dragging his nose up my neck, the cold tip makes me shiver, he whispers, “I just can’t help myself.” He squeezes my thigh. “I mean, look at you.”

He gently pushes me down and I let him.

I can feel myself shutting down and I don’t know how to make it stop.

Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop.

I watch myself from somewhere above me.

Zachary pushes my shorts all the way off.

I let it happen.

He spits in his hand.

Deep down, I know I don’t want this.

He thrusts, grunting in my ear.

This is what good girlfriends do.

I mechanically wrap my arms around his neck.

I love him.

I pretend I like it.

I love him.

I pretend.

I love him.

8

JAMES

I’ve been waiting twenty minutes for my table’s order when I realize I forgot to even punch it in. Dumbfounded, I stare at my notepad and then up at the screen as if somehow this will magically make my mistake disappear. The wave of defeat and anxiety, knowing I’ll have to ask the kitchen to rush that order when they’re already slammed, is damn near suffocating.

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